Winked from the center of the ring old Mr. Childress had bought for wanton Darlene, the clip-joint stripper with the diamond-hard heart. And under its baleful glare, Darlene joined the long list of the passion-crossed, the lust-betrayed who capered through their sin-schemes never guessing that a lecherous fate was laughing at them. Vic, the gigolo; Saundra and Billie, the sick-minded lesbians whose lives were due to be snuffed out by the hacking cleaver of a religious fanatic whose self-dictated mission in life was to wipe out evil; Patty the young call girl, and Connie, the fading blond who was an easy prey to wantonness. They were part of the gallery of sin surrounding the gem. And as it passed from one to another, a sordid trail of blood and lust unfolded; shameful, vicious, degrading...
CHAPTER ONE
The salesman at Harry Winston's was obsequious, servile, attentive, fawning -- exactly as salesmen at Harry Winston's are taught to be. He smiled each time Mr. Childress made a little joke; he nodded agreeably at each of his customer's comments; he clucked his tongue with understanding sympathy at the difficulty of the choice.
"There really are a great many gems one might choose," he whispered for the sixth time that afternoon as he unlocked the lid of the sixth tray of jewels. His voice was as soft and smooth as the velvet which lined the tray and his eyes were as bright as the diamonds that glittered inside.
Mr. Childress regarded the new offering casually. He was not quite at ease with this dazzling assortment of jewels despite the fact that he imagined he could write a check for any five of Harry Winston's baubles and still not mortally wound his fortune. But he had once been a long long time ago, such an awesome display of costliness always made him feel somewhat inadequate, conscious of the fact that he had not been born into this wealthy milieu. It was completely senseless, of course, but he imagined that even the richest of self-made men must feel that same inferiority. It was as if the simpering clerk with his large bagged eyes, needlepoint moustache and hundred-dollar-a-week salary was more worthy of this plush mauve-draped sanctuary of elegance than he was.
To compensate for that feeling of inadequacy -- and not because his choice would cost him several thousand dollars -- Mr. Childress studied the tray of diamonds for an inordinately long period of time before tentatively reaching out his fat fingers to pick up the smallest of the jewels and caress its crystal hardness.
It felt cold, cold and cutting, and Mr. Childress thought that was odd. By some unreasonable logic he imagined that the diamond should be as soft and yielding as the woman for whom it was intended. As soft and luxurious as was her flesh and as yielding and receptive as that flesh would be after she received her present.
And as warm as the nipples of her lush breasts -- themselves like tiny jewels, he thought.
But of course the diamond was only a cold hard stone. Like a piece of ice, he thought. "Like a piece of ice," he mumbled.
"Pardon," said the clerk. "I don't believe I heard you, sir."
"I said it was like a piece of ice," Mr. Childress repeated.
"Ahh, yes. I believe that is the -- ahh -- colloquial term for a large diamond. Does this particular gem meet with your approval?"
He didn't answer immediately. He held the diamond in the palm of his hand and rolled it slightly, letting it catch the diffused beams from the dull lamp and reflect them in a thousand tiny explosions of light. He imagined the salesman was waiting for him to ask the price. No, no, to ask first how many carats it was, to act as if he had at least an intelligent layman's knowledge of fine jewels -- as befitting his financial status -- and to make other such semi-literate comments or questions concerning the technical aspect of his purchase.
Well, the clerk would be disappointed, Mr. Childress thought. He knew almost nothing about diamonds and he wasn't going to attempt to disguise his ignorance or advertise it. Neither was the price important. He could afford it if it approached the estimated value of the Hope Diamond. Approximately, anyway.
No, the salesman's expectant silence and the overwhelming feeling that he was being forced into a part, to play a role, mildly irritated him. And for that reason and in over compensation for his nagging sense of inadequacy he found himself saying: "It's very nice. Very nice indeed. I think I'd like several like this for the smaller stones in the ring."
"Very good, sir," the clerk said, almost breathlessly.
Mr. Childress did not attempt to suppress the smile of pleasure which the man's reaction afforded him After all, why should he? The effect was going to cost him enough.
But she was worth it.
* * *
He decided upon a ruby for the center stone. Once he had agreed upon four diamonds as side jewels in the setting -- and thus established a base price of something over twenty-five hundred dollars -- he felt it was well within the allowance of his purchase to take all the time he wanted to choose the major gem and relaxed to give allowance to all of his eccentricities.
He accepted a cigar which the clerk lit for him -- and then a preferred drink. Champagne? the salesman suggested. No, Mr. Childress decided, veering from the pretentious. A glass of good sherry perhaps.
It was brought to him within the minute. His order was relayed at maximum speed from the clerk to the assistant manager to the supervisor of the private wine cellar (which was kept as well stocked as the jewelry trays). The bottle was passed up through those same hands until the clerk held it before Mr. Childress for his nodding approval.
He knew less about wine than diamonds and would have liked to make a reasonably intelligent rejection, but no suitable comment came to mind. So he watched the clerk fill the crystal glass as he puffed on his cigar and felt content in the temporary hiatus between his costly decisions.
The ruby was in the second tray offered for his inspection. He had thought to choose two or three gems the first time around and then, after a second glass of sherry, reflectively make his final decision. But the moment he saw the ruby -- glowing warmly, like a dark red eye, emerge from its black velvet sack -- he knew it was the one he must have.
He was not a man of aesthetic opinions. He read little that was not connected with his business dealings, listened to music without hearing it, attended the theatre and opera only to be seen, and purchased paintings solely for their investment value. He responded mainly to physical stimuli. The warmth of good brandy, the taste of fine food, the luxuriously satisfying feeling of an expensive suit of clothes, the sensual excitement of seeing a beautiful woman, of smelling her perfume, of sampling the pleasure of her body.
' But the sight of the ruby moved him. More that it excited him. Not only because he anticipated the glories of flesh it would extend to him but simply because it seemed exciting and stimulating in itself. He could feel warmth in its dark fiery glow which was at once the color of sherry, the color of her lush lips, the color of blood and the color of lust.
As if it were some magician's stone, he imagined he could see her in the hot eye of the ruby. She was clothed only in vaporous mist that swirled about her like diaphanous veils and as she moved, wriggling, sensually, the mists dissolved and she was revealed before him in her nude splendor: her hair, waist-length and black as sin, her skin milk-white, her eyes cat-green and her body... her body... the form of a goddess, a monument to womanhood: large conical breasts rising gently to dark-capped tips; her stomach as flat as a plain sweeping to softly curving hips that invited his touch; her thighs, firm alabaster flanks that seemed the apex of all desires, that pointed the way to the greatest ecstasies... And then she moved, writhed and those snowy thighs beckoned and...
The light changed and suddenly the ruby was only a dully glinting stone again.
" He reached out for it; the salesman, smiling, placed it in his hand and it was disappointingly cold. Once more he had expected it to be warm with the heat of passion, to burn with the warmth of flesh in friction, to scorch him with all the hell's fire of searing passion. But it was cold -- although not as icy as the diamonds but far far less heated than his inflamed ardor and imagination.
"A lovely stone," said the salesman and then the spell was completely broken, and Mr. Childress was reminded that he was only a rich old man holding a ruby in his hands -- not a magician, not a handsome knight with indefatigable vigor, not a beloved lover. Just a rich old man buying a gift to buy a woman.
But the ruby was still his choice.
"Yes. This one," he said shortly. "This is the one."
The salesman was only too pleased to oblige, of course. At another time with another customer, he might have thought to press on to the more expensive stones. After all the ruby was only two thousand and there were gems worth many times that in Mr. Winston's vault. But he had been a salesman long enough to recognize that look of certainty in the eyes of a customer. This was obviously what the man wanted and it was what he would insist upon getting. It was equally obvious to him that this customer had no real appreciation of fine gems and was only reacting emotionally to the sight of the stone. Perhaps it reminded him of the lips of a girl now long gone or the color of some sunset viewed from the terrace of some crumbled villa of his past. How old was this man? Fifty-five, sixty? No, much older, the salesman guessed. The elegance of his clothes helped to disguise the sag and stoop of his body. He was sixty-five if he was a day.
And for whom was a sixty-five year old man buying a ruby and diamond ring? For his wife? The salesman smiled. Winston's would have had to shut down long ago if the wealthy old men and women who were their regular customers only bought jewels for their wives and husbands.
"I'd like to have them set into a ring," Mr. Childress said. "The ruby in the center and two of the diamonds on either side."
"Of course," said the salesman. "It will please Madame greatly I am certain." He smiled.
Mr. Childress smiled, too. Naturally he thinks it's for my wife, he thought.
One of Winston's special designers was brought into that smiling conference to sketch an arrangement for Mr. Childress' approval. He was a long-time employee of the firm but neither his freshly shaved cheeks or his slim cut suit successfully managed to hide his bohemian artist's inclinations.
He looks as if he'd rather be painting in some Left Bank garret, Mr. Childress thought. And with the projection with which the impotently aged view the vigorous young, he amended his though to include a barely draped model posing for the artist, a slim buxom young woman who was probably his mistress, also--or at the very least his steady partner in passion.
The designer, of course, was thinking nothing of the kind. Any bohemianism he might project was purely unintentional, the result of insomnia which followed a second portion of the badly glazed ham his flat-chested stringy-haired wife cooked every Tuesday in the closet-sized kitchen of their Staten Island efficiency For that reason mostly he did not really give Mr. Childress the full benefit of his design talents and drew five sketches which, to the mild trained eye, were all very pedestrian.
Mr. Childress liked them all to the same unenthusiastic degree. He chose the simplest, reasoning that when one had a ruby and diamond ring made up any extravagance in the setting would run the risk of making the piece look unduly ornate.
So it was decided. The large oval-shaped ruby would be in the center flanked on either side by two diamonds. The ring itself would be platinum; the total cost, tax included, would be four thousand eight hundred sixty-one dollars and twelve cents; it would be ready in four days.
Mr. Childress wrote out a check for the entire amount to consummate the agreement. He was not sure whether the designer and/or the salesman should be tipped for their courteous service but he was in a pleasant mood and handed the salesman a fifty dollar bill as he left.
* * *
Mr. Childress picked up the ring the following Monday. The Winston people would have been only too glad to deliver it (a service which they perform rather elegantly, via a lettered truck and a liveried delivery man who averaged, rumor had it, one hundred and thirty dollars a week in tips) but Mr. Childress preferred to spare his wife or secretary the unnecessary curiosity.
His precautions were unnecessary.. Ten minutes after he brought the ring home, while he was showering, his wife was unwrapping the package and thirty seconds after that, when she got her first look at the purchase, her eyes widened and her heart stopped.
She didn't really believe it was for her. Well, perhaps for a fractional second she did. But certainly no longer than that since her husband had not surprised her with a gift in thirty-eight years.
Her moment of rapture passed, Mrs. Childress who was fifty-seven and possessed of a bosom as large as any owned by the heroines in the historical novels she devoured voraciously, began to wonder--with more curiosity than malice--about the recipient of her husband's generosity. Over the years she had managed to keep fairly accurately informed concerning Mr. Childress' affairs. To her knowledge he had engaged in ultimately expensive and disastrous liaisons with five prostitutes, eight secretaries (three of whom had claimed pregnancies by him), four waitresses, two showgirls and one hotel social directress (who had passed on to Mr. Childress a distinctly anti-social disease). Of only passing interest is the fact that her count was four short, including among the absentees her own sister who had used the money gifted her by her brother-in-law to pay her husband's hospital bills; or so she said, anyway.
Mrs. Childress admired . the ring while she review this phalanx of her husband's conquests. The jewelry was no more to her liking than the infidelities but she accepted the former as she had the latter: with tolerance. If the ring were hers she would wear it, she supposed, for a time, and then it would take its place among the other ornaments in her bureau treasure chest; since it was quite definitely not hers, she wore it only for a moment--feeling very old as she always did when she regarded her wrinkled fingers--then replaced it in its box, re-wrapped and tied the box with an efficiency which betrayed her shopgirl's background and returned the box to her husband's jacket pocket.
She estimated that the ring cost about five thousand dollars and using that figure multiplied by a wife's prerogative and a woman's vengeance, she walked from the bedroom to the living room where she seated herself at the Lois Quinze desk and wrote out a check in the amount of ten thousand dollars to the Marchamps Furriers Inc., thus purchasing for herself a marten stole she had been admiring for some time.
Mr. Childress emerged from his shower just as his wife was completing her transaction, peeked into the living room to make sure she was nowhere near a telephone, then quickly sat down on the bed and dialed a number.
The phone rang three times before it was answered. Mr. Childress felt himself growing colder with each ting. Then: "Hello," said a soft but slightly shrill feminine voice.
"Darlene?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Frederick. Frederick Childress."
"Oh. Well, hello stranger. I was beginning to think you had lost my number or something. Maybe even found yourself somebody else."
"It's only been five days," Mr. Childress said, flushing in spite of the fact that he recognized the insincerity in the girl's voice and knew it was a lie he had heard a dozen times before.
"Five days is a lot," the girl said. "When you miss someone. Of course when it's only someone that you call up whenever you feel like it... "
He felt himself being quickly forced onto the defensive. "I've been busy," he said. "I've been meaning to call but--"
"Yeah, yeah. I'd like a buck for every time I've heard that one."
"How much would that come to?" he asked, feeling mildly clever.
"Why?" she asked archly. "You back to making propositions again?"
"No, I was just--"
"No, your little red fanny," she said graciously. "You don't call me up for my smart conversation. You've got your artsy smartsy friends for that." Somehow she had fixed upon the misconception that he moved with a very literate set.
"You know why I call you." Mr. Childress said quietly. "Because I love you. Because I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world. Because I'd do anything in the world for you."
"Yeah, yeah," she said deprecatingly but not until he had finished. "Talk is cheap, Mister Money-Bags. I can't pay my rent with chit-chat, you know."
"You can move into another apartment any time you'd like. You know I've offered many times--"
"Yeah, well I don't pay my rent that way, either. I think you're hung up on the old bit that just because a girl is an actress that means she's open house for one and all. Well it might be that way with some girls but it's love not money that counts with Yours Truly. So maybe you should have saved your dime if that's why you called."
"No," Mr. Childress said humbly. "The reason I called is that I thought I might come down tonight to see your show, and afterward, if you didn't have any previous engagements, we might have a drink together. Or anything you might like. Perhaps some late supper."
"And then maybe a run up here for a game of Ring-Around-The-Couch. No, thanks I'd rather wash my hair."
Mr. Childress waited a moment for the hostility to subside. He had not planned to bring up the ring yet, had hoped with the vanity which afflicts the old as well as the young, that she would agree to see him for himself and not, as always, because of the assurance of some financial reward But it was obvious that their short separation had not nurtured any fondness of him; if anything, his absence had made her heart grow colder.
So the mention of the ring became imperative, necessary -- a carrot to dangle before the eyes of a reluctant mule.
Mule? Ass, he decided; and was pleased that his wit had not completely deserted him.
"The reason I particularly wanted to see you tonight," he began, "is that I have a present for you."
"Oh?" The interest was back in her voice.
"Just a little token," he disparaged, imagining her delight when she saw the ring.
"Well if it's that small, maybe it can wait for another time," she said.
"No, no, it's small but rather expensive." He felt himself color as he said it. He hated her for not even allowing him his self-deceptions. There was no play in their conversation, no friendly bantering as might exist between lovers. Each time he made a gesture in that harmless direction, she would strip the pretense from it with a coarse remark that would painfully remind him he was an old man forced to buy the time and attentions of young women. That wound was worse than all her rejections. When she just denied him he could rationalize his failure: Every man, no matter how young or how handsome, was rebuffed by a girl sooner or later. But when she insisted that he put up his money first-- before he could even begin to ply his seduction ways-- such as they were--then there were no illusions he could hide behind, no disguises to cloak his ignominy. He was revealed as a naked old lecher. And at those times he despised her for exposing him.
"Well," she said. "If you really want to see me tonight. .
He quickly interpreted that to mean: "if it's really expensive." But his desire left no room for pride. "Yes, I do. I must."
She laughed, gaily, with more than an overtone of patronizing pleasure. "All right. But only because you sound so sad. I don't want you to think I'm even curious about your present. Or to think that it's gonna get you anything."
"No, no, of course not. I never... " he let the sentence fade, "I'll come to the club about twelve, then?"
"Better make it a little earlier and buy a couple of drinks. And don't let any of the other broads get to you first. Make sure you tell the waiter that you're there on my say-so. I can use the dough."
"Of course."
"See you later then, sugar." She said goodbye by making a wet-sounding kiss noise.
Mr. Childress waited until he heard the receiver click and then hung up.
* * *
The club was the Harlequin, a strip-and-clip palace in the heart of Greenwich Village--that is if any section of that neon lighted, shadow-alleyed, wino and beatnick infested area of New York could be said to have a "heart." More likely, if anatomical or organic analogies are applicable, the part of the city was a liver rotting from cirrhosis induced by cheap liquor, a bladder bursting with the beer consumed by countless collegiates, and, perhaps, a pair of pop-eyes ogling the cardboard cutouts of breast-spangled, G-strung strip queens.
Four eyes, all belonging to an evil-smelling bum with thick glasses, were ogling the photograph of Darlene Darling "The Darling of the Daring" when Mr. Childress stepped from his taxi in front of the Harlequin at eleven o'clock.
The club doorman and street barker greeted him like an old friend.
"Yes sir, yes sir. Right this way," he said, opening the door. "The show is just starting. In to your left, sir. In to your left. Tell them that Johnny sent ya."
Mr. Childress rewarded that patter with a faint smile. Inside, before his eyes accustomed themselves to the smoky blue gloom, a soft hand was at his elbow and a honey-thick voice said: "Hi, hon. I've been waiting for you."
For a moment, he thought it was Darlene but as the hand gently urged him toward the front tables, passed the yellow lights of the bar, he saw his companion was a bosom-harnessed redhead in a lewdly-winking sequined gown.
"Thank you, no," Mr. Childress said, disengaging himself clumsily. "I'm waiting for--uh--Darlene."
"You and the whole fleet, Pops," the redhead said coldly.
The club's manager, a short barrel of a man in a white dinner jacket, was there then, beaming as if he had just booked Bardot for two months with option.
"Good evening, good evening. Table up front?"
"Yes, thank you," Mr. Childress said.
"All alone tonight?"
"No, I'm waiting for--uh--Miss Darling."
"Of course," said the man, as if it were common knowledge.
He was ushered to one of the small tables that horseshoed the stage just as the master of ceremonies (who might have been the manager's brother) completed an unamusing but thoroughly obscene pantomime of a lecherous drunk with a doughnut. The waitress took Mr. Childress' order, responding to his instructions that the drink be "credited to Miss Darling" with a unconvincing, "Yeah, sure."
Then the emcee introduced, at maximum length, "that very very talented young lady over whom the crown princes of Europe have lost their heads, an accomplished performer of the near-impossible in acrobatics, a lovely lithesome lass who will amaze you with her physical control, a long-time favorite here at your home-away-from-home, the happy Club Harlequin," (this with a smiling nod to the manager) "where the cream of nightery talent is assembled for your enjoyment, the charming, the cuddlesome, the very very vivacious queen of the cartwheel... Corinne!"
To the accompaniment of a listless piano and throbbing drum, Corinne, short, squat in thigh-squeezing tights, trundled out from the wings and proceeded to accomplish a contortionist twist, two cartwheels and a headstand.
Mr. Childress watched with no apparent interest and ordered a second drink when Corinne went into her finale which involved hand-walking the length of the stage, exposing most of her limp breasts, and picking up a handkerchief with her teeth. The audience response, to judge by the applause, was what might be expected.
Then the emcee was on stage again, beginning his introduction of Darlene. Mr. Childress listened as if he had never heard it before and as though the loosely dropped adjectives ("because,"
"luscious,"
"exciting,"
"effervescent") were sincerely tendered. In his mind, at least, they were precisely applicable.
Darlene Darling, "The Darling of the Daring," when she finally appeared was something less than what the emcee had promised and something less than the vision Mr. Childress had seen in the amber of the ruby. To view her as a cavilling artist might, she was too short for the size of her breasts, her hips were a bit too wide, her thighs a trifle thick; but her face was exciting in the full sense of the word, with make-up tastefully applied to give her just the right touch for an exotic dancer. Her eyebrows were slanted devilishly, her lips were a full red slash, her chin was held high and arrogantly.
In the eyes of the fashion-minded, she wore a black cloak which in time to the music of "I've Got Rhythm," was soon dropped to reveal a black bra and black net stockings and spike heels. The bra gave way to shining silver pasties, the stockings tantalizingly peeled to expose tight silver Bikini panties. The shoes stayed on.
Mr. Childress did not, but a choreographer might have found fault with Darlene's terpsichorean talent. She moved mechanically, to a tempo which could have been verbalized as one-two-three-crossing-two-three-zip, making no use of her hands which waved limply her face a frozen defiant smile. Only occasionally did she glance at Mr. Childress and then it was only a bestow a slight pouting of the lips.
He didn't care. He hardly noticed. If eyes had teeth then his devoured her. They caressed her legs, they kissed over her bare stomach, their fondled her breasts (now jiggling, now rotating), they stripped her of the pasties and panties time and time again and then re-clothed her in order to strip her once more. And between times, in that vision-clear second when he imagined her naked, he saw himself naked too -- but not as an old man. No, no, no. As a young lover, with body throbbing with vigor and passion, a stallion, a bull, who would mount her with overwhelming strength and force his desires to her with thrusts of power which could not be denied, a lover who would bend her to his will, pound away the last vestige of her resistance and drive at those beckoning thighs with all the strength of manhood assembled.
All too soon, she rolled up her panties, pulled down the front for a fast forbidden glimpse and then, with a final backward kick, skipped merrily off the stage.
All too soon but yet, for Mr. Childress, not soon enough. For he was not a man who had patience with preliminaries and he could never feel full enjoyment or full stimulation watching her while in the company of other men. He was constantly aware of being only a part of her audience and longed to be her sole spectator, to have her complete charms revealed only before his eyes and then -- after he had presented her with the ring, of course -- to take his long-desired satisfaction.
As the emcee came on to introduce the next act, Mr. Childress' hand stole into his jacket pocket and fondled the small package. It was his key to unlock indescribable pleasures.
He kept his hand there for the next three hours, waiting, waiting.
* * *
She sat with him for a collective total of fifteen minutes during the course of the evening. She had a "good mark at the bar" she explained one time; and "the boss wouldn't like it if I hung on one guy" she said after her second show and "I'm not making any dough holding hands since you're buying champagne anyway," she offered as her third excuse.
He accepted them all, blankly, unquestioningly, adoringly and finally it was closing time at the Harlequin Club which had indeed begun to feel like his "home-away-from-home" and he was waiting outside the rear door for her.
A light rain had begun to fall and he looked small and pathetic huddled under the inadequate cover of the doorway. His hand had left his pocket only once, to pay the bill. (It had come to a not unsizable forty-seven dollars plus tip.) Now it returned to grip tightly about the box Harry Winston had supplied at no extra charge and the minutes stretched like hours as he was held by the familiar fear that she would not show.
But, after only a few wet minutes, she emerged, her head covered by a black scarf, the collar of her white raincoat turned up. He thought she looked like a Madonna.
"Hi," she said brightly. "Imagine meeting you here."
He grinned inanely, and moved forward awkwardly to kiss her.
"Uh-uh," she said turning. "Let's get out of this rain."
"Where would you like to go?" he asked. His voice was hoarse and uneven with nervousness.
"A bar. Anywhere. I'm cold and I'm hungry."
"We could pick up something and go to your place," he suggested quietly.
"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that idea," she said. Then she paused. It seemed to him that she was going to continue in that same defiant way bat abruptly her tone changed. Instead of further abuse, she said, softly, "Hey, hey, what's my present?"
"I've got it in my pocket," he said.
"Well I don't have x-ray vision, you know. Take it oat. Let's have the grand presentation."
"Here?"
"Sure. What do you want to do? Rent a hall?"
"I thought... well -- if we could pick up a bottle or something and go to your place."
"You've really got the hots for me tonight, don't you?" she grinned. "All right, we'll see. But this little knick-knack better be worth it."
He felt certain it was. It had to be.
* * *
Her apartment was on the East side but it was not the type of apartment usually summoned up by the phrase "on the East side." It wasn't spacious with wall to wall rugs, giant scoop chairs, block-long coffee tables. There was no gleaming porcelainized built-in kitchen, no panelled dining room, no step-in baths, no playground-sized bedrooms. It was in a good building with an elevator but the apartment was so small you had to be careful when you turned around. It was more than an efficiency but less than a bedroom apartment: A living room that curved out into a kitchen and then bulged out into a sleeping alcove.
Mr. Childress had been there once before, for a nightcap that had concluded a fruitless evening. It was then that he suggested that Darlene move into a better place, a bigger place. There was no need to go into details which would embarrass him. Darlene had understood what the suggestion entailed and she made it quite clear, in details that did embarrass him, that she was not having any of it.
And that -- after eight more evenings in bars and supper clubs, good places and bad places, dingy holes that had cost Mr. Childress only four or five dollars and elegant lounges that had cost him seventy-five and one hundred dollars -- that was where the situation stood. He had spent something more than six hundred dollars on her, he figured and he had received three kisses in return.
But now, he thought. Now, with the ring in his pocket, it was going to be different. He felt that the ring was not only a gift, it was a talisman, a lucky charm. She had agreed to let him come back here to her place without even seeing the ring, without even knowing what it was. That was all the proof he needed.
"Open the bottle while I get some ice," she said, tossing her raincoat onto a wicker chair already covered with discarded clothing. "Christ, do I need a drink."
Mr. Childress opened the bottle, sat down on the short sofa and waited for her to come to him with the glasses and the ice.
"Say when," he said, smiling.
"When," she said when the glass was filled. Mr. Childress had his with half water.
Darlene drank up quickly. Then she took out a cigarette and lit it -- too quick for Mr. Childress to assist her but she smiled at his effort. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke and said: "Okay, let's see it."
Mr. Childress fumbled in the pocket for the box. "It's nothing very much," he said, enjoying that last moment of anticipation.
"Let me decide that," Darlene said. She untied the package nimbly, pressed the small gold catch on the side of the box, it popped open and, despite the fact that she had set her features to remain blase and un-effected, her mouth opened with surprise when she saw it.
"Hey, now," she said, impressed.
"Do you like it?" Mr. Childress asked beaming.
"Well I won't say I do and I won't say I don't," Darlene said. She had it on her finger already and was admiring it at arm's length. "No, I definitely won't say I don't."
Mr. Childress waited for his thanks. But to his disappointment Darlene stood up and walked about the small room holding her hand outstretched, admiring the glowing ruby. Finally she returned to him.
"You know, you're all right, daddy. You really are O. K." She sat down beside him. "All this time I thought you were all talk and no action and then, from no place, you pop up with something like this. I owe you an apology."
She leaned toward him, eyes closed, lips puckered and he took her in his trembling arms and kissed her hard, almost brutally, his mouth mashing against hers, his arms gripping her much too tightly, feeling the hard-mounds of her breasts pressing against him.
"Easy, daddy. Easy,' she said. "Let's come up for air."
But Mr. Childress had no desire for air. He was already hot, stimulated, aroused and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything before. He came to her again and pulled her toward him for another hard kiss. This time his tongue tried to part her lips but she tensed and wriggled from his embrace.
She salved his hurt with a quick smile. "I like you, too," she said. "But let's do it right. Let's get comfortable first." She stood up. She was wearing a simple black knit dress that clung to the contours of her body and in quick, cat-like motions her hand was behind her back unzipping and then she was pulling the dress over her head.
She balled the fabric and tossed it onto the pile on the wicker chair and then stood before him dressed only in black bra and black panties, her hands on her hips, her legs astride, looking like a colossus.
"You know what you're going to get?" she asked.
Mr. Childress shook his head. He knew what he wanted to get. He stared dumbly at the jutting mounds of her breasts, the whiteness of the flesh barely visible under the lacy bra.
"You're going to get treated to a very private show by the one and only Darlene Darling," she said. She crinkled her nose girlishly, leaned over so that the bra hung down and he could see the rounded orbs of her breasts and tucked him under his flabby chin. "We're going to play Harlequin Club," she said. "Just you and me. You're going to be the audience and I'm going to play all the other parts. Would you like that?"
Mr. Childress nodded. He was beginning to feel pleasantly silly, from the liquor and from the buoyant intoxication of his success. He was eminently pleased with himself.
"First we turn out some of the lights," Darlene said, prancing about and flicking off switches until only the single table lamp glowed. "Now we're going to get you a drink." She picked up her dress and threw it over her arm like a waiter's cloth, curtsied before him and asked: "Order please, sir."
Mr. Childress smiled. He was going to enjoy this He played along and asked for the brand of Scotch that was sitting on the table before him.
Darlene nodded, picked up his glass and the bottle and trotted off, butt bobbing, to the kitchenette to fix his drink.
"You find something to put on the record player," she instructed.
Mr. Childress found a stack of records. "Which one?" he asked.
"Anyone, sweetie. I can dance to anything. The faster, the better."
"Turkey Rock,"
"Night Train,"
"Eighty-Eight Swing." He set them all on the spindle, pushed the switch and was childishly delighted to see the turntable, begin to revolve, a record drop and, moments later raspy dissonant sounds come from the speaker.
His drink was waiting for him when he returned to "his table." She was downing another one, too, and he forgot the game for a moment, slipped his hand around her bare shoulder and caressed the warm flesh.
"Oh no. Can't play around with the waitresses." She finished her drink, stood up and cocked an ear listening to the music. Her shoulder swayed slightly and her fingers snapped as she picked up the beat and then her hips began to undulate slowly and she rippled every muscle from toe to neck, squirming like a serpent. Her eyes were fixed on him and her mouth was frozen in an inviting smile.
Mr. Childress grinned with pleasure and sipped his drink. His grin widened as he watched her reach behind and unsnap the clasps of her bra. She let them wriggle loosely for a moment, tantalizingly hiding the tips of her breasts and then she squeezed her shoulders together and the bra slid down the length of her arms. She tossed it to him and turned before he managed to get a good look at her breasts. Then she began to slowly grind, her buttocks rotating in slow agonizing circles.
When she turned again her hands were covering her breasts but she spread the fingers, peek-a-boo style and he could see the large rounds of pink nipples between them. She cupped her breasts and rubbed them, eyes closed, squeezed them and shuddered in mock pain-pleasure. Then she bared her breasts and leaned over, inches from him.
Mr. Childress could not remember ever seeing anything so beautiful. In her act at the Harlequin he had seen all but the nipples but now, savoring the complete sight of those luscious pink-capped hills of flesh, it was as if he were seeing a completely new vision. The nipples were large, rough at the edges and rising to thick hard prolusions. She moved closer, the tips were within easy reach of his hands and he reached out, touched them fleetingly and then, with a little laugh, she drew back.
"Naughty," she teased, her hands returning to grip the breast lightly, pluck at the nipples and then flick them with thumbs and forefingers.
Mr. Childress squirmed in his seat. He was in the throes of the most delicious kind of stimulation. All the vigor he had had in his youth seemed to be returning to his loins and he knew for the first time in many years that he would be able to be good for a woman. She had not only aroused him, she had rejuvenated him. He could feel the strength flooding into him, hardening his flabby thighs with new young power. He would be the knight, the stallion,, the strong lover he had envisioned in the ruby. Lust had brought him the furious muscles of desire. He stared at her pointed straining breasts, the nipples like burning brands, and he began to tremble.
Then the record was over and Darlene stopped and dropped her hands.
"First act's over," she said. "Time for another drink." She tossed the dress over her arm and was the waitress again. "Same thing, sir?"
"I really don't want another," Mr. Childress said.
"Nonsense. You can't just sit and watch the acts without drinking. Club rules." She whisked his glass away and returned it a moment later filled with ice and Scotch.
The record had changed to "Night Train." It was slower, writhing, wriggling music and as she moved in tempo it seemed that she did not have a bone in her body She coiled, curled, wrapped around herself. She ignored her breasts now, let them dangle loosely, bob, sway, without her attention. She concentrated on the small black triangle of the panties between her thighs and Mr. Childress found himself concentrating on that too.
He wanted, mesmerized, as her hand went between her thighs stroking up quickly, pausing a moment to squeeze lovingly at a handful of white flesh, touch delicately at the place where the lace met in dark folds. Legs spread, hands clasped behind her neck, knees bent, she squirmed her abdomen at him, rolled her hips and invited his hand.
"Take the panties off for roe," she said throatily. "Go on. Take them off."
He reached out tentatively, touched the soft fabric, felt the softer skin and flesh beneath it.
"You're too shy," she said, straightening up. "Here, let me give you a start." She peeled the panties down until the black triangle seemed pasted on her. less a piece of clothing than part of her body. She moved closer and stood above him, her stomach even with his head.
"Now," she whispered hotly. "Take them off."
He reached out, quivering, dizzy, his head pounding.
"No," she said. "With your lips. Kiss them off" He leaned forward, his hands touching her thighs for support, his mouth open.
Then, like the crest of a wave suddenly mounting, the dizziness spun up in a tornado horn and clipped him with the hard strength of a blackjack across his neck and he fell into unconsciousness.
* * *
When he awoke it was light outside. The first thing he thought of was the time but when he turned his wrist to consult his watch, the wrist was bare. Then he felt for his wallet. It was gone, too.
He struggled to his feet, his head aching and his mouth dry. He felt incredibly old and feeble. He looked around the bright room and noticed that her clothes were gone. Curiously, he walked to the closet and opened it. Empty.
He shook his head to try to clear it as he made his way slowly, groping, eyes still sticky with sleep, to the kitchen sink. He ran some water into a glass but when he lifted it to drink he saw the tiny white particles floating in a slow confetti whirl. He put the glass down on the counter and looked at it numbly. Then next to the empty bottle of Scotch, he saw the tiny vial. It was empty, too, and unlabelled; but Mr. Childress did not need a pharmacist to tell him what the container had once held.
They had played Harlequin Club, he thought bitterly. Right up to the knock-out drops. He nodded his head, acknowledging the irony.
Later, on the way home, an odd thought came to him: Being taken so badly pained his pride and his ego, of course; but the thing that had wounded him most was losing the ring.
It was such a beautiful ring, he thought. So beautiful. And it had brought him only trouble.
Feeling a thousand years older and wiser. Mr. Childress shook his head sadly.
CHAPTER TWO
Darlene Darling was in the market for a new name. There were two reasons for this. The first was that she had a slight, although not obsessive fear that Mr. Childress might try to locate her; the second was that as the train rocketed toward Chicago that pleasant morning-after, she had made up her mind that her career as an exotic dancer was over.
She studied her new ring which was glowing with the light refractions of the passing window scenery and said, "How does Ruby White sound?"
Her seat companion whose name was Vic Bracken and had no desire to change it, shrugged noncommittally. "Good as any other, I guess."
"You know how come I hit on that one?" the newly christened Ruby asked.
"No," Vic said, "but I bet you're gonna tell me." He turned to her, his blandly handsome face a mask of disinterest.
"Well, the Ruby, of course, is for the ruby in the ring," she said. "And the White is for the diamond on the side."
"Why don't you call yourself Ruby Diamonds?" Vic asked.
"I never thought of that," she admitted. "Do you like that better than Ruby White?"
"If you want to know the truth," Vic said, "they both stink. What's wrong with your real name?"
"You wouldn't ask if you knew it."
"You wanna know?"
"Maybe not. But I don't know it."
"I'm dying of curiosity," Vic said dryly.
"You'd never guess."
"That's right. So either tell me or shut up about it, okay? I'd like to try and sleep." He pulled his sport coat higher on his neck and squirmed in the train seat to make himself more comfortable.
"Evelyn Grimlow," Ruby said.
"What?"
"Evelyn Grimlow. That's my real name."
"Terrific. I like it much better than Ruby Diamond."
"You're kidding, aren't you?"
"No, I'm serious. It's got a very nice ring to it. Evelyn Grimlow, 'The Darling of the Daring.' Very catchy. Sounds like you're an old librarian."
"Yeah. That's why I changed it when I went into the racket. My agent picked Darlene Darling for me. You know what I wanted to call myself?"
"Got no idea," Vic said.
"Margarita Esposito. I still like it, in a way. But it was especially good then because I started out in N. O. and they've got thousands of Spies down there."
"They've got thousands of Spies everywhere," Vic said. "I bet Chi is going to be just the same."
"Yeah, well it's not the same when you've got those dirty brown bastards leering at you when you're half-nude. Man, you get down to your string and pasties and those jerks look like they're about to climb up on the stage and bite off your boobs. Man, am I glad that's all behind me now. No more grinds, no more bumps -- "
"No more teacher's dirty humps," Vic completed.
"What's that?" Ruby asked.
"It's an old school rhyme."
"Yeah, I never heard it."
"Well maybe if you hung around until the fourth grade you would have."
"You always got to bring that up, don't you? So I'm not as educated as you are. Big deal. I still do all right. Just don't forget who's brought in all the dough for the last five months."
"I won't forget," Vic said. "But what I'm trying to figure out is who's going to bring it in for the next five."
"Well it's not going to be me by stripping, I'll tell you that. You promised that the first time we got up enough to get out of that lousy town, I could quit the racket. And now we've got enough."
"Yeah. We've got sixty-three bucks between us. I've got a lousy watch that doesn't even work and you've got a ring that's probably all paste."
"So what if it is?" Ruby said. "It's still beautiful. I wouldn't part with this ring even if it was worth a couple of grand. And how do you know it's paste? That old bird looked like he had money."
- "I know it's paste because I just happen to know something about jewelry," Vic said. "And even if that sucker had dough, you have to be pretty stupid to think that he was going to spend it all on you. And, furthermore, if you thought he had dough, why did you dump him just when we were getting ready to set him up for a nice hit?"
"I told you. He was getting too hot. I couldn't hold him off any more, without letting him in."
"And did you ever ask him how much he was willing to pay for that dubious honor? Oh no. Not you. You're a goddamned Virgin Mary. T don't go for guys I don't like, Vic honey.'" he mimicked. '"You couldn't get them to pay me enough to do the things I do free for you.' "Baloney!"
"Well, it's true. You got the same idea about strippers that everybody's got. Just because they take off their clothes on the stage doesn't mean they're immoral. I knew one broad who had been a stripper for seventeen years and she swore to me that had never had a guy in her."
"Probably a dyke," Vic said.
"She was not," Ruby said. "She just never met a guy that she liked enough to go for."
"Well that's where you've been lucky, then. And now that you've got one, how the hell do you plan to support him?"
"You talk like it's supposed to be my job. They ain't no laws against a man working, too, you know."
"I've got a law against it," Vic said. "And if you don't like the set-up, you can cop out any time you feel like it."
"Oh, Vic." She put her hand on his jacket and caressed it softly. "You know I'd never do that. I love you even if you don't love me." She paused for contradiction; there was none. "I said I love you even if you don't love me," she repeated.
"I heard you," Vic said. He had taken off his watch, studying it.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well, do you love me or not?"
"Yeah, I love you. You know I can't figure out why a classy bird like that would wear such a cheap watch."
Ruby turned and watched the scenery. Bastard, she thought. But she didn't dare say it. Some day she probably would, though, she thought. Someday she knew that Vic was going to leave her. She only wished that she was not so hooked on him so that she could leave him first. Always criticizing her about her education, like he was some goddamned professor or something. A girl could only take so much of that and then it began to hurt. She had her pride just like everybody else. The trouble was that everybody in the world thought that a stripper was just a pair of tits and a roll between her legs. Nobody ever gave them credit for having any brains. Well, she had met plenty of smart strippers. Plenty of them. And if she had the chance, she would be just as smart, too.
Well, maybe, she thought, just maybe, she would get that chance now that she was out of the racket. Maybe once they found a way to make some dough she would go to night classes or something. Then Vic would change his tune. That bastard. Then he'd look up to her as something more than just a broad, she'd bet.
She nodded solemnly at the notion and then said: "Vic?"
"Mmmm," he grumbled. He had turned from her and was hunched in the seat, eyes closed, trying to sleep.
"Do you think I might be able to go to classes once we get all set up?"
"Mmmm," he said.
She smiled. He was really an all right guy after all. And even if he wasn't, it couldn't make much difference; she loved him that much.
"Vic?" she said.
But this time there was no answer; he was sleeping.
Smiling, she took his hand from his lap and placed it in hers. His hand was soft and white, not tough and calloused like most men's. Of course that was because he had never worked a day in his life but she loved his hands just the same.
There was a newspaper on the floor beneath their seats and, without disturbing his hand, she bent forward and picked it up. She covered her lap with the paper and then, wriggling every so slightly, she managed to hoist her skirt up and slide his hand beneath it, up to the top of her stockings where the flesh of her thigh was bare.
Mmm, that felt so nice, she thought and squirmed a little so that his hand was touching the place where her thighs joined.
A man walked down the aisle and smiled as he passed her but she realized the man was only smiling at her and couldn't see Vic's hand which was covered by the newspaper. Smiling at her little deception and with the pleasure that his touch afforded her, she closed her eyes and slept.
* * *
It was dark when they arrived in Chicago. They had dinner at a restaurant near the station and then checked into the Lombardy Hotel, which was a two block walk. Vic wrote something in the register while the fat balding desk clerk kept his eyes on Ruby and blew cigar smoke out of the side of his mouth. Ruby made a point of flashing her ring, which she was wearing on the third finger of her left hand. It didn't seem to diminish the desk clerk's interest and that annoyed her She liked to appear respectable.
Once in the room, however, respectability took second place. Freshly showered, she stretched out on the bed completely naked, raised up her arms making her breasts swell and said, "I wanna get laid."
Vic was standing stripped to the waist by the dresser. He regarded her coldly. "You have anyone special in mind for the job?"
But he said it almost tonelessly and she sensed he was not sharing her enthusiasm.
"It's been two days," she said.
"That sets an all-time record for you, doesn't it?"
She colored at that. "Something eating you?"
He shook his head, took his burning cigarette from the dresser ash tray and dragged deeply. "Uh-uh. Nothing at all."
"Then I guess I just don't turn you on any more? huh? And as she said it, she squirmed on the bed. one knee raised. It afforded him a view that would have animated a statue.
But Vic appeared to be cold granite; at least for the moment. He crushed his cigarette in the ash tray and turned for the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Wash up," he said and left.
She felt both cold and flushed with anger. She didn't know what was bothering him but then she never understood the way he thought. His mind was unfathomable to her. One minute he would be tender and loving and the next he would be harsh and cold. She could not anticipate, at any time, what the next word out of his mouth would be and this she felt was more her own failing than his complexity.
This not inconsiderable confusion was compounded by the fact that she wanted him. She wanted him almost all the time; but especially tonight. Right now. It was not only the physical need and desire to have his hard body pressing down on hers; it was not only the aching void within her that could only be filled by his hot throbbing passion. It was desire created partly by the need for absolution, forgiveness. Maybe she had been stupid in letting that old bird off so soon -- although it certainly seemed to her that she was not going to get anywhere with him unless she let him in; maybe they shouldn't have left New York until they had more of a stake.
She needed him to make love to her tonight so that she would know he forgave her those poor decisions. Only in the furious grinding fusing of their flesh could she be sure that it was all right again, that they would be the same as they had been.
She was still lying in the same position when he returned from the hall bathroom. He seemed not to notice her as he undressed and once naked, he climbed into bed and, with a slight shove of his body, made a clear resting space for himself. Then he reached up and turned off the light.
"Vic."
"Go to sleep," he said.
"No, Vic. First I wanna know what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. Just cool it for awhile, huh? I'm tired."
She accepted this for a minute and decided against any more questions. She never really got anywhere with him that way. She always had trouble verbalizing her feelings and was no match for his sarcasm. So instead of talk, she tried action. Her hand went to his back and rubbed gently.
"Cool it," he said into his pillow.
This time she ignored him. Her hands continued rubbing and then she rolled over and pressed her naked body on top of him.
"I said, cool it." There was threat in his voice this time so she moved off. But she was far from finished. Sliding down the bed until her head was next to his buttocks, she began to kiss him there, gently, tiny nipping kisses.
He didn't respond but neither did he say anything.
She continued kissing, her tongue licking slowly while her hands crawled slowly up his thighs and kneaded at the tight muscles of his legs.
He squirmed but it was not a movement away from her. It was a movement which she interpreted as an encouraging response and her kisses increased in ardor, long wet tongue-lashing kisses interspersed with small bites. Her mouth closed over his flesh and her teeth grated gently. He murmured something inaudible into the pillow and she was sure she was getting to him then.
Slowly, as though he were sleeping and she was afraid of waking him, she pushed at his thigh and rolled him over onto his back. He did not resist her and she knew then that the crisis was passed.
Then she lavished upon him all the love of which she was capable. Her hands stroked and caressed him wildly, her lips were everywhere over his stomach, his calves, his thighs. She stretched up to plant a quick kiss on his chest and then, like a playful schoolgirl, darted back down to nip at his legs.
And all the time her hands were working, touching, squeezing, inching up and edging down along his thighs and abdomen until at last she needed no words or motions to communicate the fact that she had him in more ways than one. She knew for certain that his desires was growing, and her soothing, palm flat strokes aggravated that desire, creased the friction that caused it to increase still more.
She felt very much like a young girl then. A small girl playing in the sand, building a pyramid. With each stroking handful, the pyramid grew higher and higher. She touched at the thick base to make sure it was solid, hard and then heaped more soothing palmfuls upon it until it was a mountain, now a tower.
He groaned and squirmed with consummate pleasure now, his breathing heavier, his chest heaving. Her inner ear listened to those groans and heeded them.
They were instructions for her actions. As they grew deeper and more intense with a pained pleasure, she worked faster, faster, her mouth and her hands now concentrated on the center of his stimulation.
And then, just before the sound he uttered was more scream than groan, a cry of pleasure torn from the core of his being, she bent and opened her lips and in that electric moment that shook them both with an earthquake of passion, she felt that he had forgiven her.
And she accepted his forgiveness gratefully.
* * *
Later she curled up and nestled in the circle of his arms and he put one hand on her breast, covering the ridge of nipple.
"You know, you're an okay broad," he said.
She giggled and nuzzled up to his chest.
"I was just worried before," he said by way of explanation.
"I know. I understand."
"I've been thinking," he began slowly, "about that ring you got."
"Ummm. What about it?"
"Well maybe it's worth something after all. I think that maybe I'll take it down to somebody tomorrow and let him have a look at it. Can't hurt anyway. Maybe it's worth a few bucks."
"No," she said.
"What do you mean, No?"
"No, Vic. Really. Please. I like that ring, I really do. I told you I wanna keep it even if it's worth something. It's the only piece of jewelry anyone ever gave me and I wanna keep it. Even if it's not worth anything. I don't care about that."
"And if it is worth something?" he asked. "What then? We gonna starve just so you can keep a piece of glass on your finger?"
"We'll think of something. I know we will."
"Sure. Maybe. But just in case I think I'd better take that ring down and have it looked over."
"No," she said. "That ring goes where I go."
"Well you can come down tomorrow, too, then. Okay?"
"All right. But only if you promise me that you won't sell it or hock it." Vic was silent.
"Well what about it?" she asked.
Grinning -- a grin that she could not see but could almost palpably feel in the dark, he tugged back on her shoulder and rolled onto her.
"Vic!" she said, more in delight than anything else.
His answer was a muted animal grunting as he pressed his mouth down on hers.
"Vic --" she mumbled. "Prom --" But that was all she managed for then his hand were on her, first squeezing her breasts roughly and pulling at the nipples, then sliding down her body. She welcomed him, willingly and to her surprise he was immediately ready. He gave her no warning, sinking suddenly to her. It was as if a needle of lovely pain had suddenly pierced her. She tensed and shrank from it and then closed lovingly about it. Then the tempo overtook all thoughts and blotted everything but its own purpose from her mind.
She took his charging, pounding assault as his promise. More or less.
She woke to the sound of the door closing the next morning. It took a long moment for the sound to register, for it to pass from the dully receptive part of her brain that recognized and identified sounds to that keener, more intellectual area that translated fact into comprehensive terms. The intellectual portion received the message Door Closing, interpreted to mean Someone Coming In or Going Out, added the known fact of Vic and came up with the mental telegram Vic Coming In or Going Out which Ruby emotionally edited to mean: Vic Leaving!
Consequently she started from her bed.
As frequently happened, she was wrong. He had just come in.
"Where'd you go?" she asked, her voice thick from sleep.
"Just to the John. Why?"
"Where'd you get the newspaper, then?" she asked, keener half-asleep than she usually was fully awake.
"Somebody left it in the head. What are you so excited about?"
"Nothing," she said, lying back. "I musta had a bad dream or something."
"Yeah? What kinda dream?" He sat down on the side of the bed and lit a cigarette.
"I'm not sure. I think it was something about you leaving me."
He smiled guilelessly. "Stupid dream to have." He reached out and stroked her thigh. "Why should I leave you? We're getting along fine again, aren't we?"
She nodded.
"Sure we are," he said. "We made it good last night and today we wake up in a brand new city. Who knows what good things are going to happen to us? Right?"
"Right," she said.
"Sure." He bent down and kissed her knee. Now why don't you get dressed and we'll go out and catch ourselves some breakfast and then see what's happening."
She crawled across the bed to him and kissed him on the mouth. "I love you, Vic. You'll never know how much I love you. Really."
"I know, baby," he said, absently caressing her back.
She kissed him again and then got out of bed. She felt fine, better than she had at any time since they had boarded the train yesterday. Their lovemaking the night before had dissolved all doubts she had about him. He had said that they had been good and she knew, from a wealth of past experience, that it was only good for him when he was feeling right toward her, So what was there to worry about? Nothing. Absolutely zero. Chicago seemed bright with promise for her and she sang as she walked down the hall toward the shower and still singing when she returned.
On their second cup of breakfast coffee, he said casually, "Why don't we stop by a jeweler and see about that ring now? Just for laughs."
She didn't see why not. After all he had promised they wouldn't sell it. "Okay," she said.
"We passed a place on the way over here," he said. "Well go there, all right?"
She said it was fine with her. One place was the same as another to her.
The jeweler's they went to was called Keffler Brothers. It was only as wide as its single window front. Glass counters lined either wall and behind a third counter at the rear sat a gray-faced old man wearing glasses a magnifying bridge over them and a loupe, like a third eye, in the center of his forehead. He did not notice -- or decide to notice -- them until they were standing at the counter before him. Then: "Yes?"
"Hi" Vic said "Got a ring here I'd like you to appraise."
The man nodded and appeared to swallow something.
"Show it to him. baby," Vic said to Ruby. She held out her hand. "Take it off," Vic said.
"No, I don't wanna. Can you look at it this way?" she asked the jeweler.
He nodded, unhooked his magnifying bridge, removed his eyeglasses letting them hang on one ear and fixed the loupe in his eye. "Uh," he said first, then: "uh, uh-uh." He pushed the loupe up. "The diamonds I couldn't tell about without a test," he said, "but you got a piece of red glass in the center there. That I can tell you right off." His lips spread showing small yellow stumps of teeth. "You didn't think you got a ruby there, did you?" he asked.
"No," Vic said. "But my wife here had some fancy ideas about it."
"I told you it didn't make any difference to me," Ruby said. "I still like the ring. I don't care if it's made of glass or not."
"You want me to look at the diamonds?" the man said. "For that, the lady has to take her ring off."
"It's not necessary." Vic said. He turned to Ruby: "Doesn't figure that the diamonds would be real if die big stone was glass, does it?"
"No. Let's get out of here."
"Check." Vic thanked the man who had already turned back to his repair work and they left. "Now what?" Ruby said.
"Now we decide on a racket," Vic said, "since we couldn't hock the ring even if we wanted to."
"And we don't," Ruby reminded him. "And we don't," Vic acknowledged.
* * *
He decided on a racket that afternoon. They had picked up a bag of sandwiches and a dozen bottles of beer, returned to the Lombardy and Vic had proceeded to pace the floor, chain-smoke cigarettes, drink some beer and brood. Ruby sat on the bed and did her nails. First she did her left hand, than her right hand, then her feet. By that time Vic had eaten two sandwiches, and finished his sixth beer.
"The badger game," he said very undramatically. His tone reflected the fact that he was not very pleased with this outcome to all of his heavy thinking.
Ruby's expression connoted the idea that she was not to enthusiastic either. "Uh-uh," she said.
"Do you know what the badger game is?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But I don't like the name. It sounds dirty."
"It isn't"
"I suppose it hasn't got something to do with screwing animals or something?" she laid with superiority.
"No, it doesn't"
"Then why do they call it the badger game?" she asked. "Don't think that I don't know what a badger is, Mister College Graduate. It's a weasel or a squirrel or something dirty Eke that. That's not my dish."
"If you were any dumber you'd need a full-time nurse, do you know that?" Vic said. "The badger game has nothing to do with animals. It's a simple little blackmail con. The same thing I was getting ready to set up with your friend Childress until you blew the whole bit."
"Yeah? Well what do I have to do?" She sounded as if anything more than painting her toenails would be unacceptable to her.
"Almost nothing," Vic said. "We find a mark in a bar. You smile and lure him over, let him make a pitch, take him up to the room and then I burst in with a gun, you scream 'my husband!' and then we get the mark to cough up or else we threaten to blow his brains out."
"And what stops him from going to the police?"
"Two things. If he's married, then he won't want to admit that he's been playing around and if he's not, he'll be too afraid of the gun. In any case, we check out of here tonight anyway so he'll have one hell of a time finding us."
Ruby looked doubtful. "When do you bust in?" she asked.
"About five minutes after you get him up here. I'll be in the bar with you and follow you up. I've got a key so even if the guy insists you lock the door, I can still get in."
"Yeah? And what if he gets in me first?"
"Five minutes," Vic said. "He'd have to be Flash Gordon to get you spread out in five minutes. Besides, you can take that long to get undressed. An old runway queen like you." he said, smiling. "Take it nice and slow with the guy. Give him a little peep show first. A little tit, a little funny finger business. Hell, hell be paying enough for it."
"And what if he wants to play funny fingers, too?" Ruby said.
"Five minutes," Vic said loudly. "Five lousy minutes. You can run around the bed for five minutes if you have to, can't you?"
"I guess so. It's just that I don't like nobody but you to touch me, Vic. You know that."
"I know that," he said. "Like I know my own name, I know that. Believe me baby, you probably won't even have your bra off before I'm in here playing Lone Ranger. And if we get lucky and hit a good mark, we can make a few C's on the bit with no sweat."
"I don't know," she said, fingering her ring.
"Look, we'll try it for one night. If you still don't like it then I'll think of something else. But right now we need some bread bad, baby. We don't have enough for another week's rent right now."
"Okay," Ruby said. "But under one condition."
"What's that?"
"Well. Since I'm gonna have to spend some time with this guy and you know how much I hate that, I think it might be nice if you did a little something to show me how much you appreciate it."
Vic looked confused for a fast second. Then he smiled. "Take off your clothes," he said. "I'm gonna show you just what that poor sucker is not going to do to you tonight."
Ruby didn't have to be asked twice.
* * *
It was odd, she thought later while he was in showering. He had been so good for her, so hard, so hot, so furious that she had thought of nothing but him while they were doing it but now her body cooling and her mind clearing, it occurred to her that it was strange. He had been too good. He had come on much too strong. He had taken her back too completely and too quickly --especially after her annoying display of ignorance concerning the definition of the badger game. It was almost as if he had made love to her knowing that it was going to be the last time. He had done everything and done it so well that she could not rid herself of the idea that not only would it never be that good again but that it would never be again for them in anyway. He had, it seemed to her, loved her goodbye.
But of course that was nonsense.
Her trouble was she couldn't accept a really good thing when it happened to her. They were closer now than they had ever been. That's why he had been so good. That and no other reason.
When he returned from the bathroom whistling, she convinced herself that this last notion was the real one.
* * *
She waited in the room while he went out and bought the gun.
"Let's see it," she asked when he returned.
"What for? It's just a gun. You see one gun and you've seen them all. Bang-bang, that's all they do. And this one doesn't even do that."
"How come?"
"No bullets. I didn't want to take the chance of getting careless and having it go off. Come on, help me pack up."
"What for?"
"So the mark doesn't get suspicious when he sees a guy's clothes all around."
It made sense to her. She helped him pack.
"We'll leave the suitcase in the John," he said.
"What's wrong with the closet?"
"He might look in the closet. Some suckers are very suspicious when they go up to a hooker's room."
"I'm not a hooker," Ruby said indignantly.
"Well you better convince him that you are," Vic said.
That made sense to her, too. So the bag was moved into the John. Than they went to dinner.
Vic picked the restaurant, an expensive steak house. That surprised her. If they were so short on money, why blow most of their stake on a big meal? She reasoned. But he assuaged that fear before she had a chance to ask him by saying that he had a hunch their mark would be loaded. That satisfied her.
"Besides," he added, "even if the pickings are not so good, maybe we can hock this watch for a few bucks."
"But not my ring," she said, predictably.
"You know it's not worth anything," he said. "But as long as you mentioned it, you'd better let me hold it."
"No." She drew back her hand instinctively. "Why?"
"Because if the guy sees you're wearing a ring he might think you're married and that might tip him to the whole bit."
"I'll wear it on another finger," Ruby said.
"No."
"On my other hand."
"Baby," he started patiently, "I know how much that ring means to you but you don't want to risk blowing the bit, do you? Hookers hardly ever wear rings."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Why do you think? It interferes with their piano playing. Christ, I once had a hooker that wore a rock the size of a pizza. When she started rubbing her hands over my back, she almost scraped my skin off."
"You never told me about that," Ruby said. "Who was she?"
"I forgot," Vic said. "Let's have the ring."
She took it off slowly, started to hand it to him and then stopped. "You'll be careful with it, won't you?
"Yeah, yeah. And if I lose it, I'll go to Woolworth's and buy you another."
"I don't want another, Vic. I want that one. I wouldn't ---"
"I know, I know. I'm going to be very glad when you stop saying that, baby."
"Well, just don't lose it."
He promised he wouldn't and on her further insistence slipped it on his pinkie rather than just dropping it in his pocket.
* * *
Vic also chose the place where they would look for the mark. It was called the Lotus Lounge There was no band and no floorshow, which effectively eliminated the tourist trade. It was just a dark cool room with a circular bar in the center and shadowy plasteen booths lining the walls A gaudily-glowing juke box in the far corner provided most of the illumination and all of the music. When they entered, the juke was grinding out Sinatra's gloomy "Give me one for my baby and one more for the road" and the bar drinkers were looking suitably sentimental and taking Frankie's advice.
On Vic's instructions, Ruby made straight for the nearest booth. Vic climbed on a bar stool facing her.
"What's yours?" a flat-chested waitress asked her.
"Martini," Ruby said. She could feel the woman's envious eyes go to her breasts that pushed out the fabric of her pink blouse. She looked over at Vic but he was talking to the barman and did not see her.
It took the waitress a minute before she returned with the drink. When she did she almost collided with a tall, husky man who had left the bar heading for Ruby.
The waitress set down Ruby's drink and then the man sat down. "Evening," he said. "You alone, dear?"
Ruby nodded and forced a smile. It felt sickly.
"That's bad," the man said. "Alone in a town like this. That's bad. I happen to be in that same distressing situation myself. You're not the kind of lady who objects to a stranger's company now, are you?"
Ruby looked over at Vic. This time he saw her. He winked.
"Not at all," Ruby said.
After that it was easy. The man's name was Lake, Lake Wilson. Or at least so he said. He was in the city for business, just for a week or so. He didn't know anyone in town. Ruby finished her drink in the time it took him to tell her that and, of course, he bought her a second one.
Then it was her turn. She said her name was Alice, the first one that came to mind. She was a model, between engagements. (This with a smile.) Lake Wilson smiled, too. He understood, the smile said. He might not be a big-city boy but he understood, that smile conveyed.
They had another drink. That made it his turn again. He did not waste it all with conversation. Halfway through an unimaginative narration of a joke she had heard twice before, she felt his hand beneath the table touch her leg. She didn't move. His hand did Slowly, it caressed up, over the stocking-covered curve of her calf. She smiled. He smiled. Then he took a sip of his drink and she looked over at Vic for additional confirmation. Vic smiled, too. That made it unanimous.
They had another drink and then Lake Wilson said, "I'm a blunt man, Alice. When I see a girl I like, I go after her. If she says she likes me, then fine; no problems. If she doesn't, well then I ask her if anything could persuade her to like me. I don't recognize any prostitutes in my life. There are only girls that like me for myself and girls that like me for the color of my money."
Ruby thought that somewhere in the world there must be a girl who wouldn't like Lake Wilson for any reason. She thought that if it weren't for Vic, she might just be that girl.
"My hand," Lake Wilson continued, "is now almost up to your thigh, Alice. Now where I come from that would lead me to believe that you like me a little bit. Could it be that I'm getting warm?"
She didn't know if he was referring to his reasoning or his hand. But she said, "Yes," as softly as she could.
"In that case," Lake Wilson said, "do you think it might be possible for us to continue this conversation in a more private place."
"I've got a room not far from here," Ruby said.
"Alice," Lake Wilson said. "I'm getting to believe that you're growing to like me more and more every minute. Shall we be going?"
If you take away your hand, we shall, she thought.
He took away his hand. They left. Vic stood up and paid his check at the same time. Ruby listened intently for his footsteps during the three block walk to the Lombardy. Once she turned around at the corner to make sure he was behind them. He was, walking with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky, whistling.
The desk clock stared at Ruby and Lake Wilson as they walked by him. From the side of his mouth, cigar smoke billowed voluminously.
"I call this nice and cozy," Lake Wilson said as they entered the room. "I hope you won't have any objections if I lock the door, Alice."
Ruby didn't answer. She crossed the room and sat in the chair nearest the window.
Lake Wilson flicked off the lights and came over to her. He sat down on the arm of her chair and said quietly, "Alice, I don't see any further need for conversation, do you? We both know why we're here, don't we? I believe in the old saying 'the sooner you start, the more fun you'll have.' How do you feel about that?"
"Give a girl a minute to catch her breath," Ruby said.
"I don't believe in that," Lake Wilson said. He leaned down, his arms went around her and his mouth, smelling odiously of the whiskey he had been drinking, pressed down on hers.
She turned from him but his arms held her fast.
"Alice," he said, "I believe that you are a tease." He kissed her again, his hand holding her head steady. She tried to push at him but his weight was overwhelming.
It must be five minutes, she thought. It had to be. Where the hell was Vic?
"No, please," she said trying to sit up.
"I'm afraid it's a little late for that," Lake Wilson said. I've developed some very strong feelings about you, Alice. And I plan to satisfy them." His hand closed about her arm and he jerked her violently to her feet and shoved her to the bed.
"No, wait--please. You don't understand."
"I'd like to wait," Lake Wilson said, straddling her, shackling both of her wrists with one hand while the other began to undo the buttons of her blouse. "Believe me, Alice, I'd like to take this nice and easy but my feeling won't let me." He pulled her blouse out, squeezed once at her breasts and then wrenched off her bra.
"Sorry about that," he said. "If it's broken, I'll be pleased to buy you a new one. But like I said--" Lake Wilson's hand closed on her naked breast and his mouth quickly followed. A knife of pain sliced through her as he bit at her nipple. She screamed behind his arm and he slapped her across the face.
More than five minutes, she thought desperately, madly. And then she understood. Then she understood that Vic was not coming, that the reason he had not showed her the gun was because there was no gun, that he had never intended to break in on them, that the suitcase in the John was waiting for him because he was leaving her. And then she understood also about the ring --but on that point, she would never know why.
Then it was too late to think about Vic Then Lake Wilson was forcing himself into her thoughts and although she fought him with every thing she had, he also forced himself into her body.
Then she learned just how strong Lake Wilson's feelings were.
CHAPTER THREE
The desk clerk at the Lombardy grinned when he saw Mr. Gordon (as Vic was registered) walk passed him and head up the stairs to his room. It was only ten minutes after the clerk had seen Mrs. Gordon (as Ruby was registered) go up to that room in the company of another man. He lit a new cigar and walked around to the bottom of the stairs. He considered sneaking up a flight, the better to hear. He expected fireworks. A fight at the very least, maybe a shooting, perhaps a good bloody knifing of the sort he always read occurred in Chicago's other cheap hotels. But never in the Lombardy. As cheap as this place was, it only seemed to attract moral, non-violent clientele. Tonight's little trinity was the most promising thing that had happened in seven years, since the teenage son of a western star had picked the Lombardy to mount a horse of his own. A double dose of heroin. But in that occasion, the police had carted the boy away before the clerk had the chance to get a good look at his distorted features.
With expectations so high, one might well sympathize with the disappointment the clerk felt when, less than two minutes later, Vic came back down the stairs, holding a suitcase and was gone -- out the front door and out the hopeful clerk's life forever.
Disgustedly, the clerk turned back to his newspaper. People today were just too moral, he thought.
* * *
Vic spent the night at the Merton Hotel, doing nothing which would have excited the blood of the clerk there. He was up by seven the next morning, devoured a gargantuan breakfast of grapefruit juice, four scrambled eggs, a side of Canadian bacon, four slices of buttered and jellied toast, two cups of coffee and a glass of milk. He smoked three cigarettes while reading the Sun-Times and, at nine o'clock, was waiting for Keffler when the jeweler opened his shop.
It was the fourth time Vic had been in the store. The first time had been the previous morning while Ruby was sleeping. On that occasion he had given the jeweler a ten dollar bill in order that the man would pronounce the ring Ruby would show him later completely worthless. The second time had been with Ruby for that appraisal. The third time had been later that afternoon when Ruby had thought he was out buying a gun, then Keffler had given him a true appraisal of the ring's worth: eight hundred dollars.
"You're getting to be my best customer," Keffler said with a faint smile as he unlocked the store.
"Looks that way," Vic said.
"So now you and me and the ring are finally together," Keffler said. "Well, I give it a better look and see what you've got." The man went to his work counter, removed his eyeglasses letting them hang from one ear and inserted the loupe in his eye. He took the ring from Vic and studied it intently under the harsh glare of the bench lamp. "Uh," he said, and then, "uh, uh-huh, uh." He pushed the lope up on his forehead. "Like I told you yesterday, a nice ring. The ruby is a good stone, the diamonds are just chips. What did I quote you yesterday? Seven-fifty?"
"Eight," Vic said.
"All right, if I said eight, then I offer you eight," he smiled.
Vie knew nothing about jewels. He had, however, suspected from the start that the stones were real and now he suspected, with the born canniness of a thief that they were worth much more than eight hundred dollars.
"That your top offer?" he asked the man.
"You ready to sell right now?"
"It depends on the price."
"Nine hundred dollars is my top offer," Keffler said. "It's the best offer you'll get in this town. I know. I've been living here for forty-seven years."
"All right," Vic said. "Ill look around. If it's the top, I'll be back."
"Then I'll see you again," Keffler said.
Keffler saw Vic again two days later. In the meantime Vic took the ring to six other jewelers. He got five appraisals, two of which matched Keffler's; one was as low as half of it. From the sixth jeweler, Vic did not get an appraisal. The store was only an alley-shop in a slum area. There was no outside display window, only a badly-painted hand sign advertising the business within. The inside was just what Vic had expected: one glass counter crowded with ornate rings, tarnished jewelry, dusty cameo brooches, the treasures of all the maiden aunts in the world. The man behind the counter might have been someone's maiden aunt, too. He was short, bone-thin with a shrill voice and a nose that dripped like a faucet; he used his wrist for a handkerchief.
Vic put the ring on the counter. "Can you make up a duplicate?" he asked.
The man studied the right with distaste. "Well, I don't know," he said. "That's a nice little ring, that is. What'd you pay for a ring like that? Two, three hundred I'll bet."
"You lose. Can you make up a duplicate in glass and paste?"
"Well I suppose I could." He looked up. "Not many would, though. Some would consider that illegal, you know."
"Some are just suspicious," Vic said. "How much? I want it as soon as possible."
"Hundred dollars. Have it for you the day after tomorrow Won't be able to tell it from the original."
"All right. I'll leave this watch as down payment. Pay you the rest when I pick it up."
"Have to leave the ring, too," the man said. "Can't copy it if I don't know what it looks like."
"Take a good look now," Vic said. "That ring goes with me."
The man looked pained. "Don't you want me to do a good job?" he asked.
"I'm afraid you'll do too good a job, look at it now.' The man looked at it. Two days later, Vic was looking at the imitation the man had made.
"Good," he said. "I just hope it can fool another jewelry."
"If he don't look too close," the man said He regarded his creation. "That's a fine job if I do have to say so myself. Got your watch right here. It was broken, you know Figured you'd want it fixed so I took care of that, too. That'll be a hundred and ten dollars you owe me."
"Right," Vic said. He put his hand in his pocket: When he withdrew it, it was a fist The fist flew into the jeweler's face. The jeweler smashed against the wall and bounced forward Vic hit him again and the man collapsed; his eyes closed. Vic put the imitation ring in his pocket and left. He didn't even think about helping himself to the cash drawer. He wasn't a thief; he was a con man.
An hour later, Keffler was holding the ring in his hands. "I thought you'd be back," he said. "You don't mind if I have another look at this, do you?"
"Help yourself," Vic said.
Keffler studied the ring with his loupe. "All right." he said after a minute. "In this business, you have to be careful. I'll get your money."
He got the money. It was all in tens and twenties. Vic counted it in his pocket. "I guess that does it," Vic said.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Keffler said. "Even if you did rob me a little." He smiled.
Vic smiled, too. "Certainly hate to part with that ring," he said. "It was a family heirloom. Belonged to my mother. You wouldn't mind if I put it on one last time just for sentimental reasons, would you?"
Keffler shrugged. "I got a mother, too," he said. "Here."
"Thanks," Vic said. He slipped the ring on his finger, admired it for a minute then covered his finger and took off the ring. He handed the imitation which he had palmed to Keffler and palmed the original. "Thanks again," he said.
"Anytime," Keffler said.
And that was that.
* * *
He checked into the Palmer House that afternoon. The smooth-faced, pomaded clerk quoted the room at twenty-six dollars a day and Vic asked him if that was the best they had. The clerk said a suite might be open the next day and Vic said he'd take the other room until then. The exchange was mostly for effect. He registered as David West from Boston.
Also for effect was the extravagant tip he gave the barber who attended him in his room; the manicurist cleared five and a warm hand squeeze and the bellhop who brought him a fifth of Chivas Regal received a ten and some instructions.
"I'm in the market for a rich wife," Vic told him. "Keep your eyes open for me."
"Yes sir," the boy said.
"I'm also in the market for a quick one. Send her up in an hour."
"Yes sir," the boy said smartly.
He spend the intervening hour in the tub, washing off the grime of the Lombardy and the Merton and the slight shame he felt about Ruby. He was sorry he had had to screw her that way but she was just too stupid and sooner or later someone would have conned the ring from her. Better that it was him; that kept the family jewels in the family.
He felt no shame but a certain guilt about his dealings with Keffler and the other jeweler. The con was not really worthy of him. Cheap sleight-of-hand was all right for a cheap bunco man but someone with his class should have been able to think of something better. Hitting the other jeweler was almost unforgivable. If he had had the hundred, he would have paid the man But of course he didn't have it then -- which was the excuse he used to rationalize away all of his behavior.
He hadn't had a decent stake for months -- since he had hooked up with Ruby -- and he could feel himself dulling and decaying on the bad food and crummy living. He had to live big before he could think big. Money came to money. That was why the rich got richer and the poor ate beans. It was a philosophy he had proved true years before, but somewhere along the line he had been derailed. He had been living with a good looking chick named Frankie who had tits the size of watermelons and had been making a nice living for both of them balling salesmen. Then Frankie had picked a wrongo -- an ape who sold can openers and decided to try out a new one on her one night when he was stoned. He had cut her every way but loose and the moment Vic had seen her lying in the hospital, he knew that she'd never be able to work a lighted street again and had packed up before she was discharged.
That had been the start of long lean slide to the bottom. There was Joan who made nice money as an interior decorator but spent most of it decorating her arm with needle marks; Ronnie who couldn't afford to pay for the six-a-day she needed just to keep her quiet, not to mention satisfied; then Susie who was just a college girl who gave up the books to take lessons from him. But how well could they both live on Daddy's two bills a month? And then he had made the mistake of telling Susie that she had a beautiful ass and showed her how much fun they could have with it; after that she wouldn't do it any other way and that of course, got to be a big drag. Which brought him to Ruby who had been good enough in the rack but weak in the brains and weaker in the wallet.
Which brought him here to the Palmer House -- and from now on, no more scuffling. That ring had been the turning point and from here on out it was only ten dollar steaks and twelve-year-old Scotch. It was time to face up to the fact that his looks wouldn't hold up for too many more years. A nice rich widow or divorcee was what the doctor would order for the symptoms of one ailing gigolo-con man and that was exactly what old Mrs. Bracken's little brown-eyed boy was going to get.
But first it was time to work a little of the rust out of the machinery, to hone his knife on a nice professional grindstone.
He was sitting on the bed with only a towel about his waist when the knock came. He lit a cigarette, went to the door. The girl that was standing there was in her early twenties; short, blonde hair, small hard breasts _ that pointed out the knit of her yellow dress.
She flinched a smile. "Hey. Is this the right room?"
"This is it," Vic said.
She entered self-consciously, looking around, then turned and said, "It's twenty for a throw. A hundred for the night."
"How long's a throw?" Vic asked.
"Once, come and go. Until you make it."
"That could be a while."
"Not if you're straight, mister."
Vic smiled. "You think you're a pretty experienced little cookie, don't you?"
"I've been around some."
"Know all the tricks?"
"I guess there might be one or two I haven't picked up but I know enough of them."
"How long do you think I could hold out?"
The girl gave him an appraising look, up and down. "Big healthy boy like you," she said. "Maybe ten minutes if I wasn't pushing you. More like five if I felt affectionate."
"You're sure?"
"It's my business. The money's in the quick turnover. To tell you the truth, the more you talk, the more I begin to doubt that you can hold on for five."
"Care to bet?"
"What?"
"Double or nothing on the twenty. I say I can hold out for, say, an hour. Maybe an hour and a half if you're feeling affectionate."
The girl's jaw tightened. "You trying to con me into giving you more than your money's worth, mister."
He shook his head. "Just once. Come and go. Your rules. As soon as I flush out, the money's yours. Unless, of course, the hour's up first."
"Put up your money, mister. This is going to be the fastest lay you ever had."
"Take off your clothes," Vic said.
* * *
They obliged each other. Vic took two tens from his trouser pocket and placed them on the dresser. The girl counted them, nodded and then began to undress.
She did it quickly and until the end, there was no indication that she was trying to arouse him; indeed, she might have been alone in the room. The knit dress unbuttoned in the back, she wriggled out of it and let it fall, to the floor. She wore neither slip nor stockings. Her bra was two red cups that pointed like fingers; her panties were black. She unhooked the bra, tossed it on the chair. Her breasts were hard white cones capped by large reddish-brown nipples. She patted them once briefly -- as if to make sure they were there, then peeled down her panties and stepped out of them.
Then, naked, she turned to him, stuck out her tongue, touched her left index finger to the tip and very slowly and deliberately, ran the finger up her legs.
"All right," she said. "You got a watch?"
"There's one there." He pointed to the night table.
She crossed to it. "Quarter to five," she said. "Hold on tight, mister."
He held on tight. First she nestled over him, her hard breasts against his chest. Then she wriggled.
It aroused him. He felt it and so did she. But just to make sure, her hand bestowed a few fondling caresses.
"Oh, you're easy, mister," she purred in his ear. "You're too easy." Vic only smiled.
"I wouldn't feel right taking your money without letting you in at least. And the way you're moving along now, you're going to be over the hill before you're in the woods."
She rolled from him, and opened her arms.
"Get it while you're hot," she said.
He moved to her. His hands dug beneath her as he plunged.
"Hurry, hurry," she whispered, taunting.
He hurry-hurried. The watch on the night-table read four-fifty-five then.
Twenty minutes later, the watch read five-fifteen. He was still hurrying. His tempo was a steady fast rhythm and she moved with him, groaning slightly each time his flat chest smashed down on her apple-hard breasts.
At five-twenty-five, she said, "Okay. Let's try something new."
He moved from her and lay waiting.
Something new was really something old. It may have also been borrowed from an older, more exotic civilization.
She slipped down to the foot of the bed and began to kiss him, gently, lovingly.
She was good, Vic thought grinning. For a little girl, she was very good. And fast. So fast that it seemed she was everything at once.
He closed his eyes and pictured a target painted on his body. Now she was hitting the outer yellow circle. Now she was nearer, in the blue ring and her head was bobbing as she worked faster. Now she was closer to home--to the big red center. He felt her stop for a moment, pause, catch her breath and then she struck.
Bull's-eye!
He sighed in lovely agony.
* * *
At twenty-five minutes before six, he was still sighing and she was still on target.
"God," he heard her breath. She threw back her head, in exhaustion.
He winked at her and watched her jaw tighten, her eyes blaze with determination.
"I've still got ten minutes left" she said, looking at the watch. "And you're gonna pay hell in that time."
"Make me," he said.
No one can say she didn't try.
She was a cyclone of movement' a tornado, a hurricane, a tempest of sensation.
He loved every minute of it, revelled in it, gloried in it. And the smile never left his face.
Which is not to say that he was confident through out. Several times he felt himself rising to the edge-- once, when she gripped him and forced herself violently upon him--he thought he was lost, felt the sap of passion spiralling within him, churning up, starting to bubble to a boil.
But she was either unaware of how close she was to victory -- or else she was pre-occupied in being all things at once to him.
Neither of them knew when it was exactly five-forty-five and although she worked furiously right up to the last, in those final agonizing minutes, the outcome was never in doubt. At the end of her strength, she collapsed, breasts heaving upon him and then, he took his sweet revenge for her taunts.
He pushed her from him, watched her panting exhausted for a moment and then, putting her in the position she had never thought to try and driving forward into the tight softness she had never considered exploiting, he rode her limp form to his private spasm of ecstasy.
And her muted whimpering of genuine pain at this violation was his greatest triumph.
* * *
She had a drink later. He hadn't thought to offer her ons but it was obvious that she did not stand on ceremony. She crawled from the bed, slowly, in apparent pain and indisputable soreness, poured herself a sizable shot and drank it in a swallow.
"Feel better?" he asked.
She turned to face him. Her breasts were red from the friction of his body; her arms looked strengthless; her thighs seemed loose and bruised but her eyes were bright with loathing.
"You're a poor loser," he said.
She gave him a one-finger answer which made him laugh and he continued laughing until she had dressed and left.
* * *
He started his search for a widow that night. He dined in the main room of the Palmer House, at a table in the corner which afforded him an unobstructed view of the other diners. Most were couples: ponching balding pinchfaced men who could not wait until the meal was over to get their cigars back in their mouths, and their girdled, corseted, fur-necked wives who talked incessantly. There were a few lone males -- one of whom, an egg-faced man with ginger hair, was unmistakably homosexual and returned Vic's glance with compound interest -- and four single women.
He eliminated two immediately: one was in her eighties, the other leered at him with a witchy smile full of the most horrible sort of erotic promise. The pair remaining were both in their early thirties -- one starch-chested and esoteric looking with straight hair and bangs; the other, more voluptuous but thick-lipped and very obviously going more to fat every minute. He decided to eliminate both of them also.
After dinner, the bar proved no more fertile. He had two drinks in the company of the bartender On the third he was joined by the egg-faced ginger-haired man he had seen in the dining room.
"Buy you a drink?" the man offered.
The bartender immediately found something to do at the other end of the counter.
"No, thanks," Vic said, "I'm working."
The man smiled graciously. "You staying here?"
"Not unless you leave."
A wounded expression wrinkled the stranger's long forehead. "Now I don't think that's very kindly, do you?"
"If I did, I wouldn't have said it. Look, flower screw off?"
"Well!" said the man in a huff. But he left.
The bartender returned.
"Not your type, huh?" he asked.
"Not at all," Vic said.
"That bird's been living here as long as I can remember. At least ten or twelve years."
"What's he do?"
"Who knows? He's got plenty of money and he cruises. Does pretty well, too. Considering what he looks like. About every other night he'll find some salesman in town for a convention or something, buy the guy all he can drink and then lead him up to his room."
"Nasty," Vic said. "In the service whenever we found one of that kind, we'd beat this head against the latrine floor for awhile."
"Not that one, you wouldn't. One monkey tried it here one night. Got as far as making a fist before Mr. Sloan let him have it."
"Where?"
"Where do you think? Those pansies only go for one spot, if they're fighting or if they're making love."
Vic shook his head sympathetically and had another drink. He was not a philosopher but he thought it was a bad indication when the queers started to fight back. Soon you'd have the broads rebelling too and then where were you? He thought about the young hooker he had had that afternoon and wondered where she was at the moment. Not working, certainly. It would be a few days at the least until she felt strong enough to close her legs around a guy. The same probably went for Ruby, too. Judging by the size of that guy she had picked up in the Lotus, she'd be walking bow-legged for a long time.
He smiled at the picture. Both of them were his doing, too. He was running through women like a dry-grass fire, one way or another. But then it had always been that way. It was meant to be that way. He had never really met a broad he could respect, one that had the guts to stand up to him. They all tried at the beginning but sooner or later their itch for it wore them down. They all had to have the honey to fill their little hives. Even the ones he had known who thought they were so smart really carried their brains between their legs. When that little twitch started, there wasn't any college degree they could use to scratch it. When they began to feel that aching void, all the books in the world couldn't fill it.
Only what he had -- he and a few others, of course. Which gave him a nice god-like feeling. Socrates with the lever big enough to move the world hanging right between his thighs.
He laughed out loud at the thought and ordered another drink.
"You look like you've had enough," the barman said. "If you don't object to a little friendly advice."
"I think you may be right," Vic said. "I just had the craziest thought."
"What?"
"That I'm Socrates."
"I don't think I know him," the barman said. "He from Chi?"
Vic laughed again. "Give me one more for a nightcap," he said, "and then I'm going to sack out."
"That's a good idea. You don't want to get too stoned or else Mr. Sloane'll get you."
"The Bogie Man," Vic said.
"You know it," said the barman.
He had his nightcap, signed the check and left a five for the barman. He felt magnanimous, felt even better because he could afford to feel magnanimous. Tomorrow or the next day he was going to find his rich widow and settle down to a life of ease, screwing her at night and screwing the maids in the afternoon. And until that lucky woman floated along, he had nearly eight, hundred dollars to live on and a ring that could be hocked for at least that if times ever got bad.
But he didn't expect that they would. He felt quite certain that he finally had it taped. Life all wrapped up in a fur-lined jock-strap because he was the man with the Magic Lever.
He was just smiling in general but the elevator girl smiled back at him, in particular. He was the only one in the car.
She was not a bad-looking girl, he thought, judging her from the rear. She had a nice tight butt that looked like it might be dimpled. If he wasn't feeling absolutely fine now, he might consider giving her a ride on his own little elevator.
The car stopped on his floor and she opened the door, still smiling. He bowed and she laughed. He walked half-way down the hall before he realized he was going in the wrong direction, turned and went in the right direction. At his door, he fumbled with his key, finally managed to fit it into the lock. He flipped on the light and entered. The maid had made the bed again. Now that was class, he thought. When they make the beds twice a day in a hotel, you know you're in a class establishment. Which was exactly where he belonged.
He stripped and tossed his clothes over the back of the chair, padded naked into the bathroom, doused his face with cold water, combed his hair wet, thinking: Never know who you're going to dream about, and brushed his teeth. He closed the bathroom light, went to the bed and pulled back the covers.
"Maid made them twice a day," he said thickly. "But who makes the maid who makes the bed? How many times should you make the maid if the maid makes the bed twice a day?" He snorted a laugh, reached up, flicked off the overhead light.
* * *
He was just slipping into unconsciousness when the knock on the door came. It was a sharp short rap and at first it did not associate it with the door. Then it came again: this time two knocks, very insistent.
He sat up, flicked on the night lamp and climbed out of bed.
Again, the knock, twice.
"All right," he said. He opened the door partway.
The blonde hooker was standing there. She was wearing the same yellow knit dress but had a tan raincoat over it. She looked tired but managed a strained smile. "Hey," she said. "Can I come in?"
"Any reason?" Vic asked.
"I thought -- you know," she shrugged, looking small and pathetic in the long wide hallway.
Vic grinned. The Magic Lever, he thought. They all come back for the Magic Lever. "I don't understand," he said. "What do you want?"
She lowered her eyes. "It was good for me this afternoon," she said. "You know, like that doesn't happen very often." She looked up. "I thought we'd do an encore, you know."
"Free?"
She nodded and smiled. "For love."
"Come on in," Vic said.
She did not enter self-consciously this time. She walked in with perfect poise and assurance and that was the first thing that Vic sensed was wrong She crossed to the window, turned and said, "All right, close the door and put your hands up." She was holding a small black revolver in her left hand.
That was the second thing Vic sensed was wrong But he couldn't quite believe it. He thought it was a joke.
"Close it and lock it," she said Her eyes were hard and cold. "I'm not kidding, mister. I hate you enough as it is. It won't give me any heartburn to shoot you."
Vic closed the door and raised his hands. He was naked and the position felt ridiculous. "Now what?" he asked, grinning.
"Just sit down on the bed," she said. She went to the chair. "You still keep all your money in your pants pocket?" It was rhetorical question. She groped in his pocket and withdrew his roll of bills. "You knew what they say in the movies, mister? The good guys, I mean, when they're taking their revenge on the bad guys? They say, I'm only taking what's coming to me and then they leave the rest of the dough there and take their lousy hundred or two hundred bucks."
"I remember," Vic said. "So you're only taking the twenty bucks you've got coming to you."
"Wrong. I'm taking it all. You know why? Because I'm not a good guy. I'm a bad one, just like you. Only don't think I'm quite as bad as you are because I only con people when I need the dough and you've got all the bread you can handle and you still don't give anybody the sweat off your cones." She stuffed the money in her pocket. "Now you can toss that watch over here, too."
Vic slipped off his watch and flipped it to the foot of the bed. She came forward and picked it up.
"And the ring," she said.
"Listen," Vic said, "you've got this all twisted, baby. I'm not loaded. That bread you just took from me and that watch and this ring is all I've got."
"I don't believe it. Toss the ring over here."
"Why do you think I could ball so well this afternoon. You only pick up a trick like that after years of practice."
"Yeah, sure. You're the World's Fair, mister. The ring. Come on."
"We could make it, baby. I've got enough right there to keep us living good for a long time. Believe me, I know what it takes to keep a broad happy."
"For the last time, mister. Either you give me that ring or else you're gonna have a hole big enough so you can keep yourself happy."
"All right," Vic said. "Take the dough and leave me the ring. I won't call the cops or anything. You've got the money coming to you. Maybe I didn't play fair this afternoon,"
"The ring," she said. "This is the last time, I'm gonna ask. I mean it."
"All right," Vic said. "But you're making a big mistake, baby." He didn't wait for an answer. He knew she was adamant. Slowly, as though it was giving him great trouble, he started to twist the ring off his small finger.
"You're making a big mistake, baby, he thought You should have taken my offer when it was open. But you're stupid just like all the other broads. And now you're going to end up with nothing.
He took off the ring and placed it within arms reach on the bed.
"Take it," he said.
She moved over cautiously, keeping the gun on him, her eyes flicking from him to the ring and back again. When she was a few feet from the bed. she stooped slightly and reached out her hand.
"Here." Vic said He picked up the ring, stood up and walked over, his hand outstretched.
She reached out for it and then he lunged for the gun. She turned quickly and fired.
* * *
The bullet was low, too low to kill him. But he wished that it had. It hit him in the groin. He screamed, his eyes distended with pain and he clutched at the wound already spurting blood.
"Jesus!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, sinking to his knees.
The girl looked at him in disbelief then snatched up the ring and ran from the room. His sobbing followed her down the hall but she would never know what mortal harm she had done him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The wind of the jet cut through the swabs of white cloud like a silver razor slicing through shaving cream.
Wheeee! she thought. Wheeeeeee! Patty Rogers was flying. Man, she was flying higher and faster than she had ever flown since someone had handed her that first stick of Mary Jane and said, "Try this, blue-eyes." And of course she had tried it but the flip had faded too fast and then she had discovered that H made her retch and C tore off the top of her head -- and man, those wicked, wicked needles! How she hated to get popped with one of those feathers. Even when she closed her eyes she could see that shiny devil coming at her and in her just like some big spade's...
Ah, but this was really flying and she could feel the vibrations right up through her soft pink fanny. Br-rrrrrrrr! It was a gas of a goose. And it had been so brother-humping simple, too. Just barrel-assing down those hotel stairs, out the back door, then "Hey, cabbie!" then "O'Hare Airport and groove it!" and then to the college-faced reservation clerk: "When's the next plane out?"
"Where?" he asked. "Anywhere!" she told him. "Las Vegas flight leaves in five minutes," he told her. "Gimme a first-class, one-way," she had said. And man, that's all there was to it. No questions, no crap -- just money on the counter and away we go.
Of course she had had a bad moment when he had asked about baggage but she had said it was all shipped ahead -- which he may or may not have believed but in either case, she had the ticket and she was moving.
And to hell with the baggage. If Eddie, her bellboy-pimp, copped out when the boys in blue put the squeeze on him then they could all drag their fat butts over to her rented rat's nest and get a charge by fingering her transparent panties (Man, wait til they see the pair with the rose-buds!) and get their jollies by feeling up her 34-B bras. Those and a few rags and a make-up kit were all they were going to find.
Suddenly she had a flash of cold fear. Maybe it wasn't such a boffo idea to run to the airport. If the fuzz was on their toes they'd probably play Untouchables and check all the bus depots, train stations, etc. Oh, let them shove all the bus depots, she wasn't going to let it spoil her ride. If she saw that the Law was starting to sniff around her bicycle seat she could always take off from Vegas to L.A. or S.F. And there was always a good chance that Sam S. Stud would decide to lick his wounds himself and not go through the embarrassment of telling everyone that some sweet-faced little slut had flounced in and tossed a piece of lead in his love-life. She could see that bastard now, lying on the floor and holding his bent little passion pole. She couldn't have picked a better place to plug him if she had aimed for a month. That jerk. Thought he had the whole world pinned on that pig-sticker. Well, she showed him. Let him go guard a harem And him crying poor mouth at her, too Yeah it was really his whole bank roll, living in the Palmer House and tearing off ten dollar tips here and finskies there and telling Eddie that he was looking for a rich wife. Well if his precious little handle didn't heal, he could start looking for a rich husband for himself and compliments of Miss P. Rogers, lately of old Chicago, Ill.
The plane took a dip and her stomach rose.
Whoops! Maybe she shouldn't apply for a stewardess job after all. Looks like rough sailing ahead. But those uniforms did look cute, although she'd bet they strapped your tits down pretty good. Patty Rogers, Girl Stewardess. Call Girl of the Clouds was more like it. Tramp of the Skyways.
She smiled and looked out, passed the wing, down at the rolling mist-shrouded landscape. Blocks of blackness strung with wild criss-crossing necklaces of light. They must be over a city, she thought. Or more likely, a town. Some little hicksville that wreathed itself in neons just so people would notice them from the skies.
Wonder what my little home-burg looks like from the air, she thought. Or even from the ground. It had been a fast five years since she had ridden with a well-crushed cherry between her legs. Wonder what happened to the cherry-crusher, Phil Striker, too? Dear Phil Striker. Oh he had struck her, all right, right smack on her eighteenth birthday when she should have been old enough to know better. Christ, she would never forget that -- it seemed funnier to her as the years went by -- her folks and all of her friends waiting in the living room with the cake and the candles, just busting to yell "Surprise!" while steady-date Striker had her sprawled out in the back seat of his Dodge, lighting her own private candle.
"Patty-baby, Patty-love," he whispered in her ear and in her mouth while his hand was whispering under her slip.
So slick and so smooth, too. His hand had stroked her thigh so many times before that she had gotten used to it, looked forward to that part of their nightly necking when he got tired of tweaking on tiny tits and began to probe and excavate for the real gold. She knew she was probably going to give in to him sooner or later but she planned to bring him around so slowly -- an inch of thigh a week. Why had she suddenly decided to give in that night?
"Patty, patty, patty," he murmured, winding his long hot tongue around hers and his sliding hand reached their last base camp -- the bottom of her panties -- and started to tickle under the lace.
"Patty," he purred. Panties, she thought. Just another quarter inch, a hairline more, and we batten down the hatches for the night.
"I love you, Patty," he murmured and then he was under the edge of the panties and touching her.
It moved her. It trembled her and she clung to him and his hand moved further up, cupping. And then she knew she was going to give in. But why then? Why let him have her that particular night?
Simply because she had held out until she was eighteen? No, but that was part of it. Because she had turned eighteen without even a Happy Birthday from her folks. She thought they had forgotten, forsaken her -- when all the time they were holding their breath in the dark living room waiting for Phil to deliver then-darling daughter. She had let him in because she had felt unloved.
But, oh what a mistake! She could still feel the chill as the cold air touched her bareness and the panties slipped down. Then his hand returned and his hand was warm, caressing. It felt good -- but that was the last time it did. Then she felt skin beginning to stretch, to tear and the pain that rose to her throat -- "Phil, no -- please -- " -- was nothing compared to the searing pain the next moment when he forced his entry.
That pain! That dull blunt pushing pain, then barbs of sharp cutting sparks -- deeper, deeper -- then it was like a thick blade and he was pounding it deeper still, hammering that nail into her flesh.
Oh, God!
There had been blood, of course. And tears. Phil had waited until both had dried before driving her home, explaining, apologetically, he didn't know what got into him. She did not have the same question to ponder.
And then, from the darkness: "Surprise! Surprise!" She cried again then but her mother told everyone it was because she was so happy. Mother used the same excuse, too, when she had cried when her father had kissed her on the forehead, saying, ironically, "Well, now you're a woman, princess."
But she was as far from a woman as she could be. She was a tormented, terrified little girl with pain that reached into her soul. She ran away that same night. To Chicago. To escape. And right into Dan Posner's sympathetic arms which, she soon learned, had hands attached on the bottom and fingers much fatter and rougher than Phil's connected to those hands.
Her father found her, of course. She knew he would. But Chicago was a big place to look for a little girl and it took him five months before he knocked on the right, door. By that time it was too late. Dan answered the door and the funniest scene since Abbott and Costello met the Wolfman was played.
------
Daddy: Is Patty Rogers here?"
Dan: "Yeah gramps, but you'll have to wait a few minutes. She's got another guy in with her now."
Enter Other Guy from Bedroom Left. He is buttoning his fly.
Enter Patty from Bedroom Left. She is wearing loose open robe, towel around neck.
Exit Daddy.
------
* * *
From then on it was just Me and My Shadow and about four guys a night. None of them meant anything to her except the money. And none of them--not even Dan--could make her feel anything. Phil had not only ripped her wide open, he had permanently put her passion into a psychological deep-freeze. She faked the groans and the frenzy well enough to convince most of her partners but she could never convince herself. And the more partners she had, the wider spread the wound, the colder she got until she felt absolutely nothing any more. It was less thrill than a good douche, just a way to earn a buck. And then she didn't even need Dan any more; she could find bellhops like Eddie who supplied her with better-paying suckers and took less of a cut. Just a slice of her now and then.
The jet droned on.
Vegas, she thought. Fun in the Sun. She had enough of a bankroll to enjoy it without having to play at her trade. Plus whatever this little ring would bring. She twisted the ring on her finger and admired it in the cast from the overhead seat lamp. Frankly, it wasn't exactly to her taste. Too gaudy. And the ruby was the same color as that blood she had watched seep into the Palmer House carpet when her last lover had sunk to his knees.
Well, she would sell it if she had to. Until then she had the feeling that it would bring her some luck. Christ knows, she had some coming to her.
* * *
The view from her room at the Gold Dust Hotel encompassed the entire cabana area with its yellow-striped lockers, the pool bar which was constructed to resemble a small covered wagon, the money-sack shaped swimming pool and beyond, miles and miles of yellow sand shimmer in the Nevada sun. She stood on the terrace wearing the gold Bikini that had been part of her two hundred dollar buying spree in the hotel's arcade shops, and thought about diving from there into the crystal blue water.
Patty Rogers, Girl Eagle. No doubt it would make a big splash, she thought, what with all the lobster-colored socialites laid out there on their chaise lounges. Just like an open air cathouse--which was probably an idea that Dan would have given some serious thought to. Well, make way for me, girls. Here comes the ex-queen of you all.
She put on her new yellow beach robe, found her room key under the pile of newly purchased panties and left. The elevator boy leered at her all during the ride down and she thought of telling him that she used his kind for pimps. But she decided it might not to wise to ruin her newly-established social position. The manager had clicked his heels like a Nazi and bowed obediently when she had registered and despite the sleepless look in her eyes, she imagined that she must have looked like class to him. Hell, she asked for the best room in the house. That was reason enough for him to classify her above the common hoi-polloi.
Emerging from the elevator at the basement she walked through the tile passageway and out onto the bright hot pool deck. Weaving through the people stretched out on their sun lounges, she thought she looked even better than the hoi-polloi. There wasn't really a decent looking body among them. Now let them take a look at hers.
She found an empty lounge, shed her robe and beach slippers and yawned and stretched like a small cat. The top of her suit was less than a bra and her small hard breasts jutted from the lame fabric like cannon shells; below it was only a glittering triangle that rode up behind so that she could feel the breeze on the rounds of her buttocks.
Here I am, everyone! she thought gaily, gave a few unnecessary brushes to her short feathery blonde hair and pranced off to the pool.
She wished to hell she knew how to dive. More than anything she wanted to just plunge into that sparkling water and let the coldness envelope her in a single moment. But she barely knew how to swim, decided against jumping in because it would make her look awkward and ridiculous and had to settle for lowering herself into the water via the pool ladder, step by icy step.
Like being goosed by a snow man, she thought as the water level reached the bottom of her suit. Then she dropped in the rest of the way, her skin prickled with the coldness and she began to swim--or rather, dog paddle, to the other side. She reached it in time to see a grinning mahogany face lowering toward her.
"I'm sorry, miss," it said. "But women are required to wear bathing caps in the pool." The face raised; it was connected to a bronze body wearing only white trunks which read Cabana Manager.
"I don't see why," Patty said.
"It's a hotel rule," the cabana manager said.
She lay back, floating on her back and kicked at the water. "Why?" She was feeling kittenish.
"Well, you see because of all the creams and oils women usually wear in their hair. It pollutes the water."
Now she felt insulted. This creep thought she was diseased or something. She kicked harder and the spray spattered his face; but he kept smiling.
"I'm sorry, miss."
"I'll bet you are. Do men have to wear caps, too?"
"No--"
"Do you?"
"No, you see--"
"What about the ton of grease you're wearing on your curly locks? That looks like it might be able to pollute the whole Atlantic."
There was a high-pitched laugh from nearby and Patty thought that a crowd might be listening but she didn't dare look around. She thought she might sink if she did. She was having enough trouble staying afloat and looking calm now.
"I'm sorry, miss," the cabana manager continued flushed now but still dogged. "I'll have to ask you to leave the pool."
"You'll have to make me," Patty said, kicking again and forcing him to back up. She was enjoying her defiant role. Who did these people think they were, trying to push her around? Diseased hair? Pollute the water. Big deal. The only dose she had ever caught in her life was given to her by the president of one of the biggest steel companies in the country.
The cabana manager looked indecisive, torn between going for help or diving into the pool and pulling Patty out himself. He was spared that decision, however, for just then a light green bathing cap flopped into the pool next to Patty. She picked it up before it sank, pulled herself to the edge where she could hold on and looked around, curiously.
A tall stately red-haired woman in a metallic green suit was smiling at her, winking. Patty winked back and feeling that discretion might now be the better part of valor put on the cap, tucking her wet wisps of blonde hair, looked up and stuck out her tongue at the Cabana manager.
He flushed as crimson as any of the tourists and walked away to considerable laughter. Smiling, Patty swam to the other side of the pool, floated on her back for awhile, playing whale, spewing water from her mouth. (She stopped when she remembered about the pollution.) Presently she got bored, paddled back to the scene of her great victory and hoisted herself onto the edge of the pool, pulling off the cap.
"How's the water?" asked the redhead in the green suit.
"Polluted," Patty said. She stood up, pulling the bottom of her suit down where it belonged, walked over to the woman and handed her the cap. "Thanks."
"Glad to do it," the woman said. "I was afraid Johnny was going to dive in and pull you out, otherwise I would have been happy to let you continue insulting him. I was enjoying it."
"That bastard," Patty said. "All he had to do was try to lay a hand on me and I would have held him under until he turned blue."
The woman laughed. "You're a wild little girl, aren't you?"
"Not so wild," Patty said, looking at the woman seriously. She wondered if "wild" meant that she looked like a hooker. Probably. All these society people were the same kind of snob. If you wanted to debate the point this one looked more like a hooker than she did, with her eyebrows slanted like arrows, that red hair twisted in a braid that looked like a big thick you-know-what and those king-size boobs almost popping from the top of her one-piece.
"Here," the redhead said, handing her a towel.
"No thanks. I'd rather let the sun do it." She closed her eyes and leaned back, putting her face up.
"I wouldn't," said the redhead. "The sun is especially strong today and with that water on your skin, you can develop a very bad burn."
"You, too?" Patty said angrily.
"I don't understand," the woman smiled.
"With the rules and the advice. You're just like what's-his-name. Don't I look like I'm old enough to take care of myself?"
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I didn't mean to sound officious. It was just that I noticed that your skin was so fair and I thought that since you had probably just arrived here, you weren't--"
"What about you?" Patty said. "You're as lily-white as I am. Don't tell me that you came here with the pioneers."
"I've been here for several weeks. The fact is that I rarely burn."' Try getting out of the bedroom once in a while, Patty thought. But she said nothing.
"Did you just arrive in Vegas today?" the woman asked, offering a pack of cigarettes.
Patty took one and leaned forward for the light. "This morning," she said.
"Your first time here?"
"Umm-hmm. Why? Does it show?"
"Well, the incident with the cap did reveal a certain naivete," the redhead smiled.
The woman laughed. "Innocence," she said. "What I meant was that it was slightly obvious that you were not used to--ah, how shall I put it tactfully?"
"Don't strain yourself. You mean that I don't look classy enough for you?"
"Oh no. I wasn't talking about myself. I think you're absolutely delightful. I was referring to the way you probably appeared to all the other people here."
"Your friends."
"No, no. I don't know a soul in the entire city. I'm afraid I'm not a very social type of person."
"Yeah. Why would that be?"
"Well." Her voice lowered. "That fact is that I've just recently suffered a divorce."
"What do you mean 'suffered?' Didn't you want ft?"
"Oh I suppose it will turn out to be the best thing in the long run but right now I still am a trifle upset about it. But," she smiled bravely, "I don't think it would be of much interest to talk about it. Everyone is usually carrying around one sort of cross or another. Aren't you?"
"I'm not Catholic, if that's what you mean," Patty said.
The redhead laughed delightedly. "Oh, but you are absolutely charming." she said. "What's your name?"
"Patty. Patty Roger--" she caught herself and remembered the name she had registered by-- "Roberts," she said. "Patty Roberts."
"I'm Saundra French." She offered her hand. "Lately, Saundra Harrison. But I don't suppose that name means anything to you."
"Harrison, Pennsylvania," Patty said.
"That's Harrisburg," Saundra French said, laughing.
Then Patty laughed too.
* * *
From their rocky start, Patty would have never suspected it, but she and Saundra French found themselves getting along fine. They spent the afternoon at Saundra's cabana had, at Saundra's suggestion, Bacardi cocktails brought to them and exchanged derisive comments about the snobbish guests around them. Saundra confined that although she had spent most of her life in the company of Patty's "society," she detested them as much as Patty did. It gave them solid common ground, and later, when Patty admitted that she, too, was travelling alone, Saundra suggested that they do the town that night and "see how the other half are living." Patty agreed since it seemed a good idea to be with someone who knew her way around; she was mildly suspicious of being "taken at clip joints." Also it seemed to minimize the annoyance of stray passes which she was sure would be forthcoming. It would be a lot of trouble to think up fresh insults for all of them--as was her habit. And she certainly wasn't buying or selling any sex tonight. Maybe even for a few nights. Her now-crippled stud from the Palmer House hadn't been any better for her than anyone else in her cold-bedded past but there had been a lot more of him and he had worn her down. The easy, friendly, catty conversation with a compatible woman was just what she needed to relax, unwind and forget that bizarre blood-splattered moment. In short, Saundra French might have been sent by the gods--whichever gods, Patty thought, look out for forlorn prostitutes.
They met in the hotel lobby at seven. Saundra was wearing a white wrap-around dress that contrasted strikingly with her braid of red hair; Patty chose a red strapless that had arrested her attention in the arcade shop window. They were both conscious of the stares they received in the Gold Dust dining room (which, Saundra said, "contrary to old tourist rules, is the best place in town to eat"). The waiter smiled at them with particular beneficence.
"We seem to be making a hit," Saundra said.
"You'd think a town like this has seen it's share of skin."
"It's you they're looking at," Saundra said.
"Oh, come off it," Patty said. "It's quantity that counts. How does it feel to have to hold up a pair like that."
Saundra smiled. "Heavy."
"I'd guess so. But I'd be willing to swap tits with you. I've always wanted to bust a bra."
"You've got lovely breasts. I've always been rather ashamed of mine. They're too big."
"Ill bet your hubby didn't say so."
They did the town that night. When Patty thought of it afterward everything seem to fade into the whirling blur of a roulette wheel spinning, spinning... and finally -stopping. But never on her number, never on her color. And the background music was a weird collage blending the metallic clank of coins galloping down slot machine pockets, the tooth-chattering click of dice dancing across bright felt, the flap of cards being turned over. And all the time her pile of chips diminished, crept down, down, down, was replaced by new chips bearing the mark of a new club and began to sink anew.
They played the wheel at the Golden Nugget, shot craps at the Stardust, played blackjack at the Sands, poker at the Desert Inn, baccarat at El Rancho Vegas. Patty insisted on changing games to change her luck but that didn't work and after a while it didn't matter. There was always a drink at her elbow and Saundra, as sympathetic as a shill, smiling behind her. Quite soon red began to look like black, five like seven, ten and eight added up to twenty-one.
"I think you've had enough," Saundra said finally, still smiling.
Patty didn't know if she meant gambling or liquor. It didn't matter. "One more," she said. They were at the wheel then and she pushed the pile of chips before her onto number twelve.
"Why twelve?" Saundra asked.
She shrugged. "Somebody's birthday, maybe. I've already tried my own and my daddy's and my mommy's."
"Why not try mine?" Saundra suggested. "Why not? What number?"
"Four. March fourth."
"That's tomorrow," Patty said.
"That's today," Saundra said. "It's three A.M."
"Well, Happy Birthday. Four it is." She changed her bet. The wheel was spun--crookedly, it seemed to her; the ball hop-scotched over the grooves, jumped, skipped, rolled and fell into the slot marked eighteen. There were no winners; the croupier raked in the chips.
"Bad luck," Saundra said.
"It's only money," Patty said.
It was not until the next morning that she realized how much money it was. Even then she could not believe it but a count of her finances revealed that she had lost more than three hundred dollars.
She sat down on her bed, feeling dizzy from her hangover and mildly stunned. Three bills, she thought incredulously. At twenty a throw, that represented fifteen bastards she had laid. Except you couldn't look at it that way. It hadn't been her money; it was the stud's. But that didn't make it any the less gone.
And she couldn't exactly remember where. Everything was shrouded in a dense alcoholic fog Only snatches of vivid scenes emerged. They were in one cab and then another. They were watching a showgirl with impossibly perfect breasts dancing with a feather; Saundra said: "How would you like to kiss those?" and she had replied: "I wouldn't mind." But of course that was only a joke, because they both had been drunk.
Then she recalled their erratic stagger through the hotel lobby and the scathing look from the night clerk. Then they were at her door and Saundra said: "Are you sure you're all right?" She had replied: "Never better."
"Well, goodnight then," Saundra had said and then she had reached forward and kissed her. Patty hadn't resisted. She had been too drunk and too surprised. The kiss was long and wet and passionate. Just before they broke, Saundra's tongue had edged between her lips and touched her own tongue. "A birthday kiss," Saundra had said; "Thank you." Then she had left and Patty remembered thinking, "Frenched by Saundra French," giggling, then going inside and falling onto the bed.
She was still trying to separate the real from the imagined when the room phone rang. It was Saundra.
"Good morning," she said.
"Is it?" Patty asked.
"More like afternoon. A quarter to two. I just woke up myself. How do you feel?"
"Rotten."
"Me, too. I'm going to sleep the day away. What about you?"
"Well try anyway. Only cure for a hangover. What are your plans for this evening?"
"I thought I'd rob all those places that robbed me last night."
"Do you need an accomplice? It's still my birthday, you know, and I'd only end up crying if I had to spend it alone. Let me buy you dinner and then we can try our luck again."
"I never turn down a dinner," Patty said. "And I'm just dying to try my luck."
"Meet you at seven in the lobby then."
"Fine," Patty said and hung up.
* * *
They both wore light blue off-the-shoulder dresses that night; but that was the last thing about the evening that Patty found amusing. Saundra, of course, was as charming as usual over dinner, ordered the most expensive dish on the menu for both of them and a bottle of champagne with it but Patty was nervously anxious to get to the tables. She felt a true gambler's compulsion her mind reeled with "hunch numbers" to bet and finally, over their second cup of coffee, she stopped twisting her ring and said: "Let's go, huh? I've got a feeling that if I get to the wheel in the next five minutes, I'm going to win a bundle."
They went to the wheel in the hotel's casino--the only one they could safely reach in five minutes. But as it turned out there was no hurry. Patty bought five hundred dollars worth of fifty dollar chips and her first bet was two chips on red. The wheel spun, slowed, stopped and the ball landed in black. Patty didn't blink. She pushed two more chips out onto red. Again, the wheel said differently.
"Try black this time," Saundra suggested.
"No," Patty said. "It's got to change."
It didn't. Black came up three more times in succession, making a total of five; Patty bet red, three more times in succession, making a total of ten chips or five hundred dollars.
"Short evening," she said after the last spin.
"Oh, I feel terrible," Saundra said.
"So do I. I'm tapped."
"Well, you have some more money upstairs, don't you?"
Patty shook her head. "It's a good thing I paid my hotel bill in advance. Now all I have to worry about is food."
"Surely you can write a check."
"Not so surely. I could write one. But you could play handball with it, too."
"Oh, I really feel terrible about this." Saundra said. "I feel as if it were my fault. If I hadn't suggested it, you might not have played tonight."
"Nuts! I'm a born sucker. Nobody buys like a salesman, they say."
Saundra let that drop. "If you didn't feel it was-- well, I don't know quite how to put it. But in any case, let me lend you some money."
"On what?"
"On our friendship. What else?"
"No dice. I don't take charity. But I'll tell you what you could do. You could lend me something on this ring. I don't know exactly how much it's worth but I'd guess a grand at least. Would you take this as collateral?"
"Of course."
"Good. You can lend me a thousand on it then. Here, take it." She took the ring off.
"Oh that's not necessary."
"Yes, it is. I insist. Otherwise it's no deal."
"Oh, all right." Saundra slipped on the ring. "But only because you've insisted upon it I really don't feel it's necessary."
Saundra then went to the desk and wrote out a check for one thousand dollars which was promptly honored by the hotel's cashier.
"Here," she said, handing the money to Patty. "I hope it will change your luck."
It did--for awhile. They returned to the tables and Patty bet red again and red came up twice in a row. Then it was black, then red, then black again. Then she began to lose track. The casino was filling with tourists, the barman was filling trays as quickly as they were brought to him and there was that always ready drink at her elbow again. Once she looked down and to her surprise, found her glass empty but Saundra obliged and gave Patty hers. There were no clocks in the Gold Dust gaming room and it was impossible for Patty to keep track of her losings, let alone the time. She could only be sure that she was drinking a great deal, that she began to feel progressively better and better, that it seemed at one point that she was winning a great deal, that Saundra kept smiling and smiling and smiling and then suddenly she wasn't winning so much any more but she still felt fine.
Presently she turned to say something to Saundra and noticed that they and the croupier were the only ones left in the casino.
"What time's it?" Patty asked.
"Almost five," Saundra said. "You getting tired?"
Patty nodded.
"Bets please," said the croupier. He didn't sound tired.
Patty pushed a pile on red. The ball landed in black. The croupier raked in her chips. "That's it," Patty said.
They had to shake the cashier awake before he would exchange their chips for currency. He handed Patty a small pile of bills. She put them in her purse without counting. He handed Saundra an even smaller bundle.
"You lose?" Patty asked.
"Just a little."
"Me, too. I think. I don't want to count it now."
"Don't. Let's go to bed."
Patty thought nothing of the phrase then. They went upstairs and Saundra said, "I'll walk with you to your room. You look a little wobbly." Patty felt wobbly; she didn't object. She opened the door and Saundra came in, too.
"It's a mess," Patty said for no reason, for she didn't understand why she should be entertaining guests at all. But she was too tired to care. She fell on the bed and stretched out, spread-eagled.
"I'm too tired to undress," she announced.
Saundra smiled. "Let me help you," she said.
Patty didn't answer. She just closed her eyes and wished herself asleep. Vaguely, she felt herself being undressed. Her shoes dropped off; then Saundra was pulling at her, rolling her over, unzipping her dress. She felt limp; she smiled. The dress came off, followed by the slip. Her stockings were unhooked from her garter belt and slowly rolled down her legs.
"Don't tear them," Patty mumbled. "They're good nylons." She heard Saundra laugh.
"Up," Saundra said, lifting her. She didn't resist. Her garter belt was pulled from her. "Over," Saundra said. She rolled over on her stomach. She heard the' snap-snap-snap as her bra was removed and her panties slipped down her legs. Over again," Saundra said. Patty rolled over onto her back again, then she wondered why. She was naked; there was nothing else to be taken off.
Then she felt something soft touch her breast.
She opened her eyes. Saundra was kneeling beside the bed, kissing her. She closed her eyes, opened them again. Saundra was still there, of course. She didn't need her sight to tell her that. Saundra's lips were rubbing greedily over the nipples of her breasts; now her mouth opened and her tongue touched at the rising of flesh.
A dyke, Patty thought vaguely. The thought was not a revelation; it was a simple value judgment, a statement of fact--as if someone had asked her what was that object on the desk and Patty answered "A book."
A dyke. Somehow the thought amused her. She felt as if she were watching the scene from a distance, crouched somewhere in the corner of the ceiling, impersonally watching a fully dressed redhead woman kneeling beside a blonde nude one and lovingly kissing her breasts. She felt a spectator's interest and not even a spectator's emotion. The touch of Saundra's lips and tongue against the now-hardening nipples of her breasts was pleasant. That was all. Remotely, vaguely pleasant. The sensation was not enough to disturb her; nor was it enough to arouse her. But she thought that some suitable comment should be made, that it was expected of her. She could not think of any.
"Hey," she said.
Saundra looked up and smiled. "Hey yourself," she said. Then she bent back to her task, now cupping the breasts with her long needle-thin fingers, squeezing them, then biting gently at one nipple, then the other.
Patty felt a sharp twinge of pain. Still nothing to get excited about, however she thought; nothing to get disturbed about either. It was the first time she had experienced any sort of love with another woman and yet she felt as detached about it as if she were in a barber's chair having her hair cut. But something should definitely be done about it she thought. So she sat up and blinked.
"I--I--" Saundra stood up and began to undress. "I know what you're going to say, dear. Please, don't. I won't ask you to do a thing. Just enjoy it. I'll make it good for you. I promise."
Now- what do you say to that? Patty asked herself. She was just a little far along the road from virginity to try "What kind of a girl do you think I am?" she was also just a little too far along in this particular relationship--stretched out naked on the bed her breasts already kissed --to protest her lack of inclination. She was also too tired and too drunk. She lay back and watched Saundra undress and waited.
What the hell? she thought. I've tried everything else. Maybe this is a kick. In any case, it would be pleasant to have someone else do all the work for a change. She closed her eyes and waited, hoping it would be worth the sleep she was losing.
* * *
It was. It was better than she expected it to be-- although less than she really hoped for. Saundra finished undressing and then turned out the light. Patty didn't need to see to know what was happening. She didn't need eyes to know that Saundra had great soft breasts tipped by hard tickling nipples -- Saundra's breasts rubbing against her own told her that. Neither did she need vision to know that the redhead had strong muscular thighs. When they squeezed together on her own thighs she knew that. And none of her six senses were adequate to describe the sensations when Saundra began to kiss her seriously, with passion and little tenderness.
Saundra started at her face, rained tiny kisses over Patty's forehead, nose, cheeks, mouth. Then she pressed their mouths together and her tongue was a writhing serpent, a darting flame. Her hands gripped Patty's breasts tightly, desperately, catching the nipples between her thin bony fingers and squeezing them with a quick scissor motion. The nipples rose, extended and Saundra's mouth was on them, her teeth grating the rubbery flesh. Her hand slipped up Patty's thighs in a long cool caress, stopped at the juncture of the thighs for one firm, trembling squeeze and then suddenly, as if she were galvanized, the redhead slid down and her mouth was where her hand had been and she was kissing fervently, feverishly, hard moist kisses planted like brands on the flesh...
Finally the steadily controlled intensity could no longer be maintained. Saundra tore at Patty, and kissed and kissed wildly, madly, frantically, her head bobbing burrowing...
Patty squirmed a little in genuine passion. Now that, she thought, was pretty good.
* * *
Saundra said something but Patty could not un-stand the words. She turned and mumbled something incoherent in answer.
The redhead was lying beside her then, one arm beneath Patty's head, the other hand resting lightly on her breast. She moved and kissed Patty on the mouth.
"You didn't hear me, did you, dear?" she said.
"Uh-uh," Patty said.
"I asked if you wanted to do anything to me." Eyes closed, Patty shook her head. "Are you sure?"
"Ummm," Patty said.
"I'm supposed to be very good," Saundra said, smiling. "At least I've been told that. There's a saying among the -- among women like us, that redheads are the sweetest. Natural redheads, this is," she added.
Patty didn't answer.
"Don't you even want to try," Saundra said quietly. "Uh-uh."
"What about my breasts? You said you like my breasts." She took Patty's limp hand and placed it on her left breast. "Touch," she said.
Patty's hand remained limp.
"All right," Saundra said with a smile. "Maybe in the morning. Or tomorrow night. We have all the time in the world now, you know."
Patty didn't know. She rolled out of the circle of Saundra's arms and faced the other way. She didn't think she'd want to do anything tomorrow or the next day or ever. All she wanted to do was sleep.
She slept.
When she awoke in the morning, Saundra was gone. At first her only thought was relief. Then when her wits returned to her and the haze began to clear she remembered the night in detail and she decided she had best call Saundra immediately and clear up any misconceptions the woman might have about her.
She wasn't a dyke. Nor was she a dyke's lover It was a one-night stand, mostly because she was drunk. She called the desk and asked to be connected with Miss French's room.
The clerk told her that Miss French had checked out that morning.
Well, I guess that clears up any misconceptions, Patty thought. But she felt mildly annoyed that she had been deprived of playing the injured party. It had been a long time since she had been seduced...
Then she remembered the ring and the thousand dollars she had borrowed on it. It was definite that she would never see Saundra again and she wondered if she had made a good deal or a bad one. She found her purse and counted the money she had left. Six hundred dollars. She couldn't remember if that was all the cashier had finally given her or if Saundra had stolen some --perhaps taken a hundred or so as penalty for her lack of participation.
The hell with it, she decided. Six hundred was still plenty if she stayed away from the tables.
* * *
By ten-thirty that night she had lost the six hundred at the wheel. By eleven she was earning fifty of it back, writhing under the sweating form of a frenetic San Francisco businessman.
Her short life as a member of "society" was over; she was a working girl again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saundra French left Las Vegas at ten-thirty on the morning after her tete-a-tete with Patty Rogers. Oddly enough, neither Patty nor the ring played any part in her decision to leave.
Of the first she felt certain that a reasonable amount of time would have seen the development of a 'mutually satisfying relationship.' She believed in the philosophy (so common to homosexuals of either sex) that the seeds of homosexuality were present even in the most aggressively heterosexual person. The fact that Patty had allowed herself to be seduced--even though she did not evince much pleasure during the love-making--was proof enough to her that the girl had an 'interest' in lesbianism and such an inclination in the expert hands of someone like Saundra was all that was necessary.
Given the time, Saundra felt sure that Patty could be excited to the point when she would return kisses and caresses with the same ardor with which they were given and that she would enjoy playing the aggressor as much as Saundra did.
Concerning the ring--Saundra had not thought about it since she had slipped it on her finger the evening before. She had no idea what it might be worth and cared less. Money was of no consequence to her. She continued to wear it--on the second finger of her right hand--simply because she thought it attractive and, perhaps, for the subconscious reason of sentimentality. It was a reminder of--what to her at least-- had been an extremely pleasant evening.
The reason she left Las Vegas then was far removed from financial motives but not from motives of love. It involved a message she had found under her door when she had returned to her room at eight-thirty that morning-after. She had left Patty's room in order to spare them both that usually-awful confrontation and guilt in the gray dawn when both the heat of passion and the fog of alcohol diminished. The message she had found was in the hand of the hotel night clerk and said simply that a long distance call for her had come through at two that morning and that she should contact Operator IS in New Orleans.
Saundra did not know anyone in New Orleans and in her present mood of depression (which always followed a one-sided love match) she was inclined to let the call go until the afternoon. But on the chance that it might have something to do with her recent divorce --perhaps a snag in the alimony payments--she decided to settle the matter then. It was eight thirty-five when she put through the call and it took a full fifteen minutes before the open records of New Orleans Operator IS (who had gone off duty at seven) could be located and Saundra's caller contacted. During that time Saundra smoked two cigarettes and fretted that her caller might possibly be Brad Harrison, her ex-husband, in another of his desperate reconciliation attempts.
At any other time the thought might have amused her. Even when faced with her blatant admission, Brad had never accepted the fact that she had become a lesbian, that she preferred the attentions of women--almost any women--to his masculine charms, that she would never be able to love him again (if, indeed, she had ever loved him at all) and that she desired nothing more than to be free of him forever and have the license to pursue her erotic bent. In an effort to show her how broad-minded he was, in an effort to show her that he was going to stand by her during this "illness," he had insisted that she accept alimony.
"At least it'll remind you of me occasionally," he had said, much too dramatically. "And it'll let you know that in case you want to come back, Sandy, I'll be waiting."
That she knew was the veriest crapola. In the first place he had offered the alimony because it was expected of him, because it was the correct and right thing to do (and Bradley Harrison always did the correct thing) and because it made him feel magnanimous and martyred in the face of this great rejection. In the second place, he would hardly be waiting for her should she ever decide to come back since Bradley Harrison was a sucker for the first good-looking woman who'd let him press his leg between her thighs and it was a dead certainty that he would be remarried within six months.
At ten minutes to nine, Saundra's room phone rang. She picked up the receiver and heard the operator say: "We have your call to New Orleans ready. Go ahead, please."
"Hello," Saundra said, uncertainly. But as soon as she heard the voice on the other end answer, all her doubts and thoughts about Brad vanished.
"Hello, Frencher," said a hoarse female voice. "Do you know who this is or do you want three guesses?"
"Billie!" Saundra shrieked.
"Right the first time," said the woman. "Surprised to hear from me?"
"Of course. I thought you were in Havana or some outrageous place like that. You told me that--"
"Yeah, yeah, I know what I told you. But Havana got a little hot even for me and my luscious little black-haired bitch, Carmelita, decided that she had an itch someplace where even my tongue couldn't reach. So she threw me over and for some brown bastard who used to astound the tourists upstairs over the Shanghai Theater when there were tourists in that rotten Pearl of the Antilles. Little Superman, they used to call the stud. Get the picture?"
Saundra laughed.
"I thought that would amuse you," Billie said. "Anyway, they didn't want me in their goddamn country and they wouldn't let me out. It cost me every cent I had to buy a seat on this plane full of refugees and even then the seat turned out to be on the pilot's hand."
Saundra was laughing uncontrollably.
"I see you haven't lost your sense of humor," Billie said. "I suppose it would break you up if I told you that right this minute I haven't got twenty cents to my name and I'm lying jaybird naked on a bed in the cheapest hotel in N.O. with my finger up my you-guessed-it."
Saundra stopped laughing. "Do you want me to wire you money," she asked.
"That was the general idea when I called last night but I think I just got a hotter flash. You got anything really tasty waiting for you where you are."
Saundra thought of Patty then. "No," she said. "Nothing really good, Why?"
"Why don't you come visit with me for awhile then? I'm still the same old Billie if that still means something to you."
"It does," Saundra said.
"I thought it might. You never grow too old to love your mother, do you?"
Saundra found the analogy slightly repulsive She had not seen her mother for years and had no desire to do so. She was a half-senile old invalid who was rocking away her life on the porch of a California sanitarium. "Where are you living?" she asked Billie.
"It's called the Lorenzo. Right in the heart of N.O. Don't forget to bring your checkbook."
"I won't."
"And old Billie will pay off in the usual tender. Very tender," she added. "How soon can you get here?"
"I'm not sure. By late afternoon, I guess. I don't know when the next flight leaves."
"In that case, I'll just go back to sleep. I'm just about starving but I don't have enough money for food."
"Should I bring you something to eat?"
"Just yourself, dear," Billie said. "Just yourself." So she left Las Vegas at ten-thirty on the morning after her tete-a-tete with Patty Rogers.
* * *
The jet's flying time from Las Vegas to New Orleans was three hours and fifteen minutes. The stewardess announced that over the public address microphone immediately after the take-off. She also mentioned that there would be a time zone difference of one hour if the passengers cared to set their watches forward now.
Saundra cared to. She adjusted the gold Omega on her wrist. It had been an anniversary present from Brad. Their first anniversary. He had also observed the tradition of paper on that occasion by giving her a check for one thousand dollars. "Let's start a tradition of our own," he had said. "Next year, it'll be a check for two thousand. And the year after, it'll be three. Let's see if we can get to a hundred grand, sweetheart." Then he had kissed her.
They hadn't made it to a hundred grand. They hadn't even made it to five. Two months after their fourth anniversary Brad had to go to Denver on a business trip and she was alone in San Francisco.
She went to a waterfront bar. It wasn't a smart place to go alone but she wasn't thinking in smart terms then. The only requirement she had was to be in a place where Brad's friends wouldn't be, so she told the cabbie to take her someplace cheap and crummy. He was a good cabbie; he took her to the cheapest, crummiest place in San Francisco. It was called the Ship Ahoy: wood tables, wood chairs, an uneven planked floor, no booths.
Billie was there.
At first Saundra had thought she was a man. The short dark hair, the broad shoulders, the poplin jacket, the dungarees--almost anyone would have thought Billie was male. Until you noticed the giant pendulum breasts swinging bra-less under the jacket.
Billie had offered to buy her a drink. She had accepted. Why not? Then she bought Billie a drink. They talked; about nothing important. Billie never asked what a woman dressed like Saundra was doing in a hole like the Ship Ahoy; Saundra didn't ask if Billie was a lesbian or going to a costume party. Both seemed to know the answers without asking the questions. Both, as it turned out, were right.
They went to Billie's room and made love. Saundra had not known what to expect so she was neither surprised nor disappointed. The first thing Billie had done was take off her own clothes. Her breasts were huge. Great golden teardrops with thick pink fleshy nipples. Her waist was narrower than Saundra would have guessed; her hips were wider; her legs were nicely curved. She had come to Saundra. embraced her, kissed her and rubbed her nakedness against Saundra's clothes. It had worked magic. Suddenly Saundra wanted to be naked, too. She held the kiss until they both glowed hot with passion, then stepped back and began to undress quickly. Billie watched, smiling, from the bed.
It had been good for her from the start. She was not merely a woman being loved; she was also a woman loving. Billie taught her what to do and a moment later she was doing it to Billie. Neither of them were passive; both were the aggressors. They embraced each other and rubbed their naked bodies together. Billie fondled her breasts and kissed them lovingly and then Saundra returned the compliment. She matched Billie kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, bite for bite until at last they were lying at each other's feet, gripping each other's thighs and, with heads buried, thrashing and devouring the wild tides of lust that rocked them.
There was no more Brad Harrison for her after that. There was only Billie -- That had been in November. Now it was March. Now Brad was gone and now Billie was back.
* * *
She knocked rapidly on the door of Room Eleven of the Lorenzo Hotel.
"Go away," called a sleepy voice. "Billie? It's Sandy."
A minute's silence, then the rustle of sheets, the pad of footsteps, the click of the lock, the door opening and there was Billie, exactly as Saundra had remembered her: naked.
"Welcome," Billie said smiling crookedly. "Come on in. I feel a draft from somewhere."
Saundra entered, grinning foolishly. The room held one sagging bed, a straight-back chair, a dresser and a sink. A single window was open facing the window of the adjacent hotel, three feet away.
"It's not much but the rents high," Billie said She crossed to the bed, stretched out on it, her head resting on the pillow, her knees raised, her thighs open. "Got a cigarette?" she asked.
Saundra lit two.
"What time is it?" Billie asked.
"About two, I guess."
"Isn't science wonderful, though? At eight-thirty this morning the phone rings and I'm talking to you and you're a couple of thousand miles away. Then I hang up, go back to sleep and when I wake up again five hours later, here you are in person."
"And here you are in person," Saundra said. Her eyes roamed over Billie's body. "You look fine."
"I look terrible. I put on about twenty pounds with that greasy Spic food. My little black-haired bitch said she liked me better that way. And speaking of her, look what she did to me." She cupped her left breast with both hands and squeezed it so that the nipple extended. "Almost chewed the tip off," Billie said. "She had teeth like razors, that little slut."
Saundra forced herself to look away from the wounded breast. She felt warm. She inhaled on her cigarette and blew the smoke ceilingward.
"But tell me about you," Billie said. "Been getting enough?"
"Some," Saundra said. "Never enough." she smiled.
"What happened after I left? Who did you pick up with?"
"Oh, no one and everyone."
"Sally?"
"For a time."
"No good?"
"Oh, it was okay." She remembered Sally, a tall sunken-chested redhead, who liked to play games with matches. Saundra had gotten out before things got too hot. "I stayed with Bonnie for a while too."
"Some ass on that one," Billie said. "I could keep myself happy for hours just patting her ass sometimes. But, of course, that didn't keep her happy. She's another one who'll tear you open if you give her a chance. She doesn't know her own strength."
"I found out," Saundra said.
"And now you're free again."
"Just another gay divorcee."
"Gay as ever, I hope," Billie said. "Take off your clothes and let me have a look at you."
Saundra stood up, started to unbutton her suit jacket. "The window's open," she said.
"Leave it," Billie said. "If a broad is watching maybe she'll join us. If it's a man, I hope he gets so hot he beats his thing off."
Saundra smiled. She took her jacket and her blouse. She unsnapped her bra and her breasts swelled out like blossoming white flowers.
"Still the best pair," Billie said. "Come here."
Saundra sat down on the side of the bed. Billie reached across, slipped her arm around Saundra's waist and nuzzled her mouth to Saundra's breast. She kissed gently.
Saundra felt the desire rising within her. It was like the first time with Billie again. The shabby room was the same as Billie's room near the Ship Ahoy. It had been so long since Saundra had felt completely satisfied that it was as if she were again virgin in the ways of lesbian love. And once more Billie was naked and she was clothed. All of the elements were there, the ingredients which, for no reason, ignited her passion.
Billie's lips pulled at her nipple and the fleshy Up responded and grew.
"Still the best," Billie murmured.
Saundra's eyes closed and her hands groped for the other. She touched Billie's breasts and caressed its weighty firmness.
"Undress me," she whispered gently.
"Ummm," Billie said. And without leaving Saundra's breast, she undressed her. The skirt fell to the floor the garter belt unsnapped and fell, the stockings slipped down Saundra's legs, the panties.
Then Saundra rolled over on top of her, pressing her mouth against Billie's giant soft breasts.
"Still the best," Billie murmured. "Still the best."
Then Saundra could no longer bear the delicious agonies of the preliminaries. She kissed Billie's breasts passionately, slipped down to the soft warm mounds of stomach, down to the golden flanks and then she was lost, lost to her own passion, blinded and dizzied by her own terrible need and she kissed, a prisoner to her own frantic desires.
"Love me too," she moaned. "Please!"
But Billie only stroked her head, stroked and patted it gently as a mother would caress an infant. "Please," Saundra moaned.
Billie laughed. Then, at the last moment, she grabbed Saundra's ankle and jerked her around to her. And, without preliminaries, she gave passion and pleasure for passion and pleasure received.
"Ohhhhhh!" Saundra purred and burned gratefully with the flames until they died.
"How did you find me?" Saundra asked later while they were eating in a restaurant. "I called your ex."
"Brad?" Saundra said, surprised. "Unless you've been married more than once."
"What did he say?"
"He said that the divorce had gone through and that the last he heard you were in Vegas lapping up sun--and everything else."
"He said that?"
"Just about. After he found out who I was--and it seems that you gave him quite an earful about me, dear. I'm not sure I'm pleased about that--"
"I only told him--"
"Never mind what you told him. Are you interested in what he said to me?"
"Yes. Go on."
"Thank you. Anyway, after he found out who I was, he said, in his most masculine tone of voice 'Tell me, Mr. Billie, just what is it that you can give to Sandy that I can't? What is it that you do to her that I don't know about?' 'Can't you guess?' I asked him. 'But I've got something extra,' he said, very superiorly. 'I know.' I said to him. 'And that's just what Sandy doesn't want.' Then I hung up." She looked up at Saundra for approval; there was none in the redhead's eyes.
"Oh," was all she said.
"I thought you'd be pleased," Billie said, sarcastically. "Still feel the old twinges now and then, huh? Just like my little Cuban bitch."
"No, no, I don't," Saundra said. "It's just that--"
"It's just that you think it might be nice to be able to swing both ways, isn't that it?"
"I never said that!"
"You don't have to say it. I can see it on your face. Sometimes on those dark nights, you get the old itch for about ten inches of good solid--"
"No!" Saundra said. "It's not true. I despise it. I despise it as much as you do."
"Now whoever said I despised it," Billie said, grinning. "Just because I never mentioned it to you doesn't mean that I don't go out and get my ashes raked occasionally. Just why do you think I liked to hang around the old Ship Ahoy? Certainly not because there was any dyke trade around there. You know for yourself that's strictly a sailor's hangout."
"I don't believe you," Saundra said. "You're lying just to annoy me Tell me it's not true."
"I cannot tell a lie," Billie said. "Think about it for awhile. Just what can a broad give you that a guy can't? Plus, as Brad mentioned, that pointed little extra."
"No," Saundra said. "It's not true. You always told me you hated men."
"And how do you know I don't tell my men that I hate women?"
"You don't. You couldn't."
Billie only smiled.
The issue, however, was not settled there. They took a cab out to the airport where Saundra had left her luggage and on the ride back, Billie said. "Have you ever tried being a man. dear?"
"What do you mean?" Saundra asked.
"Just what I said. Have you ever tried making love to a woman the way a man does?"
"I don't understand. You mean--"
"You know what I mean. With something between your legs besides wind."
The cabbie turned around and stared at them. Saundra blushed but Billie only smiled.
"We'll talk about it later," Billie said. "But you think .about it in the meantime."
Saundra thought about it and decided that Billie was torturing her in order to re-establish dominance in their relationship. Billie had had it at the start, of course, even though they made love as equals, by nature of her experience in the subterranean world of the abnormal. But as Saundra had become more expert and more familiar with the others who peopled Billie's world, it was often she who was chosen above Billie if a choice by a desirable third girl was to be made. Often this difficulty was resolved by Billie's suggestion that they "make a lovely threesome"; but on the times when Saundra and the other walked off leaving Billie alone, Saundra could feel the girl's enmity. Billie's departure had broken off their relationship at a time when the balance of power--even in their own love-making-- had definitely begun to swing toward Saundra. It was Saundra who played the queen to Billie's slave. Saundra who gave the instructions for their passion-play; Saundra who requested that Billie kiss her here, touch her there--and it was Billie who passively begun to obey those requests.
Their months apart had quite obviously changed all that. Saundra had had her conquests and Billie had had hers and now they met again as equals. But that situation could not endure long. Saundra was now experienced enough in lesbian love to know that every relationship had its dominant and subservient partner. "Even though the difference might be slight, there was always one who led and one who followed. In her short affair with Patty Rogers, it was Saundra who had taken her own pleasure and Patty, although the recipient and not the giver of every caress, had been the passive member. With Billie now, however, the role of aggressor was up for battle.
She thought about their love-making that afternoon. It was she who had come to New Orleans at Billie's request; it was she who had undressed at Billie's instructions and although it was Billie who had made the first move by kissing her breast, it was she who had begun the first serious love play and at the end it was she who had begged Billie to return the affection.
Billie's mention of Brad and the planting of the seed of doubt as to her own bi-sexual inclinations was, not. Saundra was sure, just another attempt to achieve domination in their new relationship. The casual reference to the male form of love-making was still another ploy which Saundra was certain would come to a head very quickly. She resolved to be ready when it did.
The cab arrived at the Lorenzo and Saundra said, "Why don't you go upstairs and get your things. I'D wait here. Then we can find some decent hotel to live in."
Surprisingly, Billie replied: "No. I've decided I want to stay here."
"But why?"
Billie shrugged. "I've grown to like the place." she said. "It's crummy but it's home. I've never felt at ease in good hotels. That's more your speed."
"We'll talk about it inside," Saundra said. She paid the cabbie who locked at the money as he had looked at them--with complete distaste.
Up in Billie's room, Saundra said: "Now let's get this straight. Are you trying to tell me that you don't want us to live together?"
"I never said that," Billie said. "I just said that I'm staying here. If you want to stay here, too, fine. If you don't that's okay with me also. I just don't want you to feel that I'm using you for your money."
"And at the same time you don't want me to feel that I'm buying you. That's it, isn't it?"
"You read it anyway you like, sweetheart. But old Billie is staying right here."
Saundra looked at her steadily. She knew what she would do, of course. She should say goodbye right then and leave. She should walk out and write Billie out of her life forever. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to do it. The reason, she knew, was not too difficult to figure. Despite their bickering and contest of wills, despite the arguments which Saundra knew from the past would be a very regular thing, despite Billie's slovenliness, her infidelity and her occasional variance from the ingenious in lovemaking to the frankly revolting, despite all that, Billie was still the best lover Saundra had ever known. When Billie kissed her breasts, they throbbed with heat; when Billie touched her, she trembled and when Billie rubbed her warm body against hers it was the beginning of the end of the world; it was heaven and hell; it was agony and ecstasy and the only real delirium of passion she had ever known.
That was why she would not leave.
"I'll stay here too, then," she said, with a smile to lighten it, to half-disguise the effect of the victory Billie had won. "That is if you don't mind."
"I don't," Billie said "You might find it a little crummy considering what you're used to, though "
"I'll manage," Saundra said. "I guess I'd better go down and register at the desk, have them send my bags up to the room next door."
"If it's open," Billie said.
"Yes, of course. If it's open," Saundra said. "You wouldn't happen to know if it's open or not, would you?"
"How would I know that?"
"I just thought you might. I just thought it might be rented to one of the men to whom you found yourself attracted so suddenly."
Billie's eyes narrowed "You think I'm kidding about wanting a man's love, don't you?"
"I have no idea," Saundra said coldly. "I don't pretend to understand you."
"Well you'd better try, sweetheart. Because if you're planning on sleeping with me, you're going to have to do things that you never dreamed you'd do before."
"Oh?" Saundra said icily.
"Oh," Billie said. "And you can close your mouth, lover-girl. Because it doesn't have anything to do with what I'm planning for you."
"We'll see," Saundra said.
"Oh, won't we, though!" Billie retorted.
* * *
The desk clerk told Saundra that the room on either side of Billie's room were vacant. She could have her choice. Saundra said either one was fine and registered.
She was still annoyed and angry. Her attempt to recoup after the shame of having to admit that she needed Billie had been far from completely satisfying. And to top it off, here she was stuck in this roach-infested hovel. She debated a revenge by going out to dinner without Billie. Billie had said that she had no money, which was probably true, and maybe the hungry wait of an hour or so until Saundra returned would teach her a good lesson.
But Saundra decided against that. Billie had too much pride and would only take her own brand of revenge by refusing to sleep with her that night. That would completely defeat Saundra and make her entire trip to New Orleans seem worthless. No, it was obvious that Billie held the vital strings and Saundra saw herself faced with no reasonable choice. She would just have to go along with Billie -- for awhile, at least.
After showering, she dressed and knocked on Billie's door.
To her surprise, the other greeted her pleasantly. "Oh, you're ready so soon. Christ, I'm sorry. I'll be ready in a minute."
"No hurry," Saundra said, only too willing to return to a even friendship.
They outdid each other with pleasantries at dinner. Billie suggested an excellent French restaurant in the heart of the old city and though it was impossible for her to pay for Saundra's dinner, she more than compensated for that by ordering -- in fluent French -- for her "guest." They had two drinks before dinner, a bottle of wine with the meal and a drink after. The conversation carefully avoided any mention of the afternoon's argument; Billie recounted the more humorous aspects of her Cuban trip, Saundra found herself laughing delightedly and quite soon they were behaving like old friends again.
After dinner they went to The Feather and Fan Club.
"The best looking strippers in the world," Billie said. "If you happen to be interested in seeing a woman's naked body."
"I am," Saundra said.
"I thought you might be," Billie said. But pleasantly. "So am I."
The strippers were just average, Saundra thought, but their performances were made tolerable but Billie's lewd comments whispered in her ear. "There's a rumor that Rita is a lez. I'll ask her over to the table if you're interested."
"It might be fun," Saundra said.
Rita, piston-hipped and big-breasted; wrapped in her stage cloak, joined them after her number. She was a wide-faced woman, about thirty, with full lips and arrogant dark eyes.
"It's not often I get to sit with ladies in this dive," she said. "I won't take advantage of you," she smiled. "Just Scotch," she told the waiter.
"We enjoyed your show," Billie said.
"Did you?" Her eyes flashed from Billie's face to Saundra's. "How come you didn't bring guys to watch it with you? Or don't you like guys?"
"Us?" Billie said. "We're as straight as you are."
"And how straight is that?" Rita asked, smiling. She looked at Saundra. "Don't you talk?" she asked.
"We understand you're a dyke," Saundra said. Her nerve amazed her; it must be the liquor, she thought.
Rita laughed shortly. "That's what a lot of people understand," she said. "Maybe it's true, maybe it's not. For you, beautiful, I think any woman would be a dyke." She turned to Billie. "For you, I'm not so sure," she said.
Billie appeared not to be injured. They all laughed. "Are you open for propositions?" Billie asked seriously. - Rita shook her head. "No. I've got a little girl who keeps me happy, Why? Are you pimping for your friend here?"
"We're together," Saundra said. "Oh. I see," Rita said. "Then you wanted to play threesies, is that it?"
"That's it," Billie said.
Rita smiled. "I wish I could," she said almost wistfully. "But this little girl would kill me. I like it better with three to tell you the truth but -- ah, what's the sense in talking. I'm almost a married woman. Come see me in a few weeks if you're still in town. Maybe then." The waiter finally brought her drink; she downed it quickly and stood up. "Enjoy the show," she said. "Stay for my second one. I'll make you drool." She winked at Saundra and left.
She didn't make them drool -- although she danced as though she was. At the finale, when she was down to her small star-shaped pasties and G-string, she stole the eyeglasses from the leaning face of a drunk at ringside, tucked them in her G-string and made him retrieve them with his teeth. It broke up the house, amused Saundra but left Billie cold.
"Nothing compared to Havana," she said. "At the places there the girls peel down to nothing, the guys peel down to nothing and then they turn out the lights so that the customers can peel down to nothing It turned my little Cuban witch on like an electric wire. Before I had a chance to look around for her when the lights went out, I felt her on the floor by my feet, rooting around under my skirt." She smacked her lips descriptively.
Saundra felt a pang of envy. But then she thought: "I've got Billie now. She's here now with me. And later we'll go up to the room and . .
They hit two more strip clubs and another bar before they returned to the Lorenzo. Saundra was feeling loose and dizzy but Billie showed no signs of intoxication. They mounted the hotel steps in silence, individually claimed their keys from the desk clerk and walked up the one flight of stairs without saying a word. When Billie stopped before her room, Saundra felt her heart pounding. The woman turned and Saundra had an agonizing fear that she was going to say Goodnight.
But, instead: "Coming in?" Billie asked.
They entered. Billie left the light off and Saundra heard her beginning to undress. She started to undress, also.
"I want it to be different tonight," Billie said. "How?"
"Well, we're not children any more and to tell you the truth I get a little bored with the preliminaries. Let's be honest about it and to hell with the subtleties. We're both dykes so we might well face up to it. Okay?"
"Okay," Saundra said. "What do you want us to do?"
"Well first I'll do anything you want me to do. And then you do what I want you to do. All right?"
"All right," Saundra said, a bit uncertainly.
"But I mean anything," Billie emphasized. "Anything at all. Do you promise?"
"I promise," Saundra said.
She thought she could see Billie smile although that was impossible for the only light was the diffused beam of the streetlamp which showed through the open window.
"You get your wish first," Billie said. They were both naked then and Billie stepped back and let Saundra lay down on the bed. "Your wish is my command," Billie whispered. "Tell me what you want me to do."
Saundra stretched out on the bed. She pillowed her head with her hands, raised one knee and whispered: "Kiss me. Kiss me everywhere."
Billie did.
And it was as good for Saundra as she had prayed it would be. It was perfect. It was paradise. The passion grew within her at every kiss of Billie's lips to her body, grew steadily. And then, she gripped tightly to the sheets to restrain herself and control the wild throbbing of her body -- and then, she no longer restrained herself and gave herself to the tempo and the ecstasy built and grew and reached a crest and every nerve in her body was on fire and she was a mad animal in the throes of insane passion and Billie fanned the flames until the pleasure was unendurable and Saundra twined about her in a paroxysm of desire and then it was as if the earth had split wide open and she was torn apart with it, as if her body was rent and racked with quivering spasms of delirious sensation. And then... too soon... oh, much too soon... it was over.
Billie waited a decent interval before she said, "Your turn."
Saundra was still breathing heavily her skin still hot. "What do you want me to do?" she asked, breathless.
"First get up and turn on the light," Billie said. Saundra obeyed.
"In the top drawer of the dresser," Billie said taking her place on the bed, "you'll find a funny little thing with a strap attached. Put it on."
Saundra crossed to the dresser and found the instrument. She regarded it curiously.
"The strap goes around your waist," Billie said. "Haven't you ever seen one before?"
"No."
"Tsk, tsk. Such innocence. It's a dildo, dear That's right, around your waist."
Saundra, still dizzy with her own passion, had no idea what she was doing as she slipped the instrument on. Then when she understood.
"No," she said. "I -- "
"Yes, you will," Billie said. "You promised dear, remember? You had your little moment, now I want mine. Come over here."
Saundra crossed to the light.
"No, leave it on," Billie said. "I want to watch you."
Saundra came over to the bed. Billie was smiling up at her. "You remember how," Billie said. "The way Brad used to take you. Come on now. Take me."
She could only remember the momentary revulsion.
The heaving of her stomach. Then all was lost in an enveloping dizziness. She was pressed against Billie, and she was rocking, sinking, rising and falling to a tempo that was not her rhythm and to a passion that was not her desire, feeling only as if she were an extension of the instrument, that she was being led by it as it was used, faster now, faster... and in the bright light she looked at Billie's face, distorted, and saw that the woman was laughing at her.
* * *
At last it was over. Billie pushed her off, rose, put on her robe and went to the door.
"Turn off the light, please," Saundra said weakly.
Billie turned, grinned and turned off the light.
Then she lay alone and cold in the dark and in the blackness of her soul. She must leave, she decided. Tomorrow she must leave and never see Billie again. She felt shamed and disgraced to the core of her being. She felt used and spent and helpless. Yes, tomorrow she would leave. In fact she would tell Billie as much tonight.
The door opened and the dark form moved toward her.
"Billie," she said. "I'm -- " The words caught in her throat when she saw it was not Billie. In the dim light cast by the streetlamp, she could see that it was a short, moon-faced man whose face was illuminated by a strange sad smile. "Evil, evil," he said quietly. "Evil, evil, evil," he chanted. And as she opened her mouth to scream, she saw the cleaver already in its descent.
And the world seemed perfectly silent and hushed until the heavy blade crushed in her skull.
CHAPTER SIX
He was waiting behind the door when Billie entered. He raised the cleaver as she was silhouetted in the yellow triangle of light from the hallway, moved forward as she closed the door behind bet and brought the blade of the chopper down on the base of her neck. She fell like a side of beef.
Quickly then he went to the window, closed it, pulled down the shades He crossed to the door, carefully stepping over Billie's body and switched on the light. He turned around to survey his handiwork.
Billie was lying face down one arm folded beneath her. She was partially covered by her robe which bad spread as she had fallen and gave her appearance of a great winged bird. Blood from the severed veins in her neck was flowing freely, seeping into the fabric of the robe. Her legs and buttocks were uncovered.
He looked at Saundra. Except for the sizable gash where the blade of the cleaver had split her forehead, she might have been still alive and sleeping. Her arms hung limply to the sides, her legs were stretched out straight and barely parted. The dildo still hung around her waist.
He was not a sadist. He was a workman with a job to do. First he touched his thick wrist to the perspiration on his forehead He was sweating profusely, like always. He could smell the odor and it sickened him. He lay the cleaver on its side on the bed took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and the palms of his hands. Then he blew his nose, replaced the handkerchief Using the corner of a sheet he wiped the blood from the blade of the cleaver, examined it to make sure it was perfectly clean, burning silver in the light of the single naked bulb. Then he went to work.
He rolled Billie's body over, carefully slipped her arms from the robe and laid her spread-eagled on the floor. Kneeling at her side -- looking almost as if he were in prayer, a mourner -- he raised the cleaver, brought it down evenly and severed her left arm at the shoulder. There was almost no sound of bone cracking, just the flat thump as the edge of the blade struck through the flesh and dug into the floor. He jerked it out and severed Billie's right arm in the same manner.
Still kneeling he turned on his heel and, with equal efficiency, he dismembered her left leg and then her right, the blade contacting flesh just below the hip and cutting downward at the merest angle. With his foot, he pushed the severed limbs into a pile near the foot of the bed. Then he lay the cleaver on the floor and walked to the window. He raised the shade, admitting a light breeze that was cooling to the new perspiration on his brow, and stared across the narrow alley at the window of his room in the adjacent hotel. His shades were drawn, naturally. It was only the decent thing to do. A person did not go about advertising their sins and indiscretions. Not unless they wished to be seen -- which was another sin. Shamelessness.
He reached into his shirt pocket, found a pack of cigarettes and knocked one free. He searched his shirt and jacket for matches, found none, looked about the room and saw a book on the floor inches below Saundra's hand. He struck one, lit his cigarette, vigorously shook out the burning match and placed it in the ash tray He replaced the matches on the floor and then pulled the window shade.
No time, he thought. There was no time to think and meditate upon the sins of these two terrible women. He would do that later. He would also pray for their souls, ask the Lord to forgive them their transgressions and then, humbly ask to be blessed for his good work.
He sighed, drew smoke into his lungs and exhaled it. Lodging the cigarette between his thick lips he stepped gingerly over Billie's amputed form, took up his cleaver and again wiped it clean on the sheet. He looked down at the dark-haired head that hung askew from the limbless torso before him. This was the part he hated most. But it was a job that had to be done. He drew in on his cigarette, exhaled, bent to one knee, lifted Billie's head by a handful of hair and silently severed it from her body. He tried to strike as close to the original blow as possible but his hand was trembling slightly and when he dropped the head and let it roll free, he saw that the original gash still showed on the neck. He shook his head sadly. Bad, he thought. Very ugly. He felt sorry for her.
Then he stood up and turned his attention to Saundra. This one had been worse, he thought. She had not only indulged in evil acts with the other but she had also denied her own sex and acted the part of a man. His face twisted in disgust when he thought of it, as it had seen it from his window only minutes before. He felt ashamed for her and repentant for her sins. She must cleansed, the offending portions of her body must be purified by the blade.
Holding her wrist in his large hand, he pulled her body from the bed and arranged her on the floor as he had done to Billie. Then he set about dismembering her as quickly and efficiently as possible, turning his head away the moment the blade struck so as to avoid seeing the terrible flow of new blood.
He was a short man but stockily built with heavy arms that seemed to be of one piece with his thick sloping shoulders. He severed her arms and legs in blows that were both quicker and more powerful than those he had used upon Billie. When she was reduced to a torso and head, he kicked the limbs into the pile with Billie's, bent to his haunches over Saundra's head and then carefully sliced off her ears. Then he decapitated her, pausing a minute to draw in on his cigarette as the head rolled like a slow top in a short circle on the floor. He stood up, took a final puff of his cigarette and tapped it out in the bedside ash tray. Then he returned to Saundra's torso and began to use his cleaver on her breasts and thighs.
He worked without stopping for twenty minutes. When he had finished it was impossible to tell from her appearance whether she had been male or female.
He stood up at last, drenched in perspiration and gave one final look about the room. His face displayed neither satisfaction nor displeasure at what he saw.
Now the reward, he thought. He must take something of value which would compensate him from his good work. He began to search the drawers.
It was several minutes before he noticed the ring, the ruby and diamonds glowing brightly on the hand which had once belonged to Saundra. He looked at it curiously, holding the hand in his and then tried to remove it. It would not come free. He pulled delicately at first and then earnestly but the band held tight and would slip no farther than the knuckle.
If there was something else, he thought, anything else he would take that instead. But his search of the room had revealed nothing of value, except Saundra's watch. That would not do because it was a man-made mechanism and thus tainted by the sins of man. He required something pure, from nature. It would have to be the ring, he decided.
He sighed and then picked up the cleaver again. Spreading the fingers of the hand, he sliced two off with a quick flat stroke of the cleaver, slipped at the ring off the thin finger stump and put it in his pocket. He laid the cleaver on its side on the floor and left.
* * *
He left the Lorenzo by the rear door, walked through the alley and up the back stairs of his hotel to his room. He stripped off his clothes which were wet and blood spattered, left them in a pile on the floor, put on a robe and went into the bathroom. He spent fifteen minutes in the shower, soaping himself vigorously until his squat hairy body was covered with lather. He turned his face up the spray and let the needles of warm water stream down over his square chunky nose, over his pudgy cheeks and soak into his full head of dark curly hair. He dried himself carefully, combed his hair with the comb in his robe pocket and returned to his room.
He dressed, choosing a light gray gabardine suit, a white shirt, black tie, black socks, black shoes. Then he emptied the remainder of his drawers into his worn brown suitcase, locked it and went to the door. Checking to make sure he had his keys and wallet, he remembered about the ring. He found it in the pocket of his bloodstained trousers, slipped it on the small finger of his right hand, gave a final look around the room and then went downstairs.
The desk clerk, a hefty string-haired woman in her late fifties, was sleeping across the switchboard. He smiled at her, decided he would not bother to wake her. There was no need. He had paid for his room in advance. He put his room key on the counter -- in the center of the counter, where she could not possibly miss it. He didn't want her to go through the unnecessary trouble of searching for it. He liked doing little things like that for people. For good people, that was. Bad people, of course, had to be punished.
His car was parked around the corner, in front of the Lorenzo Hotel. He opened the door, pushed his suitcase across the front seat and then walked around to the driver's side. Before he got in he looked up at the hotel. It was almost four in the morning and, of course, all of the lights were out.
All except one --- the light of the room which contained two dismembered bodies. But that was in the rear and he could not see it from the street.
He got in the car, turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over immediately. He shifted gears, released the emergency brake and drove off.
At the New Orleans city limit, he stopped at a traffic light and wondered, for the first time, when they would find the women's bodies. He hoped it would be soon and that they would be given a decent burial. In any case, by that time he would be far away. The light changed to green, he shifted gears and pressed hard on the accelerator. The car sped down the road.
As swift as the vengeance of the Lord, he thought smiling.
His name was Ezra Morton. He was twenty-eight years old, stood five feet seven inches, weighed one hundred and eighty-three pounds. His eyes were blue, his hair was tar black. He had a small scar on the side of his chin -- from shaving; and the tip of his left thumb was missing, the result of his first day as a butcher.
He had learned his trade in a technical school where he had been sent from the orphanage. He had never known his parents; he had been found in an abandoned car, an infant of less than a year, and sent directly to the orphanage. He had remained there until he was fifteen; a quiet, polite, introspective boy, said the matrons and often added. "It's a shame no one's adopted him. But then it is understandable. He's such a homely boy. If it wasn't for that I'd think about adopting him myself. But he'll make something of himself, mark my words. We'll be hearing about our little Ezra in a few years. You'll see."
He liked the orphanage because they left him alone. He made no friends and spent most of his time reading. He was particularly attracted to adventure books, ones in which gaudily costumed pirates and crusaders brandished their glittering swords and righted the iniquities of the world. The orphanage was non-sectarian but chapel services were held every Sunday morning. Ezra Morton never missed one and usually he arrived early in order to get a seat in the front row where he could gaze in rapt attention while the preacher regaled him with the words of the Lord.
He lived in a state home while he attended the technical school. He did not like the home or the school very much. Both were overrun with the same kind of loud, irreverent, foul-mouthed boys who seemed preoccupied with passing about obscene pictures and abusing their own bodies. At night, the dormitory was a symphony of squeaking springs merging with the muted groans of secret and public blasphemers. Ezra turned his face to the wall and covered his ears. Sometimes he tried to pray for the boys who had fallen into such evil ways but they seemed beyond the powers of his prayer. Once he tried to approach the leader of his dormitory to warn him about the spiritual and physical injury he was courting by his abusive practices. The boy laughed at him, told his friends and from then on pristine Ezra was the butt of all dormitory humor. It was said that he was abnormal and sometimes boys took pleasure in parading naked before him or forcing him to view their bodies.
He was less of a joke to the boys in his trade class. He had not chosen butchery as his vocation; the counselor had chosen it for him. He had been unable to define a particular interest of aptitude--save for a private inclination toward the clergy; the class in butchery was small so the counselor had signed Ezra up for it.
"Strong young man like you," the counselor said with a smile, "you should be able to handle a meat cleaver. Help give you a feeling a confidence, too. Nothing like the feel of a good knife handle in your hands to make you feel powerful."
The counselor was later discovered to be mentally unbalanced and was removed from his position.
Ezra was surprised to discover that he liked butchery. At first the sight of blood turned his stomach and the thought of helpless little animals being slaughtered for food dismayed him. But then he realized that it must be the Lord's doing, he took heart and then he began to enjoy his trade. Occasionally he saw the faces and bodies of the offensive boys in his dormitory in the slabs of meat laid before him for dissection and he sliced and chopped with special vigor, feeling that he was punishing their offensive spirits in his savage mutilations. But when he was calm and detached he performed his job with a quiet competence that won the admiration of class instructor.
"Very clean, Ezra," that beefy-faced man would say. "Very clean and neat. You'll have no trouble finding work when you leave school. I'm planning to write a personal recommendation for you."
He left school at eighteen and, with his instructor's recommendation, was able to find employment in a supermarket in Cleveland. In his nervousness to do well he miscalculated his stroke on the first piece of meat he was brought and the cleaver sliced off an eighth-inch from his left thumb. The wound bled profusely and the other butchers were stunned by Ezra's stoicism.
"Jesus, kid, don't you feel anything? I'd be screaming my lungs out if that happened to me."
Ezra merely smiled. "It was my own fault," he said quietly. "The Lord's way of punishing me for some wrong-doing."
The wound healed before Ezra decided upon his sin. There were, indeed, few that even the most pious could accuse him of having committed. He lived a very monastic life alone, in a small furnished room, cooked his own simple meals, attended church regularly, read prodigiously and had only that limited social intercourse which was necessary for the maintenance of his daily needs. He remained celibate and had only one friend: a short, bulb-nosed Italian named Charlie Lobrano who occupied the adjoining room. They often ate together in the community kitchen, attended church together and, on occasion talked through the night on matters of political and clerical interest.
But Charlie was not a truly good person as Ezra soon discovered. Charlie often drank to excess, coveted strange women and sometimes talked blasphemously. Then one evening, after they had been friends for almost two years, Charlie came into Ezra's room and boldly announced: "Ez, my good pal and old buddy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to forego the pleasure of our Friday night motion picture for once."
Ezra was disappointed but it was not his way his question; but it was Charlie's way to boast.
"I suppose you're wondering what could possibly come up that is of sufficient appeal to wrest me from your friendly company. Well, I'm not the kind of man to let a friend go curious. Old Charlie is going to get his wick dipped tonight." He smiled toothily.
"I don't think I understand," Ezra said.
"Ah, the colloquialism escapes you, does it? Well let old Charlie elucidate for you. You've heard me talk of a certain Mrs. Murphy, a fine robust figure of a woman who has only five to ten years on both of us."
"Yes."
"Well, Mrs. Murphy as might be expected is married to a certain Mr. Murphy whom, I understand, is the most vile and disreputable of men. Consequently, dear Mrs. Murphy -- Grace as she has asked me to call her -- has decided to seek her connubial pleasures elsewhere. Needless to say, yours truly has been chosen for the honors. It took some doing, make no mistake about that, but if all goes as promised after a suitable number of drinks at the corner tavern, Mrs. Murphy. Grace, will be residing in my arms and in my bed before eleven tonight."
Ezra understood. "But that's adultery," he said, shocked. "That's a sin."
"Indeed it is," Charlie said grinning. "And don't think I'm not going to confess it at the first opportunity. But the call of the flesh is often stronger than the call of the spirit. Although it shames me to admit it, Grace Murphy -- she of the ample bosom, the golden hair and the rounded buttocks--dear, docile Grace, has aroused my animal fervor and I shall have her. Make no mistake about that, dear friend Ezra," -- he raised a single finger dramatically -- "I shall have her tonight." He cleared his throat and looked a trifle embarrassed. "I mention it to you now not for boastful purpose but merely to save you the curiosity should you hear the sounds of our pleasure through the adjoining wall."
"You can't." Ezra said. "You shouldn't -- "
"Ah, but I must," Charlie said. "My way is clear to me. In fact," he winked "my pointer is already extended. Whatever penance the Lord has ordained I suffer will be suffered humbly and with understanding. But before another sunrise. Ezra, my boy, Grace Murphy will have sampled the infamous Lobrano passion. And now I must be on my way. I hope you will sleep well. I know that I plan to."
Then he left, leaving Ezra stunned, shocked and outraged. He could not believe that his friend was going to knowingly commit such a sin. He would not believe it. It was just a joke, that was all. Of course, it was just a joke Charlie was playing on him. He'd wait in his room tonight and then he would see there would be no sounds from Charlie's room. Nothing at all.
Thus decided, he made himself a light supper and then returned to his room to spend the evening reading. By ten o'clock he had heard no sound from the adjoining room and was convinced that his reasoning had been correct. It was just Charlie's idea of a joke. He undressed, washed and climbed into bed. He felt greatly relieved and sleep came to him quickly.
It was the first time he experienced the dream. He was standing alone in a vast desert. All about him stretched curved dunes of golden sand that swirled and eddied gently in a warm desert breeze. The sky was a bright painful blue and in the distance could be discerned steeply rising peaks that appeared to puncture the very floor of Heaven. He was walking, aimlessly, slowly, stopping to admire the gracious beauty of Nature now and then, when the voice sounded. He recognized it immediately. It was a voice filled with thunder. It was the voice of the Lord.
"My son! My son!" the voice roared and the sand beneath him seemed to tremble. "Why do you wander with no direction when there is a task to be done?"
Ezra prostrated himself on the ground. "Tell me, my Lord," he said. "Tell me and it shall be done."
"The sinners!" boomed the voice. "The sinners are about undoing the work of the good. You must take vengeance upon them in my name. In the name of the Lord. You must arm yourself and seek out all those who sin against my name and you must slay them on the altar on their own sins. Now! Arm yourself and walk to the mountains. There you will find many who sin against me. Slay them! Slay them all! It is your appointed task and I shall reward you."
Ezra stood up and suddenly there was a great glistening sword in his hand. With steady manful strides, he walked off to the mountains and there, as the Lord had said, he found many sinners. He found those who were shameless and those who blasphemed the Lord's name. He found those who coveted their neighbor's wives, those who robbed and pillaged, those who murdered for gain and those who committed unspeakable acts of lust.
He slew them all. He plunged his sword into their evil hearts -- men, women, -- he sliced off their offending limbs, he cut out their evil-speaking tongues, he decapitated them, dismembered them, mutilated them with his gleaming, singing sword until they were no longer recognizable as humans who had sinned against their maker. Then, as he stood steeped in blood, atop the mound of their ravaged flesh, the Lord spoke again "You have done well, my son. You have done your task with a pure heart. Now you shall have your reward. Take what you will from among the gems and the gold of the sinners."
Ezra took the first thing he saw -- a plain gold band that was on the dismembered hand of a woman across his feet.
"Thank you, my Lord," he said, humbly.
"Thank you, my son," the Lord said. "But your task is not completed You must go on. You must scour the earth and rid it of all those who sin against my commandments. And from each you shall take a reward of your own choosing. Go now! Go now in the name of the Lord!"
He awoke in a sweat. His mind still reeled from the deafening sound of the Lord's voice. Then he heard the low grunting moan from the next room. Charlie's room. And he remembered what Charlie had said, remembered about Mrs. Murphy. And he understood everything and knew what he had to do.
Slipping on a robe, he padded to the kitchen, took a long carving knife from the drawer and walked to Charlie's room. He tried the door; it was open. Quietly, he entered.
There were no lights on but the shades were up and in the dim silver glow of the moon, he saw Charlie's naked form astride that of a woman. Her legs were around Charlie and she rose and fell to meet him, her mouth pressed firmly against his mouth, murmuring, moaning.
Ezra stared, his eyes open wide. Then he shuffled slowly forward and plunged the knife into Charlie's naked back. The woman opened her eyes but then Ezra's knife was in her throat and her scream died in a gulping, sputtering of blood.
Charlie moaned and Ezra rolled him off the woman, knelt beside him on the floor and slowly, methodically, sawed away at his friend's throat until at last the head fell free.
"For the blasphemy," Ezra said quietly.
Then he returned to the woman, viciously stabbed the knife into her abdomen, wrenched it across, tearing a large gash in her stomach, then withdrew it and wiped the handle clean on the bedsheets He took her plain gold wedding band as his reward, left the knife on the bed and walked quietly from the room.
The police questioned him, of course, but there was no proof of any kind -- if indeed anyone suspected someone as quiet and retiring as young Ezra Morton of being capable of such a hideous act. The landlady testified that Ezra and Charlie had been the best of friends; Ezra wept convincingly (for he was truly sorry that his friend had sinned) and within the month the police had written off the crime as the act of an unknown homicidal maniac.
Ezra left the city the following month. With the letter of glowing recommendation from his superior at the supermarket he would have been able to get a job in a butcher shop anywhere in the country but he had a more important job to do. It was his appointed task to travel the country and rid it of all those who had sinned against the Lord. He vowed to dedicate himself to that task and prayed for the strength to do his job well He was twenty years old then.
* * *
He moved from Cleveland to Dayton to Indianapolis to Evansville. For reasons of safety, which he was certain the Lord would understand, he changed locations after each murder.
He moved from Evansville to Frankfort to Charleston to Norfolk, preferring the larger cities where vice and sin were more overt.
He moved from Norfolk to Charlotte to Columbia to Atlanta, His victims were varied: a prostitute, a proselyting homosexual, two teen-agers he discovered making love on a park bench, a drunk blaspheming in a doorway, a pimp a talkative cab driver who made the mistake of discussing his extramarital affairs.
He moved from Atlanta to Montgomery to Birmingham to Jackson. The dream recurred often, urging him on, leading new strength to his efforts. He took to carrying a knife with him at first but then discovered that the butcher's cleaver was better suited to his needs.
He moved from Jackson to Shreveport to Baton Rouge, selling his "rewards" to obtain money to live, choosing cheap hotels or motels, roaming the streets at night, waiting, watching, listening for the sights and sounds of sin, an avenging messenger of the Lord, an angry angel ready to punish.
He moved from Baton Rouge to New Orleans and there, from the window of his room across the alley he saw two women making love to each other in the most revolting fashion. It was all he could to keep watching but watch he did. It was his job. And then, when the right time came, he put the cleaver in his pocket, walked down the rear stairs, across the alley, up the back steps on the Lorenzo Hotel and wrought the terrible toll that was the price paid by those who sinned against the Lord.
* * *
He arrived in Mobile the next afternoon. He checked into the Happy Days Motel, and slept until eight that evening. When he awoke, he dressed and went out to dinner.
He dined at an Italian restaurant, sitting at a table which was separated by a wooden partition from the bar. As he ate, the voices of the drinkers came to him.
"How about it, baby huh?" crooned a young male voice. "You know you want it as bad as I do."
"You're not old enough or big enough," said a female voice.
Laughter from several throats.
"I think she's right, Bob," said a new voice. "How about me, sweetheart? Am I big enough or old enough."
"You don't look it to me," said the woman.
"How about the two of us put together," said the first male.
"Buy me another drink and let me think about it," said the woman.
Ezra listened intently. Sin, he thought. Everywhere was the blackness of sin. He squeezed his hand together into a tight fist and stared at the whitening knuckle. He must cleanse them, he thought. He must purify these sinners also so that they would be worthy to be the Lord's children. He must show them the power of the Lord's revenge, make of them an example so that others would know what price they must pay for their wrongs; so that the world would know that the wages of sin are death!
He finished his meal quickly, paid his check and walked around the partition to the bar. He took a stool in the corner and ordered a glass of wine.
The woman and the two men he had heard speaking were still there. The woman was a brunette with shoulder-length hair, dark eyes and a pale thin face across which her lipstick looked like a blood-red knife slash. She was wearing a white sweater and black skirt which outlined the soft contours of her body. Standing and leaning against the bar, her breasts hung loosely over the counter and when she laughed they bobbed and jiggled, arousing in Ezra not lust but his hatred of lust.
"One more," she said to the bartender and to her companions, blinking her eyes several times after she said it, apparently trying to focus, apparently very drunk.
Her companions were both very young. College boys, Ezra guessed. Sin was learned young. One was slightly built, fair-haired with bright, excited blue eyes; the other, farthest from the woman, was taller, heavier with the square flattened features of the athlete, and brown chopped hair.
"Listen," the fair-haired boy said, "what's the sense in wasting money drinking here when we can pick up a bottle and go someplace nice and quiet."
The woman looked at him haughtily but her features were too mobile to maintain the expression for long. "You -- you got a place?"
"We could get one," the boy said.
"You could also get a dose," the woman said. "How do you know I'm not diseased or something. Maybe I'm carrying the germ."
"Baby," said the boy, "the only thing I want you to carry is me."
The woman laughed. "Your friend is cocky," she said to the athlete.
"You've hurt his pride," the other said.
The brunette snorted a laugh. "If I took him on, I'd hurt more than his pride. I could drive the two of you into the ground. I could give you a ride you'd never forget."
"Why don't you try?" the athlete said archly.
"No percentage in it," said the woman. "What do I get out of it? A sore back, that's all. It'd take more than you two little rah-rah boys to keep me happy. I need a man!" she said loudly and turning around, her eyes focussed unsteadily upon Ezra.
He saw her look and turned away.
"Somebody like that!" the woman said, pointing at him. "A good meaty hunk of man like that. Ugly! Those are the best kind. Did you know that? Did you know that ugly man make the best lovers? They're so grateful to be laying a woman that they're always good."
"Why don't you ask him then?" asked the fair-haired boy.
"I'm no hooker," said the woman. "I may have let my morals slip a little over the years--along with my panties," she added and smiled. "But I'm no hooker. You ask him for me. Maybe I'll let you and your friend have seconds."
Ezra had colored with embarrassment when the woman had first pointed him out and the color had deepened as she continued to talk about him until now he was a dark beet red. Shameless, he thought. Oh Lord forgive them their trespasses for I shall deliver them to Thee purged of all sin. I shall cleanse them with the fire of Thy sword and bathe them in the blood of their lusts.
He heard the fair-haired boy move off his stool. A moment later the boy was at his elbow. "Hi, man," the boy said with a smile. "Hello," Ezra said."
"Listen man, I don't know if you've been overhearing us or not" -- his voice began a whisper -- "but we've got this broad over here, see, and we're lining her up. That interest you?"
Ezra didn't answer for a moment. He prayed silently: Lord, forgive me this lie for it is but a means to serve Thee.
"Well how about it?" asked the boy. "Take a look at her. She's quite a piece and running off at the mouth about how good she is. What do you say?"
Ezra tried a suitably wicked smile. His wide moon-face was not the right medium for it and it came off as a crooked leer, almost boyishly innocent. But the boy got the picture.
"Swinging," he said with a wink. "Ill set it up." He gave Ezra a conspiratorial squeeze on the elbow and started to move away.
"Wait a moment," Ezra said.
"What?"
"I... I've got a room at a motel. We could go there."
"Crazy," said the boy. "You got a car, too?"
"Yes."
"Man, you swing. Consider it done, daddy."
It was done. The boy returned to his friend and the woman and related his conversation with Ezra. Presently all three came over to him. The woman was walking quite unsteadily. The fair-haired boy offered introductions. He was Bob; his friend was Stan; the woman was Connie. Ezra said his name was Edward.
"Crazy, Eddie," said Bob. "What say we pick up a jug and get with this?" He bought a bottle of bourbon from the barman; they paid their check, went outside and piled into Ezra's car.
"Your pad's not far, is it?" asked Bob who, with the woman, was in the back seat. Stan sat with Ezra in the front.
"No, not far at all," Ezra said.
"Too bad," Bob said. "I thought I'd have time for a quickie right here. Come a little closer, baby."
"Just open that bottle," Connie said. "And save yourself, little man. You'll need everything you'll got."
"Well let me just hold my hand... here!" Ezra heard the boy say.
"Ummm," the woman moaned. "As long as you're there, give a little squeeze."
"How's that?"
"Oh, easier, honey. Easier. That's not new stuff, you know. And it's got to last me a long time."
"You won't be using it again for awhile when I got through with you tonight," Bob promised.
The woman laughed.
* * *
On the way to the motel, Ezra thought: Lord, I shall slay Thy enemies and teach them righteousness. Their evilness shall pour from their souls as their blood pours from their bodies and they shall be made fit to dwell with Thee in Thy house.
He would kill the woman first, he decided. For it was she who was leading the others on, as Eve seduced Adam in the Garden of Eden. He would kill her immediately, cleanly -- with one slice of the cleaver and then cut off each offending limb and remove each offending organ until her entire body and soul would be made pure in the cleansing light of the Lord.
Then he remembered the cleaver.
He had left it in the hotel room in New Orleans!
The thought paralyzed him with fear. Then what could he use?
He stopped at a traffic light, closed his eyes and prayed for divine guidance. Oh Lord, arm me with the sword of Thy might so that I may do Thy bidding and slay those who abuse Thy great gift of life.
Then from the back seat, he heard the woman say: "You know you've got a face as smooth as a baby's ass. I bet you don't shave more than once a month."
"Twice a day, baby," Bob said. "FH shave again when we get to Eddie's place if it'll make you happy. Hey, Eddie, do you have a razor I can use?"
"Yes," Ezra said. And so it was decided. The Lord had answered him and showed him the way.
The woman broke the mystic spell by saying, "I don't want a razor, honey, I want a big long sword."
"You'll get one, baby," Bob said.
Ezra only smiled.
* * *
"Let's cut cards or something for who's first." Bob suggested when they got to Ezra's room.
"Uh-uh," the woman said. She had already begun to undress. The sweater was off, revealing loose fleshy breasts in a brassiere that was less a support than a lacy container. She unzipped her skirt, sat down on the bed and pulled it off exposing black panties that did not reach to her naval. "Ugly Eddie here comes first, like we agreed. I might not even need you two boys, right Eddie?"
Ezra averted his eyes.
"Can't we watch?" Bob asked.
"Yeah, from outside," the woman said. "C'mon, beat it." She kicked off her shoes and stood with her hands on her hips waiting.
"Let's go," Stan said. "You'll get your chance."
"One kiss first," Bob said.
"Here," said the woman, pointing to her panties. Bob grinned and came over to her. "On your knees," she said.
Smiling, he dropped to his knees. The woman obliged him by pulling down her panties and he kissed her. She laughed.
"Now I'm really ready to go," she said. "Out." She turned to Ezra. "What are you waiting for? Get your clothes off, King Kong." She stepped out of her panties and kicked them off. Then she unhooked her bra, tossed it aside, did a naked posing turn for them and climbed onto the bed.
"Oh, mother!" Bob said. "How about another little kiss, honey?"
"Later, later. Go 'way now, boy, you bother me."
"Come on," Stan said, his eyes also riveted on the naked woman and he led his reluctant friend outside.
"I'll lock the door," Ezra said.
"Don't bother," the woman said. "Just get ready, Eddie." She giggled.
The razor, he thought. "I... I have to go to the bathroom first," he said.
_ "Oh no," she said. "First we attend to this little business." She was up and her arms were around him, her nakedness pressing against him. He averted his face, his stomach turning with disgust.
"What's the matter, baby? Don't you like me?" Her hand toyed with his shirt buttons and began to open them.
"Please," he said. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"In a while, honey," she crooned, opening his shirt and running her hand over it. "Mmmm. You're like a woolly little bear, aren't you?"
He tried to push her hands off. "No, no."
"Yes, yes," she insisted, pulled off his jacket his shirt and began to unbuckle his belt "Otherwise, little Connie is going to take her little playground and go home. I want to see you naked first. Then you can go to the potty. After all, you've seen me." She rubber! against him. "And felt me," she added. "Fair is fair."
He couldn't let her go. So praying silently: Lord, forgive me this shamelessness but it is necessary to do Thy bidding.
The girl was already engaged in doing her own bidding, forcing her hand to his legs. "No," he said. "Then you do it," she said.
He turned from her and undressed. In a minute, he thought, in a minute, he would go into the bathroom and get his razor. It was a big razor, a barber's razor, with a six-inch long blade that would slice cleanly through her soft white flesh. First, he would slit her throat, then he would dismember her.
Pure, my Lord, he thought. She shall be pure and worthy to spend eternity in Thy House.
The clothes fell from him and he was naked save for his shoes and socks.
"Those, too," the woman said, watching him.
He took off his shoes and socks and turned.
"Oh Eddie. You've got it there, don't you?" She came to him and twined her arms about him, pressed her mouth to his.
Again, he pushed her away. "No, I've got to --"
"Ow!" she said. "Hey are you wearing a ring or something?"
"Yes, but I've got -- "
"Take it off," she commanded. "Give it to me. That thing will scratch hell out me."
Numbly, he slipped off the ring and put it on the dresser.
"I'll wear it," she said. "I'll do all the scratching for both of us."
"Yes," he said dumbly. The razor. The razor, he thought. "I'll... I'll be right back." He walked to the bathroom, feeling absurd in his nudity.
"I'll be here," the woman said, stretching out on the bed. "But hurry, Eddie. Hurry."
He closed the bathroom door behind him. He found the razor in his toilet kit, ran water over the blade and wiped it clean. Under the bright bathroom light, the razor glowed silver fire.
Now, my Lord, I do Thy bidding, he thought. A quiet secret smile came over his face as he closed the light and walked into the darkened bedroom.
The girl was lying on her side, her back to the wall. One hand was cupping her breasts. As he approached, she jiggled it at him, smiling, and said, "Nice, huh? How about giving it a nice big kiss?"
He advanced slowly toward her, the razor, behind his back.
"Like it?" she grinned. "Evil," he said quietly. "Evil, evil."
"What's evil?" she said. Then she saw the razor and screamed.
"Evil," Ezra said. "Evil! Evil! Evil!" he roared, his eyes on fire. He grabbed the woman by her hair, raised the razor and
The flash of light stunned him at the same time that he felt the rock-hard fist crash against the side of his head. He lost his balance and thudded against the side wall."
"A nut!" Stan was yelling, twisted the razor from Ezra's hand, pulled him up by his neck and hit him in the mouth.
The woman was still screaming.
"It's all right," Bob said, sitting beside her. "It's okay; honey."
Ezra was sitting on the floor, shaking his head, dizzy, dazed and unbelieving.
"Go call the cops," Stan said to Bob. "Let's get this maniac out of here."
"Yeah," Bob said, "all right. You watch out for her, huh? And him, too."
"Right," Stan said. He sat down on the bed beside the woman who was still sobbing, want to put his arms around her to comfort her.
Ezra watched dumbly. Then -- as if a switch within him had been suddenly thrown, a trigger pulled, he sprang, snatched the razor from the boy's loose grip and ran into the bathroom.
Stan made a grab for him -- too late.
Ezra locked the door hastily, turned on the light. There was a small screened window to his left but he did not even think about that. His thoughts were not of escape, his thoughts were of failure.
"Oh Lord, I have failed Thee!" he said in an eerie single-song voice, dropping to his knees."
"Forgive me as I commit myself to Thy goodness!"
Stan was slamming against the door trying to break it down. On the fourth ram the wood around the lock buckled under his thrusting weight; on the fifth it splintered and the door gave way.
He might have taken his time. There was no hurry.
The first thing that Stan noticed was the wide smile on Ezra's face. Then, as the head lolled back and the body collapsed he saw the blood running from the cut in Ezra's throat, itself like a wide smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They kept her in the hospital for three days.
They said she was suffering from shock. She didn't know. She hardly thought about it. The only notion that was clear to her was that she felt incredibly empty, hollow, worthless, only the shell of a person with all the insides and vital parts missing. It was almost as if the maniac had sliced her with his razor. But sliced her so deftly and so expertly that it left no external scars; it was as if the blade had somehow entered her body and scooped it clean -- like coring an apple. And here she was, unmarked and unscarred, looking good as new (or at least good as thirty-one) but inside she was empty.
She wished she were dead.
Bob and Stan came to visit her at the hospital but it was unbearably awkward. She felt ashamed. They were strangers to her. A pair of college boys she had allowed to pick her up, take her to a motel and -- had not the third man been a lunatic -- permitted to gang-bang her. Of course she had been pretty well stoned at the time. But did that really make any difference? She was pretty well stoned most of the time lately; and even when she was sober she was thinking about getting drunk and finding another man to sleep with.
"How do you feel?" Bob had asked.
"Fine," she said. She tried to smile but knew it didn't come off. She wanted to act friendly to them; it was nice of them to come.
"You look great," Stan said.
"Thank you."
"Yeah," Bob said. "You really look swell, Connie. You should be out of here in a few days."
"I hope so," she said. She felt like an old sick aunt being visited by her two young nephews.
More pointless hospital conversation; more well-meaning encouragement. What for? she thought. They didn't care about her and she didn't really care about herself.
"Certainly was lucky we were watching you," Bob said.
She nodded.
He laughed and shook his head. "Never thought being a Peeping Tom would come in handy," he said. He looked embarrassed by this admission. "I guess we were all pretty drunk," he said.
She nodded again. She felt sorry for them. Go away, she thought. Go away and let me face this alone. I know you want to be kind but can't you see you're only making it worse? Worse for me and awkward for yourself too. This isn't your problem. You think you're involved in it but you're not. You're both only innocent bystanders, the people I happened to be with when it happened. I knew it was going to happen. Sooner or later, it had to. Maybe not a lunatic with a razor but some other kind of maniac. With a broken beer bottle maybe, or a curtain cord or maybe smothering me to death with a pillow. If you get drunk enough times and go to bed with enough strange men sooner or later you've got to hit a bad one. Like eating mushrooms, she thought. You eat enough of them and sooner or later you're going to find out you've swallowed a toadstool and then it's goodbye, sister. Go away, boys. Go away. Can't you see I've been looking for this for years searching for my killer in every bar, alley and motel in the country.
They didn't go away. They stayed for ten more minutes that seemed like hours. They had nothing to say. Bob kept repeating how lucky she was, how lucky they all were. And she nodded and smiled and thought it was just the other way around, that if she had it to do over again the only chance she would have made would be that she wouldn't have bothered with them. She would have gone right up to that madman and said: 'Here I am. Take me. Kill me. Cut my heart out. Ill pay you anything you want'.
But would she really? No, no, of course not. If she had that kind of courage she could have done the job herself a long time ago. But she preferred to take the coward's way out, the year-in-and-year-out drawn out way. She much preferred to drink and screw herself to death.
"Well, maybe we'll see you again," Bob said. "Yes."
"Are you going to be staying in Mobile?"
"I don't know."
"Well. Maybe we'll be seeing you again."
At last they had run out of inane conversation. At last they were leaving. They said Goodbye; she said Goodbye. They left. And she promptly forgot about them just as she knew they would forget about her. Oh, not immediately, of course. For the next few weeks she would be fraternity topic Number One. They would tell the story a hundred times and each time it would become more distorted and more graphic. They would describe her body with collegiate exaggeration, and how she had felt and looked and what she had done. By the tenth or twelve time, they would have breasts built up to size thirty-eights and naturally they would he and say that they had both had her before the maniac, that she had preferred them -- naturally! Her name would be bandied about and become a synonym for nymphomania. Connie Gilman. "She's as hot to trot as Connie Gilman" "She screws like old Connie"... "She does everything that Connie Gilman would do."... Old Connie... Incontinent Constance... Constance the Constant...
Ah, Fame! she thought bitterly. But who deserved it more? God, she wished she were dead!
* * *
The staff psychiatrist came to visit her on the morning of the third day. He was a bluff, hawk-nosed man, about fifty, with black-framed eyeglasses and a paternal air.
"Even if you think you're feeling fine, Connie," he said to her, "you must understand that you've been through a very traumatic experience and you'll probably suffer some unpleasant after-effects."
"Such as?" she asked.
"Oh, it's difficult to be very specific. It varies from case to case. The most prevalent is recurring nightmares about the incident. Or you might fancy that you see your attacker in the form of passing strangers. My advice would be for you to go somewhere quiet and take a nice long rest. Perhaps visit your family. In any case, be with people you know."
That was funny. A nice long rest! She'd be willing to bet that nobody spent more time on their back than she did. Visit the family? We'd have to find them first. The last she heard her mother was someplace in Europe honeymooning with her fourth -- or was it fifth -- husband. And her father? Well it would take the F.B.I. to track him down. Home for Daddy was any place they served cheap Scotch.
But she nodded agreeably at the psychiatrist.
"Also if it's possible, I'd suggest that you go somewhere warm, where you can be outside most of the time. Quite often in cases like this, the patient develops a type of claustrophobia, experiences fear at being closed in. Since your... ah... experience did occur in rather confined quarters, it might be much better if you stayed outside as much as possible."
Now that she could do -- providing there wasn't a law against fornication in public. But the great outdoors and sunshine song sounded fine to her. Maybe she'd make a run down to Miami and loll on the beaches for awhile. Get herself a nice tan and maybe sweat some of this sickness out of her.
The sickness unto death, she thought grimly. The sickness unto lust.
"Finally," the psychiatrist said, "although I don't want you to think that I'm prying into personal matters, I think it would be most advantageous if you avoided sexual intercourse for a while." He seemed more embarrassed by the mention than he should have been. "It... ah .. it might prove unsatisfactory in light of your recent experience."
"Yes," she said. "Of course."
* * *
She left the hospital at ten the following morning, had breakfast at a corner drugstore and was on the road by eleven. She drove for three hours but it was a bright, hot day and the sun burning down on the open convertible dizzied her and at two she pulled in to a motel.
By five she was in bed with the manager.
He was a big, bullish brute of a man, an animal. And he liked to do it like an animal, too. There was no fore-play, no kissing, just off with the clothes and into the bed.
"Ah don't believe in none of that foolin' around," he said ambiguously. "You and a woman wanta love, you take off your clothes and love. Never known a woman that didn't want it that way neither."
It suited Connie for the time -- or rather for the first two times. Then she wanted more. She lay on the bed beside him, their thighs touching, her breasts tilted up and said, "Don't you ever want to do anything else to a woman . . uh... " She didn't know his name.
"Calvin," he said. "Calvin Sayers."
"I'm Connie."
"Pleased to meet you, Connie."
"Pleased to meet you, Calvin," she said. "As I was saying don't you have the desire to do anything else to a woman?"
"Nope. What else is there?"
"Well there's a woman's breasts for example."
He turned and regarded hers. "Yeah, there's them, all right," he said. "What'd you want to have done to them?"
"Well, touching for a start."
"You can touch 'em yourself, can't you?"
"Yes," she said. "But wouldn't you like to?"
"Nope. I've heard about some fellers that do but I'm afraid I'm not one of them. Tits has always felt just like any other part of a woman's body to me. Just skin and flesh, that's all."
"Wouldn't you like to kiss them?"
He looked surprised. "Lady, you don't want a man you want yourself an infant." He looked disgusted and insulted. "Suckling breasts," he said huffily.
Connie only smiled. "What about here?" she said, taking his hand and leading it down between her thin thighs. "Do you like this?"
"Damn right," Calvin said. "Love it."
"Well what are you waiting for?"
"I'm waiting to get my wind back," he said. "I ain't no damn bull, you know."
"You could do something while you're waiting," she said.
"What?"
"Oh, I don't have to tell a grown man like you," she said coyly. "You know what pleases a woman."
"Yep. Lovin'."
"There are other things almost as nice as lovin'," she said softly.
He was silent for a moment, obviously thinking deeply. Finally he said: "Something to do with that?" He patted her.
"Yes."
He thought for another minute. "Besides lovin' it?" he asked. "Yes."
Another moment of contemplation. "Well, I'll be damned if I can think of it," he said.
Connie laughed. "Haven't you ever seen any French postcards?"
"Sure. Lots of them. Got a batch in my room right now if you're interested in looking at 'em. Darn hot ones, too."
"Well haven't you ever thought of doing any of the things they show on those cards?" she asked. "You mean besides lovin'?"
"Yes."
"You mean like... " he didn't finished. It was as if he couldn't.
"Yes," Connie said. "Like kissing a woman." Her knees tightened on his hand.
"Lady," Calvin said, horrified, "I think you're some kind of a nut!"
* * *
But later, when he got his "wind back," Calvin more than made up for his timidity. True he was no master of innovation or improvisation, as lacking in imagination as he was native intelligence but what he could do, he did well.
And Connie liked what he could do. She didn't stop trying to encourage him into the more intricate ways of love-making but his refusals did not bother her. Even though he appeared constantly shocked she knew that her suggestions aroused him.
"Lady," he said at one point late in the evening, "I don't believe I've ever met anybody pushier than you."
"I could say the same about you, Calvin," she said forthrightly.
"You just don't know your place," he said seriously. "My position, you mean. I've got a brand new idea."
"I'll just bet you do."
"Why don't I just roll over like this... and here, give me your hand... you just roll over like that... "
"Now, lady!" Calvin said. "Let's get this straight once and for all."
"Yes, let's."
He shook his head wearily. "For the last time now. The woman stays on the bottom and the man stays on top. That's the way my grandfather did it. That's the way my father did it. And... "
"That's the way you're going to do it," she finished for him.
"That's right."
"We'll see," she smiled.
* * *
When he finally left her, he was still unconquered but she was satisfied with the battle she had put up.
Why? she wondered. Why do I find it necessary to wallow in degradation with animals like this? And why do I find it necessary to show them that I am even more debased than they are? Maybe a good psychiatrist could answer that one. It certainly wasn't anything physical. No twitching, no trembling, no quivering whenever a man came into the room. All mental. And voluntary -- not even compulsory or obsessive. Voluntary nymphomania. That was probably a new one for the head-shrinkers.
If only the hospital psychiatrist could see her now. She was doing just what he had recommended. Resting. Staying away from strangers. Steering clear of small rooms and cutting out sexual intercourse.
You're a very good patient, Miss Gilman, she told herself. The best. Oh, well, tomorrow she would go to Miami and get some sun anyway.
* * *
Packing to leave the next morning she found the ring. At first she could not take understand how she had come to have it. Then she remembered taking it from the lunatic and putting it on. It must have still been on when they took her to the hospital and naturally they had assumed it was hers and included it with the rest of her possessions when they discharged her.
She tried it on again then and decided she didn't like it. She wouldn't throw it away, of course. It might be worth something at a pawn shop and nymphomaniacs were known to need money occasionally. But right now she had enough in travelers' checks to keep her going so... plop!... back in the jewelry box went the ring. And, as was her habit to do with a great many things, she forgot about it.
* * *
She felt fine driving that day. Better than she could remember feeling in months. The depression that had effected her in the hospital, that had been, in fact, caused by the hospital, seemed to have dispersed. She could not reasonably attribute the change to her absurdly satisfying night with Calvin but she did not quibble for reasons. She felt good, gunning the accelerator and letting the blue Mercury tear down the highway and the wind whipping at her hair, she knew she looked good and what the hell else mattered?
Later that afternoon, she did something she had not done in a long time. She turned down a man. It was at a gas station. Her driving costume -- white halter, tight red shorts -- seemed to provoke the attentions of the station attendant.
"Fill it up?" he asked.
"Sure," she said.
He winked at her and, for no good reason, she smiled back.
"Check the oil and water, too?" he asked.
"Right."
Then, without asking, he checked the air in her tires and wiped the windshield. As she paid him, he said, "Anything else I can do for you? His eyes were on her breasts. (To be perfectly accurate, he was leaning over and looking down the front of her halter.) "I can't think of anything else," she said.
"You in a hurry to get someplace?" he asked He was a large, tanned, dark-haired man in his late twenties. He had deep-set eyes and a wide brow. Coming from such a face, his words lacked subtlety.
"Not really," she said.
"I get to take a break in about ten minutes. My room isn't far from here."
"Do I look like the kind of girl who'd accept an offer like that?" she asked.
"Sister," he said, "to me all girls look like that kind. Here I am pumping gas in a little crap hole that isn't even listed on the map. The only people I get to see all day are the ones that drive in to get their tanks filled. So I make a pass at every single broad I see. If I hit for one out of every fifty, it keeps me happy."
"How long has it been since the last one?"
He grinned at her. "You're number forty-nine."
She grinned back him. "You better hope that the next car that pulls up has a whore driving it then, buster." And she roared out, tires screaming.
The new Connie Gilman, she thought.
Well, maybe.
* * *
She arrived at the outskirts of Miami late that night. The sign said Hallandale, and, below it: Miami 16, which meant she supposed, that she was in Hallandale and it was sixteen miles more to Miami. But it was also eleven-thirty at night, she had been driving since eight that morning and the road was beginning to look like a fuzzy ribbon. Also it was cold with the convertibles top down. Cold in Florida, if you can fancy that! she thought. So, in short, she decided she'd be damned if she was going to drive another sixteen miles that night just to talk like a tourist and say she had "made Miami in one day." It was impossible to make Miami in one day -- at least the way she used the word 'make' -- but perhaps she'd give it a try. But not tonight. Tonight even the thought of a man exhausted her.
She pulled into the driveway of the next motel she saw. The neon sign outside proclaimed it was the Lucky Horseshoe and the wrinkled, marble-eyed old man behind the desk inside looked as if he had sat on one. He also seemed to think that she had.
"Last room in the house," he told her. "Didn't expect we'd even have one open at this time. You're a lucky girl."
She wondered what was so special about the Lucky Horseshoe in Hallandale but she didn't ask the man. She registered, paid for a night and took her key.
"Good luck tomorrow," the man said.
"Thanks," she said and wondered what he was wishing her good luck for.
She didn't find out until the morning. She slept until one and then had breakfast in the motel coffee shop. The old man was her waiter.
"Up late, aren't you?" he said. "Gonna miss the double if you don't hurry."
"The double what?" she asked.
He looked at her oddly. "Ain't you a horseplayer?"
"Never mess with them," she said.
"Well, I'll be. First time in eight years I've ever rented a room to somebody that don't play the ponies on the night before the track opens."
"Oh, is there a track around here?" she asked, mildly interested.
"Is there a track? Missy, that's the world famous Gulfstream Park not a mile and a half south of here. Is there a track? I'll say there's a track. Where the hell you think everybody is right now?"
"Haven't the faintest idea," she said.
"They're at the track, that's where," he said. "And that's where I'd be too if my wife hadn't taken all my money away from me last night. Missy, is there a track, you ask? We get gamblers from all over the country come to stay at this motel for the season. Some of the best gamblers in the country," he added proudly.
Remembering what her room looked like, she found that a bit hard to believe. But interesting anyway.
"You still want something to eat now?" he said. "Or do you wanna hurry and get over there before you miss the second race, too?" He said it as if he didn't actually recognize a choice.
"I'd like something to eat," Connie said.
"You're gonna miss that second race," he warned.
"I'm gonna miss them all," she said. "Now could I please have the Number Four breakfast?"
The man shook his head in disbelief. "Not going to the track," he muttered. "Never heard of such a thing." He wandered off to the kitchen but in a moment his head popped out: "The Number Four you said?"
"That's right."
"I'd play Number Three if I was you." She laughed and had the Number Three.
* * *
She was sitting in a chaise lounge by the side of the pool when the gamblers began to return. They were easily recognizable as horse players to anyone acquainted with the work of Damon Runyon; most wore loud sport coats and dark shirts, puffed cigars and looked constipated; some wore dark sport coats and plaid shirts, puffed cigarettes and looked constipated; a few wore no jackets, white shirts rolled to the elbow, did not smoke but looked constipated.
The gamblers, however, did not seem to notice her -- despite the fact that she was wearing a leopard-patterned tank suit, sunglasses, had her hair up in a twist and looked, if she did have to say so herself, damn good. But the men flowed by her in a steady stream between four and five that afternoon, singly, or in groups, muttering such unintelligible comments as: "Nobody tells me he's a top jock. He rides that horse like she was his mother. Not once does he go to the whip. Not once."
"... gets boxed in and can't move. It'd take a kangaroo to get outa that pack."
"They got Track Fast on the board. Did that look like a fast track to you? It was good, not fast. So do I bother to look for myself? No, I take their word for it. If I look, you think I'd bet that horse?"
"... no horse has. Twelve years I've been following that stable and when I tell you that no horse has, I mean that no horse has."
"He holds him back. Anybody could see he holds ban back. I don't know what they got those stewards for. A blind man could see he holds him back."
Muttering, grumbling, complaining, they walked by her to their rooms.
A prostitute could starve in this place, she thought; but at the same time she saw a man walking directly toward her. He was tall, tanned, blond and his strides were large. Within seconds he was next to her, sat down on the foot of her lounge and abruptly said: "You're not going to believe this but I want to buy you the best dinner you ever had tonight."
She looked at him critically. He was young not more than thirty, had light gray eyes, a straight nose, boxy chin and broad shoulders. "You're not going to believe this," she said, "but I accept."
He seemed not to have heard her. "Ill tell you why," he said and pulled a race program from the pocket of his black sport coat, "in the ninth race today I bet a horse called Leopard Girl and -- "
"The horse won," Connie said.
"And the horse won," he said, "and pays twenty-four, sixteen and nine. You know what I got on him? I got a hundred across on him. You know what I make?"
"Hmmm. No, I have no idea."
"Close to twenty-five hundred," he said. "And when I'm leaving the cashier's window, I say to myself, 'Scott, tomorrow you are going to the zoo and buy a bag of peanuts for the leopard.' Or whatever-the-hell leopards eat, I don't know. You know, as sort of a thank-you offering. But when I saw you sitting here in that leopard suit, I say to myself, 'Scott boy, I just got a better idea.' "
"So you decided to feed me instead of the leopard."
"That's it," he said, "what do you say?"
"I already said yes," she said. "Didn't you hear me?"
"Tell you the truth, I haven't been listening. You know how much I was down going into the ninth? A fat twelve bills. What an opening day! Not a chalk horse runs in the money. Can you feature something like that? And me, doping with the chalk right from the gun. So by the last race I say to myself, 'Scott, this is a bind. You've got to go with the long shots whether you like it or not' "
"And you bet Leopard Girl."
"And I bet Leopard Girl. How did you -- oh I told you, didn't I? By the way, I'm Scott."
"Connie."
"Connie anything?"
"Gilman."
"Good. Gilman?" he mused. "No relation to Sheridan Gilman, the jock?"
"Not that I know. Are you Scott anything?"
"No, just Scott."
"Just Scott. Is that a first name or a last?"
"Both. Really the last. Nobody knows my first name."
"You like it that way?"
"That's right."
"It's something terrible like Archibald or Ebenezer."
"That's it. Only worse."
"I won't ask then."
"I won't tell you. Go get dressed; let's eat. Are you staying here?"
"Yes."
"What room?"
"Twenty-three."
"Twenty-three? Two-three?" He began to rum the pages of his program. "What the hell was the double today?... Oh, two-four, Well, I'll bet a two-three for you tomorrow."
"What else will you do for me?"
"I don't get you."
"You said you'd buy me the best dinner I ever had. Then what?"
"Then we go to the dog track. Where else?"
"And then?"
"Then we see if we can catch the last game at jai alai."
"Then."
"Then maybe I buy you a few drinks."
"Then."
"Then I drive you back here."
"And."
"And I see if I can get in your pants. What else?"
"Why wait?" she asked. "You mean -- "
"I mean, let's just see how lucky Leopard Girl really is for you, gambler."
He smiled. She held out her hand. He took it and helped her up. They walked to her room.
"Don't lock it," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you might turn out to be a maniac with a razor and in that case I'd want to scream for the college boys who'll be watching outside."
He looked confused, shrugged and didn't lock the door.
"Do you like to undress your girls?" she asked.
"Only if they can't do it themselves."
"This girl can."
"Show me."
She unzipped the back of her suit, wriggled her shoulders to let it slide down and pulled it from the bottom the rest of the way. Naked, she spread her arms, smiling at him. "Disappointed?"
"Not at all."
"Not even with my breasts?"
"More than a handful is wasted."
"Show me why."
They met in the center of the room; they kissed; their tongues met and twined. His hand went to her breast and clutched it.
"Nice nipples," he said.
"Not too small?"
"More than a mouthful is wasted."
"Show me."
He showed her. He cupped her breast in his hand and lavished kisses on it. He pulled at her nipple with his teeth and she shivered with delight.
"You don't need any help undressing, do you?" she asked.
"Never did before."
"Then hurry. Hurry!"
He stripped off his clothes like a man suffering from unbearable heat. She watched from the bed. When he was naked, she lay back and spread her arms.
He came to her slowly. Like a husband, she thought. Like someone who already knew the curve of her body, like one who had no curiosity but acted from the certainty that what he was about to do would be good, guaranteed good. He sank within her. she held tight and closed about, locking his body to her.
Then he was like a lover. A lover with a woman he had long desired. He was excited, aroused, heated, fervent and so was she.
It was lovely for her, slick and easy. They moved well together, as one, both grateful for the gift of each other's bodies, both respectful. She felt him building, growing, rising within her and she hurried to catch him, whipped herself to his tempo and then she felt him. deliberately slow so that she could catch him; and their last moments were a warm chill of ecstasy.
And then they were both vicious hungering animals, pounding at each, clawing at each other, fighting madly for the greater share of paradise and each one's greed for self-fulfillment was a greater gift to the other. Together, they tore the heavens apart and brought a hot splattering rain of passion down upon themselves.
* * *
Later:
"Great Scott," she whispered. "Oh great, great, great, Scott."
"My Leopard Girl."
"Was I?"
"I have the claw marks to prove it."
Silence, a warm contented silence, then:
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"Yes. For you."
"That'll come later," she said. "What about dinner? The best meal I ever had."
"That'll come later too."
"Seriously. If we're going to eat dinner and still have time to go to the dog track and the other thing you mention."
"Jesus. The dog track!" he said, jumping up. "Come on, get some clothes on, fast! I don't want to miss the daily double."
"We're the daily double," she said; but she hurried to shower and dress anyway.
* * *
It was not the best dinner she had ever had, although it could have been if he had not rushed her through it "You can have coffee at the track," he said, signalling for the check while she was still working on her steak.
She had coffee at the track while he bet the double. He returned ruffling a packet of forty ten dollar tickets, five each on eight combinations. "The number one dog is my key," he explained. "I've got him tied up with all the dogs in the second race. If he wins, we win."
She understood that, generally. They watched the race from the club house. The mechanical rabbit was set in motion, the track lights blazed on, the caller purred: "And there goes Speeedeee!", the rabbit passed the boxes, the doors sprang open and the greyhounds rushed out.
It was the number six dog all the way. He won by a length and a half. Scott ripped forty tickets in half and let them flutter to the ground.
"Expensive confetti," Connie said.
"That's a loser's philosophy," he said. "Here." He peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills. "Go put this grand on the number two dog to win."
She looked at the money and then at him, curiously.
"You trust me with a thousand dollars?"
"Sure. Just make sure you bet it on the two dog."
"How do you know I'm not going to run out on you?"
"I don't," Scott said. "But I'm a gambler and you seem all right to me. Besides, you've got to trust someone in the world. Until I met you, that position was open."
She bet, one thousand dollars on the number two dog. The number two dog won and paid $3.20.
"Now go cash these in," he told her.
Still dazed, she walked to the window and cashed in the ten hundred dollar tickets, returned to the seat and handed him sixteen hundred dollars.
"See how simple it is," he said. "Nothing to it. Now all the suckers who touted themselves off the two dog are crying." He smiled. "That's a lovely sound," he said, "other people crying."
* * *
They heard the sound often that night: and on occasion she heard him 'cry' when he lost. But that wasn't too often.
They left after the eighth race and he drove at hellish speed to the jai alai fronton. "We'll just make the last two games," he said.
She had never seen jai alai before. He explained the game briefly to her. It was a Basque variation of handball, played on a three wall court. The players -- individual or teams of two -- wore curved woven reed baskets strapped to their right hands. The object of the game was to throw the ball (pelota) to the front wall so that when it returned it would be difficult for the opposing player or player to catch and again return to the front wall.
"The nice thing about the game," he said, "is that the pelota is as hard as a golf ball and travels at a speed up to about 150 miles an hour. If a player misjudges a catch and gets hit by the pelota, it could kill him." He signalled the tele-bet girl, a roving ticket seller who took bets and phoned them into the central tabulating office. He gave the girl fifty dollars and told Connie to pick a number.
"Any one?"
"Any one you'd like."
She consulted the program which was barely intelligible to her, looked up at the odds board and decided upon number three. "I liked his name," she explained. "Ermua. Sounds like a cow."
"He plays like one, too," Scott said. "Three to win," he told the tele-bet girl. She handed him a receipt which he passed to Connie. "Hold it for a while. I'll tell you when you can rip it up."
"Why won't he win? He's the favorite."
"Means nothing in this game. It's fixed."
"Then why bet on it?"
"Since you don't know how it's fixed, it doesn't make any difference. Just that favorites don't mean a thing. You can never count on human beings. A horse is only as good as his jock will let him be. In a game like this, it's all up to the men; whether they feel like winning or not; whether they've been told to win or not."
"But I still don't see how you can bet -- "
"Just to be in action. I can't stand to sit and watch a game unless I have money involved."
"Just to be in action?"
"That's right. I get the itch."
He made his own bets. When the night's action was over, he was winning over four thousand dollars on the day, and she was stunned. He stood up: "That's it. Let's get a drink."
* * *
They went to the Kaloa, a splendid Polynesian restaurant disguised as a great thatched hut. The walls were covered with masks and spears; they sat in reed chairs on a grass mat floor and the waiters, in authentic Duke Ha-wa-a-lani shirts, brought them rum concoctions in coconuts.
Scott was gay, bright, witty. A decided change had come over him since they had left the fronton. It was as if the evening was just beginning for him, that the time they had spent at the dog truck and the fronton was just an extension of his working day. Now that the last track was closed, the last race over, now that he could no longer bet, he relaxed and smiled more often. It was as if he were announcing that the money he had won was his, forever, and it could never be taken away from him.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I have a feeling I'm going to hit all nine races at Gulfstream. I think I'll play a parlay. Do you know how much that could be worth?"
She didn't.
"Maybe a few hundred grand if the prices were average."
"Would you stop gambling then?"
"Of course not. I'd just bet more the next day."
"And finally go broke."
"Sure. Didn't anyone ever tell you that? All gamblers die broke."
"But you don't really believe that."
"No. Right now I can't see myself losing another bet for the rest of my life. And I think I'll drink to that."
She drank with him. But she could not help thinking what he would be like on a night when he lost.
That was not that night, however. That night he was a winner in every sense. And she understood what he had meant when he said he was sixteen years old when he won. They returned to her room at the Lucky Horseshoe at three and he made love to her like a sixteen-year-old -- energetically, enthusiastically, exuberantly. He toyed and teased with her body as though he had never been with a woman before -- dabbing kisses on her breasts, tantalizing, avoiding the nipples -- then suddenly surprisingly, grabbing her and mouthing and ravaging the tips of her breasts brutally, pulling, biting, until she squirmed with unbearable pleasure.
"Oh, now," she said. "Now -- now!"
And then he was a man to her, a full man, a complete man who knew and understood every need of her woman's body. He cupped and spread her buttocks, brought her close to him and entered her slowly -- so beautifully slowly -- as though they were two forces drawn together, all-knowing in their mutual need but yet conscious of the pleasure of minute delay, savoring the agony of anticipation.
Slowly, slowly, so slowly, they met and joined and his most intimate probing touch seemed to lock them in an inseparable union of flesh and spirit and they rode together into the star-shattered sky.
Vaguely she remembered him kissing her when he left in the morning but she did not even try to get up then. She was too pleasantly tired, luxuriously tired, the first enjoyable morning-after she could remember having. She felt no regret, no guilt, there were no self-recriminations. She did not feel like a slut, a whore, a nymphomaniac. She felt like a woman who had willingly, lovingly given of her body and took the gratification that was in the giving and receiving of something tendered with love.
She loved Scott -- whatever the hell his other name was. Well, maybe she thought. At any rate, she felt good and it was too rare a feeling to quarrel with. It was the first time in Jesus-only-knew-how-many years she had awakened without the secret dread of what that night would bring, what ugly beast the night hours would find in her bed, in her body.
That morning she knew whom her love partner would be and she spent the day looking forward to the night.
She was sitting by the pool, again wearing her leopard suit, when he returned that afternoon. It was not yet five and only two other horse players had preceded him back to the motel. She saw him walking across the small lawn toward her; she smiled and thought: It's not exactly the same as being in the kitchen of our little white picket-fenced rose-covered cottage when hubby come home from the office but then we're not exactly Mr. and Mrs. John J. Suburbia either.
He sat down at the foot of her lounge and she said brightly: "You're not going to believe this but I want to buy you the best dinner you ever had tonight."
"You won't believe it either," he said playing along without enthusiasm, "but you're going to have to. Otherwise I might not eat."
"Lose?" she asked. It was an absurd question. She could see the loss written on his face. He looked forty years old.
"I tapped out," he said. He looked up at her seriously. Forty was a conservative guess at his age. she thought. His washed-out eyes might belong to a man in his sixties.
"That means I lost it all," he said tonelessly. "All?"
"Everything I had with me. About eight grand. I've got another two or three left in my room."
"What are you going to do with that?"
"What do you think?"
"Bet it at the dog track tonight."
"That's right," he sighed wearily. "Care to come along and see the fun?"
"Not if you think you're going to lose," she said.
"I never think I'm going to lose," he said angrily. "Can't you get that into your head? I never think I'm going to lose!" He flicked his cigarette away and walked to his room.
At six she was dressed and knocking on his room door.
"Scott?"
"What is it?"
"Are we going to dinner?"
A pause, then he opened the door. He had not changed his clothes. He still wore the same checked suit, black jacket, gray slacks. "Let's go," he said.
As expected, he was not gay, bright or witty at dinner. After a while she stopped trying to make conversation and they ate. in silence. He did not look as depressed as he did tense. He had suffered his loss badly but he no longer seemed to be brooding over that; he seemed to be suffering in the throes of losing that evening, desperately thinking, trying to avert it. She was certain that he was going to lose, felt that he realized it also; but she was as helpless and unable to tell him as he was to admit it to himself.
They arrived at the track early. She had a drink while he pored over the charts, chain-smoking. Then, without a word he left her to make his bets, came back ten minutes later riffling the packet of tickets.
"Can I see what you bet?" she asked.
He held up the first ticket. It was a fifty dollar win ticket on the number seven dog.
"That's all?" she asked.
"The others are double tickets."
"All with the seven?"
"That's right."
She glanced up at the tote board. The number seven dog was the favorite at 3-1. "Good luck," she said.
"Don't need it. He's the only dog in the race."
He wasn't. There were, at the very least, three dogs in the race: numbers two, four, and eight. They ran head and head from the break to the finish line at which point the two dog seemed to have a slight nose lead. The photo sign was flashed on the board but Scott didn't look up to notice it. He was busy tearing his tickets in half.
They did not go to the fronton. They stayed for the last race. It was a photo and she knew that his dog was in it. They went down to the track railing and watched the container holding the picture slide down the wire to the judge's room. He kept his eyes focused on the tote board until the last moment; then, when the winning number was posted and the crowd groaned and shouted, he was lighting a cigarette. He looked up as the official announcement sounded, his eyes flickering hate and then he turned. "Let's go," he said.
She was determined to be sympathetically silent on the ride back but it seemed to help him to talk bitterly about his loss.
"My total bankroll," he said in mock boasts, "is something less than six dollars."
"Let's get a nightcap somewhere," she suggested.
"Fine. Just one, though. I want to save something for breakfast."
* * *
"I've been flat broke just twice in my life before," he said over his drink. "The first time was in San Francisco when I was nineteen. I spent the night walking the streets trying to decide how to raise the two hundred I'd need to get back into the poker game that had taken me for two grand. At about six in the morning I decided, rolled three drunks, went back to the game which was still going strong, won back my two grand and two more.
"The other time was in Reno. I was twenty-six then, had lost more than five grand in baccarat and had a quarter left. I flipped it to decide whether I should buy myself a cup of coffee -- I hadn't eaten in about fifteen hours -- or play the slots. It came up tails, I played the slots, hit the jackpot on the first pull and parlayed that twenty bucks into nine thousand in two nights."
"So you're not really worried now?"
"Who's not?" he laughed. "I'm scared blue."
"I've got some money," she offered.
"So does Fort Knox. But I'm not borrowing from either one of you."
"You'd rather roll a drunk?"
"I'd rather steal than borrow any day. Less obligation."
They had only one drink then went back to the Lucky Horseshoe. She was surprised when he did not leave her at the door. But was not surprised when he watched her undress without making a move to undress himself. His eyes were dispassionate as her nakedness was revealed before him and she felt both embarrassed by his lack of interest -- as if it pointed up some inadequacy of her part -- and also sad. They were like husband and wife now, she thought -- a couple married for a long time who had retreated each to their personal problems. She could not reach him and he was not interested in reaching her. She slipped into bed and waited.
"Should I turn off the light?" she asked.
"I'D get it," he said.
He clicked off the switch and in the darkness she heard him start to undress.
When he was naked he climbed into the bed beside her, their bodies barely touching and lay there staring up at the ceiling. She turned and pressed her body against him, her thigh between his legs.
"No," he said quietly.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
"No."
She did not ask why he was in bed with her then. She knew. It was the simplest, most basic need of a human being. He wanted company.
Gradually she fell asleep, awoke an indeterminate time later and tried to arouse his sleeping form by rubbing her body against him. Even in sleep, however, his mind was preoccupied and he did not respond.
Well, she thought, just sleeping with a man is certainly a first for me. And she went back to sleep.
He was up and dressed by seven. For almost an hour, he sat in the chair smoking and watching her. It was as if he wanted her to get up but had not the courage to wake her.
He stubbed out the fifth cigarette, half-smoked and began to walk slowly about the dawn-lit room. The sun lancing through the drawn blinds increased the light by millimeters, it seemed; presently it was full brightness inside but still she slept.
He went over to the dresser and opened the drawer. The jewelry case was a tan leather square. He pushed the small gold button that snapped open the lid. The ring was on top, lying on a bed of coiled pearls He picked it up, rolled it in the palm of his hand, weighing it as he assessed its value. He looked over to her again, giving her one last chance to wake up, to catch him, to stop him.
She didn't move.
He dropped the ring in his pocket and left, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rabin held the ring delicately with his thumb and forefinger, examining it. "Is it hot?" he asked.
"No," Scott said.
Rabin looked at him over the rims of his glasses. His sleepy half-lidded eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is it hot?" he asked again. "I can find out easy enough."
"It's lukewarm," Scott said. "I don't think the owner knows it's gone yet."
"And what happens when he does? He calls the cops? The insurance company? Talk to me, Scott. Tell me facts or else I can't give you a price."
"The owner's a she. It might be weeks before she discovers it's missing. I'd guess there's no insurance and she won't call the cops."
"A friend of yourself?" Rabin asked.
"She was," Scott said.
"Ahhh," Rabin sighed. He was a big man and the sigh was a slight tremor shaking the mountainous bulk of his body. He put the ring down and slid his hand across the smooth surface of his desk. "A gambler turned con man," he said. He smiled. "A gambler turned thief. That's a bad sign, Scott. It means your luck is running against you."
"I can get sermons in church," Scott said. "Just give me a price. Are you interested in buying it or not?"
"I'm interested in buying anything," Rabin said. He turned and pushed a button on the side of his desk. Less than a minute later the door to his left opened and a short rotund man with tiny eyes waddled in.
"Irving, look at this," Rabin said. He pushed the ring toward him.
Irving looked at the ring, solemnly for a moment. "It'll take a half hour," he said.
"It'll take a half hour," Rabin repeated to Scott. "Irving's my expert. He knows everything there is to know about jewelry. In a half hour Irving can tell me exactly what the ring is worth wholesale, retail, to me, to you and where it was made. Right, Irving?"
Irving smiled gummily. "Sometimes," he said modestly.
"All right," Scott said. "But make it as quick as you can. "I want to make the double today."
"The double," Rabin said to Irving. "Mr. Scott wants to make the double at the race track, Irving. So make it quick for him."
Irving nodded, turned and disappeared through the door he had entered.
Rabin smiled after him then opened the top drawer of his desk and produced two fresh decks of cards. "A little gin to pass the time?" he suggested.
"I've got no front money," Scott said.
"We'll play small," Rabin said. "Hundred point freezeouts for five hundred a game. Double for shneids. No spades. If you lose a couple of dollars I'll give you credit on the ring."
"All right," Scott said. "But I quit as soon as Irving comes back."
"Fine," Rabin said. He slid one deck across the desk, began to open the other. "Just to pass the time," he said.
* * *
The time passed quickly. They played three games before Irving returned. Rabin won them all; the last was a shneid. "Two thousand dollars is the total I get," Rabin said as the rotund man entered.
Scott didn't answer; he turned to regard Irving. But Irving waited until Rabin addressed him.
"I said I get two thousand," Rabin said. "Is that right?"
"Yeah," Scott said. "What about the ring?"
"The ring," Rabin said. He turned to Irving. "What about the ring, Irving? Mr. Scott wants to know."
"A nice ring," Irving said. "Harry Winston's. Would cost about four thousand to make; would sell for about five thousand."
"How much would Winston's pay to get it back?"
Irving shrugged. "Maybe forty-two hundred. Maybe a little less."
"Ahhh," Rabin sighed. "Did you hear that, Scott?"
"I heard," Scott said.
"He heard," Rabin said to Irving. "In that case, Scott, I'll make you an offer of thirty-five hundred for it. That sounds fair, doesn't it, Irving?"
Irving nodded.
"And," Rabin continued, "since you owe me two thousand now, I'll write you a check for fifteen hundred which you can cash at my bank across the street and we'll be even."
"All right," Scott said.
"Fine," Rabin said. "Irving, thank you." He nodded to the little man who turned and left the room. Rabin wrote out a check blew on it to dry it and placed it on the desk within arm's reach of Scott. "There we are," he smiled. "That should be enough to give you a nice start at the track."
"Hardly," Scott said.
"Oh, you're a big gambler," Rabin said. His eyes narrowed. "In that case, I'd be willing to make a proposition. One hand of gin for double or nothing on this check."
Scott shook his head. "You play better gin than I do," he said.
"You're a smart man to see that so quickly," Rabin said dryly. "In that case, I'll give you two to one odds on the hand. I'll put up three thousand to your fifteen hundred. That sounds fair, doesn't it? After all, one hand. That's no indication of better playing. One hand is all luck."
"All right," Scott said. "One hand, your three against my one and a half."
"Cut," Rabin said. Scott cut. "Deal," he said.
Rabin dealt. Scott picked up the cards as they slid across the desk to him but did not look at them until Rabin had finished dealing. Then he fanned them out and assorted them. He had three fives, three nines, the jack and queen of clubs and two red kings. The knock card was a deuce. He passed it up, Rabin took it and discarded the king of clubs. Scott picked it. Now he had three spreads. He regarded his hand thoughtfully and pitched the king of hearts. Rabin let it go and picked, saying. "Ah. High clubs. Well I guess this is safe then." He discarded the king of spades.
Scott passed it up, feeling a cold chill. If he had kept kings he would have had gin then. But then if he had not broken the kings, Rabin would not have pitched that one. Of course. He was thinking like a child because he was so nervous. Easy, he told himself. Easy, you've got him. A five, a nine or the ten of clubs is all you need.
He picked. The seven of diamonds. He kept it and discarded the last king.
Rabin let it go. He picked from the deck, tucked the card into his hand and thoughtfully discarded the eight of spades.
Scott let it go. A five, a nine or the ten of clubs, he kept thinking. He picked the four of hearts, placed it next to the seven of diamonds and stared at the two hostilely. Which one to throw? Well he had the five of diamonds and the nine of diamonds in his hand so the seven looked like the safest. Of course. He pitched it. "Gin," Rabin said smiling.
* * *
He was at the track by three o'clock, in time for the fifth race. He went to the fifty dollar window and bought two tickets on the nine horse, Distant Runner. The bet represented one sixth of the amount of money he had got by selling his car an hour before.
Distant Runner ran a breathless eighth.
He had just less than five hundred dollars left. Suddenly the thought of the money irritated him. He knew he was going to lose it, knew that there was no power on earth strong enough to stop him from losing it. Whichever horse he bet on -- favorite or long-shot --
was doomed to lose, he realized.
That did not stop him from betting.
He walked to the seller's window and bought nine fifty dollar win tickets on Juggernaut, a six to one shot. That left him with exactly thirty-one dollars. Exactly --
and nothing else to sell. The idea exulted him He felt free, weightless, completely without responsibility. He walked to the ten dollar window and bought three win tickets on Juggernaut.
Now he had one dollar left. Just a single dollar. There was no possible way he could bet it so he walked to the bar, ordered a straight Scotch, downed it in a swallow, tossed the dollar on the bar and walked out.
He felt like shouting. Now everything he had was on Juggernaut. Every cent. And he was sure the horse was going to lose. He wanted to go up to a stranger and tell him that, explain that he had just bet his last cent on a horse that he was certain would lose. But he didn't. Instead he went down to the rail and watching the horses being led into the gate for the start.
He found his last cigarette in his jacket pocket and lit it just as the caller screamed: "They're off!" He kept his eyes on the cigarette while listening to the call. Juggernaut broke well and was in front at the first quarter. But it couldn't last, he realized. The horse would fade. He had to fade. It wouldn't be any punishment for him if the horse won.
At the half-way mark Juggernaut was still leading but the field was closing fast.
They'll catch him, he thought. They've got to catch him. The horse must lose because that horse is my sin and sins must be punished.
"-- into the stretch, it's Juggernaut by a head over Roseline. Bird of Prey is third, Philomena is fourth, then comes We'll Show 'Em, Hunter's Boy -- " Die, he prayed. Die, Juggernaut, die.
"-- at the sixteenth pole," the caller said, "it's Juggernaut and Roseline head and head. Juggernaut and Roseline. Philomena is now third moving up fast, Bird of Prey on the outside fourth -- " He gripped the rail tightly, bowed his head and shut out the sound of the crowd. He must lose, he must lose, he must lose.
"-- and it's Roseline by a neck now, Juggernaut second, Philomena on the outside third. Now it's Roseline by a half-length, Philomena second, Juggernaut third... and... as they go across the finish, it's Roseline the winner, Philomena second, We'll Show 'Em third... "
He felt a great surge of relief as he turned from the rail and began the slow walk to the gate.
* * *
She was waiting for him outside.
"Hi," she said cheerfully. "You know I've been standing here for twenty minutes. I saw you inside but I didn't want to bother you while you were betting."
He started to walk passed her but she grabbed his arm. "Hey, wait a minute."
"Go away, Connie," he said.
"Why?"
"Just go away. I don't want to see you and you don't want to see me."
"Why not?"
"Look in your jewelry box," he said. "What's there? A goodbye note?"
"I took your ring," he said. "I stole it. And then I sold it and gambled the money away."
"Oh?" She looked surprised. "What ring was that?"
"The ruby one."
For a minute she couldn't place it. Then: "Oh, that one. Was it worth anything?"
"Don't you know?"
"Uh-uh. I got that ring by mistake. You'd never believe it if I told you how. Anyway, I'm glad it's gone."
It was his turn to look surprised.
"It's you I came looking for," she said. "We're not finished yet, you know."
"Finished what?"
"Making love," she smiled.
"You don't understand," he said. "I said I fast stole your ring from you. Even if the ring didn't mean anything to you, it must make it clear that I'm not exactly the sort of person you'd want to hang around with."
"I know what sort of person you are," she said. "I know you better than you know me. If you won't ask any more questions, neither will I."
He looked at her blankly.
"So you took me and stole the ring," she said. "So I've taken people, too. Lots of them. More than you could ever count. That's life. Taking and getting taken." She took his arm. "Let's go back to the motel," she said.
"But -- "
"I know, I know. You can't be trusted. So you won't be there when I wake up in the morning. Right now I couldn't care less. It's tonight I'm counting on."
He let her take his arm and lead him toward her car. And he knew he would be there when she woke up in the morning.
At least until daily double time anyway.
After all, as she had said, what was life anyway but making love?
