Chapter 1
Rod Bradley was extraordinarily good-looking-someone as young and handsome as himself he thought cynically should be driving a classy convertible instead of the wreck he was pushing along Manhattan's West Side Highway. He had never been to Riverdale, before, but he had confidence in his instinctive sense of direction to help him find the distinguished mansion that was his destination. Would it be his destiny, too?
He took the exit that said Riverdale Avenue and seeing that he was headed right, began to study the house numbers in their plushiest of plushy neighborhoods. Until at last he saw the number he wanted, 1337, worked in fine iron filigree, imbedded in the rough stone wall that fronted the very exclusive and secreted property. A circular drive the ornate iron gates on each end standing open led back into the tree cloistered yard.
Which drive Bradley disdained, not daring to drive his beat up Chevy to the front door. Instead he parked on the street, chose the center gate, a quaint, rustic thing, obviously a relic of a colonial house, reeking of history and decorum. Even as he let himself through the creaky, low door, he couldn't help but note the manse's exclusiveness, telling himself that if everything was as Ken Holman had told him, it was hardly a setting to rouse a policeman's suspicion, let alone tolerate such a crass thing as an out and out raid.
Class, Rod thought. With a capital K.
The late afternoon sunlight, crystalline, subtly shaded by the nearby Hudson, visible from the high vantage point gave the colonial house a timeless serenity and charm. Standing inside the gate, pausing briefly to survey the grounds, the two-storied structure, Rod Bradley again marveled at the incongruity of the setting.
Who'd ever dream-he thought. What a layout!
The lawns and gardens were scrupulously manicured, and stretched for at least three-hundred yards on each side of the house, five-hundred yards in the back. And if space alone did not confer privacy, then the containing wall about the property, the luxuriant stand of. trees, shrubs, and the flowering bushes just inside it did.
To the neighbors, to the casual passers-by, there couldn't be the slightest doubt that this home was eminently respectable and inviolable. It was as if a monster sign were hammered into the velvety lawn: Interlopers, snoopers, peasants, keep out!
The feeling was all pervasive, and Rod Bradley felt like he had no right at all on the lovely premises. This despite the fact that he'd been summoned, and was expected at this minute, somewhere inside that stucco-brick red-tile-roofed house.
Now the man reached the aged stone steps, ascended to a wide, gracious terrace. A riot of flowers bounded the arms, their scent, heavy on the air. And then, at last, he was pushing the doorbell.
Immediately he became conscious of the fact that somehow he was being watched. And while there was nothing so vulgar as a peephole or a two-way mirror, he knew it was so. Impatiently he rang again.
He jerked, looked around to pinpoint the source, as a hidden speaker barked. "Yes, Your name? Do you have an appointment?"
Flustered, Bradley said, "Yes, I'm expected. Will you tell Miss Innstrom that Rod Bradley's here. I have a three-thirty appointment."
There was momentary silence, and then the massive, plank door opened. To reveal an equally massive man standing within. Brawny, muscular almost to deformity, standing over six-feet tall, the man made Bradley, five-eleven himself, feel small in comparison. He was bland-faced, indication of subnormal intelligence, an ingrained expression of animosity carved into his features. And yet, somewhere along the line, manners of a sort had been pounded into that brutish skull. For, with ponderous elan, he stepped back, ushered Bradley in.
"This way, sir," the man undoubtedly the house's "muscle," said. "Miss Innstrom's expecting you."
There was a long corridor, coolish and gloomy, and yet, with the sunlight streaming in from various ante-rooms, still somewhat pleasant and inviting. Plank floors, graced here and there by large, braided rugs, carried out the antique motif. Iron hoop chandeliers hung from the exposed beams. Sparsely spaced, straight-backed settees and chairs lined the walls.
It was hushed in the hallway as Rod followed his guide, and he sensed let down. Then he caught himself. What'd you expect, jerk? To see women running naked in the halls? To hear them screaming and thrashing in then-fuck sessions in a distant room somewhere?
He felt an evil stabbing as they passed a branch-off in the corridor, and he saw the wide, oak-bannistered stairway leading up to the second floor. That's where good hot fucking takes place, he thought. Anyway, according to Ken.
"In here, sir," the muscle-bound man said, stopping before a plain, unpretentious door. He buzzed twice. "Go right in."
Behind the door the early Colonial-American decor was abruptly blitzed, as everything suddenly became screamingly modern. Perhaps the contrast made it seem so. There was a small anteroom, tastefully furnished, and a table upon which papers, pencils, pens, and ledgers were scattered. Plus a modern, electric typewriter.
"In here, please, Mr. Bradley," he heard a female voice hail him.
He followed the voice, found himself in a spacious, sunlit room, which, quite apparently, was used for cunt and prick purposes, being in fact, part of a suite personally occupied by the ravishing, arrogantly smiling blonde who sat on a severe, Danish modern davenport. A blonde who was dressed in a figure-hugging lounging suit, a lusty creation comprised of a too-tight, cutaway jerkin and clinging slacks, both garments made of royal purple velvet. A fluff of lace exploded from beneath the vest, accentuating two huge tits that needed no accentuating whatsoever. Gold slippers graced her pretty, small feet.
One arm on the back of the davenport, one foot tucked beneath her. Olga Innstrom was a vision of feminine loveliness. Large breasts, sleek ass molded legs that wouldn't quit. Not to mention a mouth-watering cunt that the material exposed in detail. A vision of mouth-watering sensuality. A tempting picture that drove the pressing, imminent business from his mind. Business that was now suddenly slapped in his face as he saw three glossies, all of himself, propped up by pillows.
"Hello Rod," she said coldly, "right on time, I see. I like that. Promptness is of the essence in my life." She lifted her cigarette holder, took a long, almost sensual puff. "Other things I like too. Like the way you stared when you walked in. Flatters a woman's ego to have a man look at them like that. Especially an older woman like me." Her look turned hard, calculating.
"You dig girls, don't you? You're the kind of guy who gets the urge to fuck everyone he sees, aren't you? That's important in my business, too."
Rod was suddenly defensive. There was something too cold, too self-assured about the woman. His fleeting admiration and desire to screw her swiftly diminished. He imagined seducing her would be like making love to a machine.
"Not every girl," he forced a smile. "Only the pretty ones. Like you."
"Better and better, Rod. I can call you Rod, can't I? Gallantry is an all-too-necessary prerequisite around here. Sit down, won't you?"
He headed for a chair ten feet from her. "No," she laughed. "Here, beside me. So I can take you in better. In the flesh. These pictures don't do you justice."
He smiled, returned, sat beside her. "Ken got them to you all right, huh?" It was a stupid thing to say.
She wrinkled her nose. "Ken? His name is Kenneth. You will please refer to him as Kenneth whenever you're on the premises. Kenneth's much more attractive sounding."
Bradley blundered again. "You mean it's all set?"
"You're leaping to conclusions. Mr. Bradley. I said no such thing. There are quite a few matters we have to be sure of. You can understand that, I'm sure. I just can't let anyone come in here and..."
"Yes, I understand. I'm sorry."
"Kenneth tells me you're down on your hick, Rod. Although that doesn't necessarily follow. I certainly don't see why any red-blooded, virile, normal male would have to be in sad straits to take a job in my... how shall I put it... employ? Some men would pay me, I imagine." Her eyes pierced his. "You are a virile, normal man?"
Gradually some of Rod's usual bravado returned. "Last time I fucked I was. Would you like to have me prove it, here and now?"
Trace of a sneer formed on her lips. "That remark was uncalled for. If you're hired, you'll have every opportunity to prove yourself. But not with me, luckily."
She opened the manila folder, put a pair of black-rimmed, sequinbowed glasses on. "Kenneth and I had quite a long talk about you. He certainly thinks highly of you."
The feeling's mutual, I'm sure."
"Loyalty. Another good trait. Do you mind if I review this with you? To verify things, so to speak?"
"No, ask me anything you like."
"Yes," she murmured preoccupiedly. "Rod Bradley. Is that your real name? Or a Hollywood stage name?"
"That's my real name."
"Mmm, good. Rod Bradley, born Springfield, Massachusetts, twenty-six years old, parents still living, though you haven't seen them in five years. Stevedore, salesman, carny barker, truck driver, and finally salesclerk in New York. You do get around, don't you?"
"I do all right."
"Sounds like you're a very disorganized, unsettled young man."
"I got time to settle down when I get old."
"Well said. To continue. No personal tragedies to speak of, you've never been married, you finished high school, took one year at Columbia, then dropped out." She looked up. "What happened? Didn't you and education see eye to. eye?"
"I got sick of it. It seemed unrelated somehow. I couldn't see how reading Keats and studying about the Spanish Armada had any bearing on the way life's being lived here and now. I guess I got itchy, wanted to go where things happened."
"Like in St. Louis? When you were driving a truck for Richmond Freight Incorporated?"
Instantly Rod Bradley went rigid; he felt the blood drain from his face. St. Louis? Richmond Freight? How had she found out about that? I know I never told Kenneth anything about that deal.
"Surprised, Rod? Please don't be. I certainly wouldn't be one to hold a thing like a hijacked truck of high grade booze against you. And besides, they never were able to prove it, were they? When a person's in a jam, when he needs money, hell do almost anything, won't he? Even to stooping to fuck for Olga Innstrom?"
"How'd you find out?" he husked. "I thought..."
"You thought you'd gotten away with it? I've got my ways of finding out things. Don't look so stricken, Rod. Your secret's safe with me, I mean. I'd never tell. Unless you ever crossed me, I mean. I imagine I could make things pretty hot for you if I tried. Especially since I know who your fence was."
She sorted among the papers in the folder, brought out certain photostated affidavits, a bill-of-sale among them. "Remember this? How Don Lanza made you sign it? So he could at least plead innocent if anyone ever traced the stolen load to him?" She smirked. "And, since Lanza's been dead for six months nobody would get hurt but you?"
"You don't miss a trick, do you?"
"Just so you know where you stand, Rod. So you understand this is no nickel and dime operation. The big boys have got a finger in this thing, they look out for then-own." Olga Innstrom paused, smirked meaningfully at Bradley. "Whether you come in with me or not; whether I let you come in, has no bearing. I'm covered either way. You'll never breathe a word to anybody. You won't dare."
She fanned out the glossies before her. "Pretty pictures, Rod. Real pretty. You're a gorgeous prick, Rod. I've got clients who'd get stomach cramps from wanting that cock in them. You bring out the material instinct in a woman, or something like that."
Abruptly she was all business again. "Let's get on with this. You worked at Rodney's in New York, didn't you? In men's suits. That right?"
"I'd expect you would. Some Jane you were loving then got you hipped on the theater bit. All of a sudden you were taking courses at the Drama League, you were trying out for walk-ons in off-Broadway productions. You had a summer at one of the yokel barn shows. And right away you figure T.V.'s missing a good bet. Any luck?"
"Nothing yet. There's an independent outfit that's interested; they told me to check back."
"Don't bother." She pursed her lips. "They fold fast, those fly-by nights. Notoriously no pay." She sniffed, dropped the typewritten sheet back into the folder.
"You're presently Irving in a flea-bag apartment and your money's running out."
Olga Innstrom's eyes mocked him. "You been making out with any of the co-eds? I hear Thompson Street is crawling with them. Or maybe the Drag crowd's more your speed. Some of those boys'd fight for a trick like you."
Rod bristled. "I'm strictly hetero, Miss Innstrom. I get along okay, and not from dewy-eyed college girls either. Anyway, my love life is my business."
"On the contrary, Rod. Your love life is very much my business. Because once you sign up with me, you aren't going to have any outside love life. You're going to be saving all your goodies for the paying customers."
"You put it so delicately."
"Delicately or not, that's the way things are." She dropped Bradley's eight-by-tens into the manila file. "Now, dear. You've met me, you've met my strong arm boy, Mack Calabrio. You've seen the layout, no doubt you're convinced it's a safe bet. You know you'll get no chance to con me. I imagine Kenneth's filled you in on the kind of operation we run here. That right so far?"
"Check."
"You're a drifter, Rod. As far as I'm concerned, that's all you'll ever be. Maybe if you came in with us it'd help you get hold of yourself. Moneywise anyway. The other I can't guarantee. Now, before we go any further, tell me, do you want in or not? No hard feelings. But if I ever find out you shot off your mouth about this, you'd better watch out, that's all." Her eyes probed his. "I have a damn good idea you're desperate for this job, what your answer'll be. So, before I waste any more time with you, let's have it. Yes or no?"
For a solid sixty seconds Rod was silent, looking down at his twisting, knotting hands. Sure he knew what Olga Innstrom's operation was, he knew it was ugly and perverted. Also he knew that the woman knew him almost better than he knew himself. Her capsule biography of the disorganized mess he'd made of his life. And God knew, he was desperate, he was broke, he needed a stake. If Kenneth hadn't painted the life with such glowing colors, if he hadn't harped on the easy money so incessantly, he'd never have considered it in the first place.
But there was one thing he hadn't counted on. That was the vulpine Olga Innstrom's knowing about that one most darning secret in his past. That altered things considerably. But even so, he temporized, what difference does it make? Money's money, and money was what he didn't have right now. Jobs weren't to be had. Not jobs that would give him time to circulate, to make the casting office rounds. So what? They'd get along fine; even without the gentile blackmail they'd have gotten along fine. And why blame Olga? She has to look out for herself too, doesn't she?
"Well, Rod?" she prompted, breaking into his reverie.
"Yes," he muttered. "I want in. Providing the money's right."
"The money's just what Kenneth told you. We split down the middle. You've got no sweat there. We charge what the traffic'll bear, and you'll always get your share. You'll have no gripes. Ask any of the other guys about that. A happier, better paid stable of stallions you won't find."
"AH right," he agreed. 'That's fine by me."
"Good. Glad to hear it." She leaned back, smiled lewdly. "Now, if you'll stand up, we'll make the final-
"Stand up? What do you mean?
"Oh, God, for a city boy, you sure act sappy. Standup, I want to look at you, see what kind of stud I'm luring. Stand up, do you hear?"
Dumbly Bradley rose, stood before her, an expression of intense bafflement on his features. Self-consciously he fidgeted, not knowing what to do with his hands.
"Turn around," she smirked. "Let's see that handsome frame."
Slowly and somewhat clumsily, Rod turned. "Peel off that jacket. I want to see those shoulders."
Bradley shrugged out his suit jacket. Turned to face her. And instantly quailed before the domineering, scathing mask her face had become. "Okay, baby. Now the rest. Peel it off."
Bradley felt his hair prickle all over his scalp, a shudder brought goose bumps to his arms and legs, all down his back. "What...?" he gulped. "You mean..."
"Yes," she snarled. "Undress, stupe. You don't think I'm putting you on without seeing what I'm getting, do you? My clients pay through the nose for the fucking they get, they've got the right to expect nothing but prime beef. Hurry it up, now! Or are you changing your mind? There's the door if you are."
For long moment Rod Bradley stood dumbfounded before the beautiful blonde. Not like this, he thought. It just doesn't happen like this. A dame you've never seen before just doesn't up and tell you to strip because she wants to see your prick.
"Right here?" he muttered. "With the windows open and everything?"
Don t worry about those windows. Unless you're going to let some flowers and weeds panic you. Now, for the last time, are you going to strip or not?"
Woodenly, his face distorted in an expression of utter disbelief, Rod's hands came up, began to undo his tie.
"Now you're getting some sense," Olga sniffed.
She halted him when he got down to his shorts and undershirt, made him turn around several times, her eyes greedily assessing his thin, bronzed legs and arms. Then, at last; "Okay, Rod. The rest now."
He'd never felt so foolish in his life. As he stood naked in the middle of the elegantly appointed, modernistic living room. Perhaps had it been a darkened bedroom, or even a bathroom. But this... Reflexively his hands dropped, crossed to conceal himself. But with an imperious gesture the woman waved his hands away. Let her eyes bore and flit over his body. Always they returned to his cock and balls.
The man Olga Innstrom saw was a lean, bronzed specimen, as trim as a halfback.
His shoulders were hard, his chest blocky, his pectorals looking like polished granite. He was a handsome man, his face on the verge of prettiness, the effect marred by a too sharp jaw line, a too intense twist at the mouth. His eyes, crouched beneath shaggy eyebrows, seemed tormented. His hair, coarse and almost straight, a dark brown color, accented his piercing stare.
"Very nice," she sighed, her gaze turning briefly opaque. "Very, very nice." She sat erect, put her feet on the floor. "That tan becomes you. You've got a marvelous figure." She laughed thickly. "And I do mean figure."
Now she relaxed, fell back into the cushions. "Come over here, Rod. That's it. Raise your arms. That's it. Mm. Some dame's gonna swallow her gum, taking that in... "
Her hands came out and Rod jerked as he felt the soft fingers stroking his back. As he felt them sweep down his spine, flutter over his ass. Then they rested on his hips, gently but firmly turned him around. And while he stood before her, she stared at his dong to her heart's content.
"Rod," she intoned. "Very nice. How appropriate. Some Rod! That's the very best for sure."
Rod winced. It wasn't the first time he'd endured the pun. Practically every girl he'd ever fucked used it. If they had any imagination at all, imagination that made making love something more than mechanical reactions they wouldn't have said it. He hadn't expected the cliche from Olga though.
Now he was startled anew. As Olga Innstrom began to slide her hands on his chest. Now on his stomach.
She laughed in cold deprecation. "Is that the best you can do, boy? C'mon, get with it."
Her hands moved faster around him. Then they slid down his legs, began stroking his legs. Her success was almost instantaneous. His limp prick, though about seven inches, now grew and swelled until its length was at least ten inches. It was two-and-a-half inches in diameter with a huge, purple head accentuated by the large "eye".
"There, dear," she soothed. "That's more like it. Much more like it. That's the kind of stud this place needs."
Abruptly she was tired of the play. She pushed him away. "You'll do nicely."
All at once he was seized by the strongest desire to humiliate the woman as she'd humiliated him. "Are you sure that's enough? Maybe you'd like some other demonstration?"
She looked holes through him. "Not, today, sonny You're special, yes. But not that special. I've get boys here that outrank your cock by quite a bit. If I'm ready, I know where to go for some real cock. And for now, it won't be your door I'll come knocking at. Maybe someday, dear, but not today."
She turned her back on him. "Go in the other room and get dressed. Then come back in here, and I'll fill you in on all the rest."
Now fully clothes, sitting in an uncomfortable chair near Olga Innstrom, listening to her tick off a long list of rules governing the establishment she presided over, Rod Bradley found it hard to believe that the interlude of a scant five minutes ago had really happened. The woman was so coldly impersonal now, it was impossible that she'd commanded him to disrobe, had assessed his body, prick and balls in such a forthright and cold manner. And yet, happen it had.
There are many and varied restrictions. Such as:
The prohibition of cameras, miniaturized tape recorders, or any other equipment that might be used to the detriment of the house's female patrons. Mack Calabrio, the bouncer, would personally search and every one of the "boys" upon entry, and heaven help the man who was caught trying to smuggle any such documenting impediments into the house. "Boys" on duty would drive their cars into the huge garage behind the house, would enter by a rear door. Each of the dozen or so regulars was invested with tenancy privileges, and could live in the house if he chose. For a price, of course. A price too rich for Rod's blood, and which fringe benefit he turned down.
The "boys" would be available on six hour call, and would come in on stand-by basis if they desired. A practice which, in the long run, would prove lucrative, as there were, at that very moment, three well-heeled society women upstairs getting their cunts fucked to distraction by the house's stand-by crew.
Which brought Olga to an important point. The house would have a flurry of business tonight. Thus the hurry up summons this afternoon. Mrs. Vivian Gabriel, wife of John Gabriel, owner of the Gabriel chain of drugstores, would be his client that evening at nine-thirty. And after that, who knew what else would turn-up?
There was something about the women arriving in the house cars, something about rare occasions when the "boys" would have to go on the road, but information was coming so fast that Rod couldn't catch it all. The name of Mrs. Gabriel, one of New York's most outstanding socialites, rang in his mind, burned him with astonishment.
My God, he raged, things like this can't really be. Not in this day and age. What incredible passion frenzy must possess the Gabriel woman that she'd jeopardize everything, past, present, and future, for a night at Olga Innstrom's unique joy house?
"I don't need to tell you to be sensitive with Vivian," he broke from his thought to hear Olga saying. "She's a new reference and this will be her first visit. I'm going on Kenneth's recommendation that you are an accomplished loverman, that you'll be able to fuck her in fine style. Even make Mrs. Gabriel want to become a regular guest."
"I understand, Miss Innstrom. I'll do my best."
"You'd better. Remember, no cave man stuff. Some of the girls you'll have will want you to rape them. But until you feel Mrs. Gabriel out, discover her special quirks, play it cool."
"Am I being pushy if I ask how much she'll pay?"
"I told her two-fifty. She never let out a whimper." Olga rose, indicating the interview was over. "Any other questions?"
"I don't think so. You said nine-thirty?"
"You'd better come at eight. Let Mack get you set up. Kenneth will fill you in an other, more intimate details."
Olga stopped him in the small room leading to the ball. "There's a little story I should tell you, I suppose," she said. "Just in case you're looking at things from a cockeyed angle. Perhaps you wonder that a place like this exists, can do a land office business. Well, if you do, you don't know as much about women as I thought you did. Women have needs, just like men. Sometimes even worse. Only they have it rougher. Most of them care about their reputations. They can't go out on the town and do something about that itch as easily as men can. A place like this is perfectly natural. They're commonplace in Europe; Chicago and Los Angeles have had them for years.
"I'm getting sidetracked. I started to tell you a story. As a case in point. This may surprise you, but Trudy Shaw is one of our regular clients."
"Trudy Shaw," Rod gasped. "You mean the Trudy Shaw? The T.V. and movie star? My God, she's worth millions; certainly she doesn't have to revert to... "
"Let me finish. The truth is that Trudy Shaw, at thirty, beloved to millions of fans all over the country, the same doll who plays in all those inspirational and religious shows, is an uncontrollable nymphomaniac. She's got ideas about fucking that curl even my hair. She wears out two, three guys every time she drops in. Once she was here for a week straight."
"It can't be true. Not Trudy Shaw."
"Now here's my point, sport. That talented and beautiful woman's got a monkey on her back just as bad as any junky or alcoholic alive. So what's she supposed to do about it? Jeopardize her reputation, her career, destroy her faith of millions of fans by alleycatting around? Which is worse? That, or her coming here to let off steam? It's her secret, and it's going to stay her secret. I'm not going to tell, neither is any boy fucking in this dump, you included. That's why all the security precautions."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at things."
"It's the only way. Listen. By coming here a gal like Trudy's able to keep on an even keel, she's able to go on making her much needed contribution to the world. And who are we to criticize if she's got this sick thing?" Olga's eyes narrowed, her voice took on a hissing tone. "There isn't a human being alive who isn't hiding some ugly secret."
Now she refocused her vision, became calm. 'Trudy Shaw's only one of dozens of female T.V. and stage stars who give us their problems. Women who are married to cold fish, to husbands who insist on fucking the asshole even some tangled up with faggots. Physical love is a natural function; some people, men and women alike, have to have it more than others. And when they can't have it, what're they supposed to do? Go out of their minds, do something disastrous?"
She stopped, stared at Rod. "You see what I'm getting at? There are places for men. Why not for women?" Olga smiled in odd mischief. "You might consider we're running a clinic here. Granted, it's only for those who can meet the stiff rate, but that's the way it has to be, police protection and security being expensive as it is. And you Rod, are about to become a doctor in that clinic. Think this all over, dear."
Rod turned away, tried to conceal his troubled state of mind with flippancy. "Just call me Dr. Kildare," he said.
"See you tonight," she smiled. "Around eight."
He broke from her, strode rapidly down the hall. Then hesitated, turned as she called his name again. "Yeah? What is it?"
"You'll do us both a favor Rod, if you park that crate of yours in the garage as soon as possible. It hardly adds class to the place."
Mack Calabrio seemed to appear from out of nowhere and after taking him through a number of winding hallways, they ended up in the rear of the house. Obediently Rod trotted around to the front driveway, started up his car and parked it where its ancient lines would disturb no one. Then he took a deep breath, for some reason the fresh air was very welcome and smelled good in his nostrils.