Chapter 4

Time had passed by this part of the city, as it eventually does all the parts of a city of artificiality. It is a weird, unclean melange of rundown stores, and shops, decrepit houses, shabby hotels and model studios.

"BEAUTIFUL GIRL MODELS"-"STARLET STUDIOS"-"GLAMOR GIRL PHOTO STUDIOS"-"FIGURE MODELS"-These are the signs that hit the eye from storefronts and lofts along the main street.

And it was here that the business card directed the weird man with ambition and ideas as he got out of his car looking around him in joy and wonder.

"Didn't know there was anything like this," he told himself, his brain in a delicious whirl as he saw the various signs that heralded the beauties hidden behind the curtained windows. "This is the answer to my dreams."

The card directed him to a walk-up studio where a man was sitting behind a desk cleaning his fingernails. He was small and sleek and his hair was greasy. A girl lounged on a cheap couch, her heavily-mascaraed eyes drooping sleepily as she read a paperback.

The man at the desk looked up. "Yeah?" he grated.

The visitor swallowed and said, "I was told that you are agents for models."

"That's our business. They pose in back and we supply equipment and film. Ten bucks an hour for the posing and it's extra for props and costumes."

"No. I mean I need a model to pose for me. I'm shooting pictures for a bookstore on Main Street."

The man's eyes crinkled. The girl turned a page fast, her attention all on the printed words. The visitor shifted from one foot to another as he stood in the middle of the floor and began to feel the small tingle of apprehension in his breast.

"What bookstore?" the man asked after a long pause.

The visitor held out the card. " I don't know the name of the place. But the man gave me this."

The card was studied and then handed back without a word. The man opened a drawer and took out a large album. He spread it open on the desk and then invited the visitor with his eyes to come closer.

"Pick out what you want," he said, "and then I'll let you know if they're available."

The girls were posed on strong light. Their eyes stared, their mouths gaped in frozen, cold smiles. And they were of all sizes and shapes to fit all needs. Each picture had a number next to it, a code to the girl's identity.

The visitor's eyes passed quickly over each photo, the man looking at him and waiting for a nod. But the visitor shook his head and the man turned another page, sighing softly.

And then the visitor's eyes fell upon one face and he slammed the page down with his palm.

"That one!" he exclaimed.

The girl on the couch looked up from her book for an instant and then went back to reading. The man peered at the photo and the number.

"She's available," he said. "Want me to get her over here?"

"No. I have my own ideas on how to pose her."

"I see. You got places to take her?"

"That's right." The visitor's eyes were frozen to the baby face and the blonde curls of the girl in the photo.

"You got your own studio, is that what you mean?"

"No. I want to take outdoor shots."

"I see." The man started to turn the page but the visitor stopped him, holding the page down hard.

"I don't want to see any more," he said. "This is the one."

The man shrugged. "Okay by me. If that's it, that's it. She's a good kid, too. Game, know what I mean?"

The rat eyes pierced those of the visitor. "Anything within reason. But nothing rough. That was all explained to you?"

"Huh?"

"The guy at the bookstore."

The visitor nodded, still staring at the photo. "Yes, he explained it to me. He knows what kind of pictures I'm taking."

"Are you going to sell him the shots? Is that the idea?"

"He'll buy all lean take."

"Then Rene is the dish for you, all right. She's pretty good at that kind of stuff."

The visitor didn't have to be told that. He had been acquainted with the blonde's face for a long time-through the magazines he had collected. Her face and figure were as familiar to him as if she had been a friend. The minute he had seen her picture he knew that she was the one he wanted.

He licked his dry lips as the man wrote a name and address and phone number on his business card.

"She's busy for two days but she'll be free for a day after that," the man said.

The visitor took the card. "That's fine." He read the name. "Rene Clark."

"Yeah. I'll call her and make the appointment with her so she'll know it's okay. What time do you want to make it?"

"Nine o'clock in the evening. Wednesday."

The man nodded. "You pay her fee," he said dryly. I know who sent you so the rate's two bucks an hour. But you gotta use her at least five hours. And you pay her in advance. You gotta buy her food too while she's working for you."

The visitor clutched the card in his hand and left, murmuring a thank you. The girl looked up from her book.

"Got us another kooky one, huh?" she asked lightly.

"Don't laugh, honey," said the man. "That's the kind that keeps the wolf from the door."

The girl shrugged rounded shoulders and pouted. "He's still a kook," she said, and returned to her book, escaping her own world once again to plunge into the adventures of a tough private eye.

The man got into his car. I've got two whole days to get everything ready. And then it will be done, as I've always wanted to do it-to a woman this time; not a man.

Whenever he had a spare moment, he worked on his car, getting it into condition. He checked the tires and made sure that they were solid and good rubber. He tuned up the motor, adjusted the carburetor, checked the spark plugs and the battery.

The Olds was an old car but he, with his expert knowledge, knew that it was in good shape and he kept it that way. He could drive it to Hell and back again, it was that good.

During his lunch hour he went to a sporting goods store and bought two desert water bags. He also picked up some strong rope and a length of chain, a shovel, a pail, and a gallon thermos. He found a picnic basket that contained dishes, knives, forks, spoons and cups, and he bought that too. He bought an army blanket and a flashlight.

While he worked at his job, he also worked on his car, getting the motor as perfect as he could. He stored the things he had bought in the trunk along with the suitcase that held his photographic equipment.

On the night of the appointment he went early to the address given him at the model agency and parked his car across the street from it. And when he saw the girl in the photo-the girl he wanted-come out and leave with another man, he couldn't believe what he saw.

Now he really hated her. She was just like that terrible prostitute back home, witless, cruel, and he would teach her a lesson.

It was too bad that old Barny had to die; he had been harmless, unlike these miserable women. But then, it had been good practice and it had taught him a valuable lesson. Now he knew how to do it and get away with it.

The rest of the world wouldn't understand what he had to do. Everyone else was like this girl, carefree and unfeeling, without consideration for those who had deeper and more significant emotions. So he had to do it and keep it quiet, even though he longed to tell the world what he was going to do so that he would be acclaimed and appreciated.

But that, of course, was impossible. The only thing to do was do it and get it over with in secret.

The only thing to do was to teach that rotten whore a lesson.

Except that she wouldn't live long enough to appreciate it. Driving along, he thought about this and parted his lips in a grin. He stopped for a light and a motorist next to him glanced at him and looked away shuddering.

"I want to make a complaint," he said into the phone.

"Who is this?" asked the harsh voice at the other end of the phone.

"I was in your place the other day and you arranged for me to get a model, remember? For some pictures I was going to take?"

"Oh, yeah. What do you mean about a complaint?"

"Well, that model you sent me to see-Rene Clark-she didn't keep her appointment with me."

"That's too bad. Something unexpected must have come up. Well, do you want me to get you someone else?"

"No. Just arrange another appointment, that's all. She's the one I want."

"Just a minute and I'll check her dates."

The man at the agency covered the phone mouthpiece with his hand. The girl still sprawled on the couch, this time with a copy of Pleasure Cruise. "What's with that Clark dame?" he asked. "She broke a date. That's not like her."

The girl looked up. "I dunno. She'll pose for anything for a buck. Musta got sick or somethin'. I can't figure it."

The man made a face and then thumbed through his appointment book. He spoke into the phone. "Miss Clark's available tomorrow night. I'll guarantee she'll be there, sir."

"Do that," said the voice at the other end and there was a click and a hum as he hung up.

"Say, Joe," said the girl, "how do these gals make it as the girl of the month for this magazine?"

"They gotta live clean," said the manager as he dialed Rene Clark's number.

"Oh," said the girl sadly and resignedly as she resumed reading.

Rene, the agent discovered, wasn't home but her roommate said that she would give her the message about the new appointment as soon as she came in.

"Make sure she keeps it this time," the manager said. "I don't want you gals lousing my rep. for reliability. This is a good guy and we want to keep him happy."

"She's out with an old beau from her home town," Dale told him. "It's one of those things, Joe. You know Rene; she'd never break an appointment unless she couldn't help it"

"Yeah. I was wondering. Well, he's coming by tomorrow at the same time. So make sure she's there."

"Don't worry about it. She'll make it this time."

Joe hung up, his lips twisted in a scowl.

"It's ten o'clock," he said. "Get the peepin' Toms outta the joint, Daisy."

The girl on the couch dropped her magazine and stretched with the grace of a cat. Her heavy knockers pushed against the tight blouse and one leg bent upward in a graceful arch. "Cripes!" she purred. "These pictures get me very homey."

"They're not supposed to get to you honey," Joe yawned. "They're only supposed to get guys hot. Unless you're a lez."

Daisy strode to Joe and stood before him, up close so that her tits were just inches off his face.

"You know better than that, Joe." She stroked his cheek. " Unless you've forgotten. Have you forgotten, Joe?"

He busied himself putting away the appointment book.

"I ain't forgotten nothing," he said. "You're the best screw in Nevada."

"How do you know?" she pouted. "It's been a long time."

"Aw, we been busy, you know that. This joint keeps me hopping."

"You didn't used to be too busy, Joe." She settled herself on his lap, her softness melting into him, warm, heavily perfumed. "Maybe later, Joe? After the others go? Like we used to? Joe?"

Joe pushed her off his lap, his face flushed, his mouth working. "Now cut it out, Daisy!" he hissed. "You want to get me in dutch or what? We get caught jazzin', I lose my license. Now clear the kooks out."

Daisy looked down at him, her body twitching, her eyes glaring. "If didn't know you dug me, Joe, I'd think you was screwing somebody else. There ain't nobody else, is there, Joe?"

"You know better'n that. Now let's close up."

Daisy looked at Joe for a long moment, her luscious lips drawn into a pout, a small line marring the smoothness of the space between her eyebrows. Joe took out his keys and locked the desk drawer. He stacked the papers on his desk. He did a lot of things but he didn't look at the girl standing beside him.

She turned quickly and her high heels beat a rapid tap-tap as she moved into the small room in back and pulled the door open.

A group of men faced a nude girl on a platform. Her eyes were closed and she sprawled back, her back arched as she sat on a tall stool. Her hands were poised on the stool so that her body was braced, completely revealed to the silent men.

Their eyes were fixed on that body. Some were wide open, some glazed, some half-closed. There was a heavy, harsh breathing from some of the men; others were breathless. Cameras were on the floor, unused and forgotten. A heavy mask of bodies in a close place, a smell of hot bodies, hung in the still air.

"All right, boys," spoke Daisy. "Time's up. It's ten o'clock. Closing time."

The model slid off her stool and moved quickly through a small curtained opening, vanishing, leaving the men dazed and abashed. They bestirred themselves, picked up their cameras, and left, passing Daisy with their eyes downcast, each man with his own secret feeling of memories and frustrations.

"Check the cameras in at the desk," she announced brightly and in a business-like way. "And come again, gentlemen."

The men had dawdled in slowly, hesitantly, one by one; now they rushed out, hurrying into the night like bad boys scattering into limbo, vanishing into whatever lives and loves they knew or did not know, until the next time when they would summon the courage to return to the shrouded studio.

Joe and Daisy sat quietly until the model came out of her dressing room, looking plain and thin in her street clothes. The girl's eyes were tired and they had crow's feet at the corners.

"Joe," she said hesitantly, "can I ask you something?"

"No loot," Joe responded abruptly. "No more advances for you, Tessie."

"I've got to have it, Joe," the girl pleaded. Her accent was eastern, as provincial as if she had never heard any other. "The rent's due and I've gotta have it."

"What you mean is that your old man's lushing it up and you gotta have loot for him. Forget it, Tessie. Throw the lug out so you can do yourself some good with the dough you make."

"Just three bucks, Joe, that's all."

"Oh, for gosh sake!" exclaimed Daisy. "Give it to her. You take it outta her pay anyway!"

"That ain't the idea, Daisy. She'll be busted come pay day."

"So she'll be busted then. But she'll be happy tonight. Her old man can't boff her unless he's tanked up."

The model didn't flicker an eyelash at this but looked steadily at Joe, pleading with her eyes.

Joe snorted and took out three dollar bills. The model grabbed it and ran, leaving behind her the sound of her grateful gasp.

Daisy locked the door and turned to Joe. "That's how broads are, fellah," she said, unbuttoning her blouse. "When they dig a man, they'll do anything for him."

"Hey!" Joe blanched as he saw what she was doing. "Stop that, Daisy!" he cried.

The blouse was off and now Daisy unzipped her skirt.

"Why should I?" she smiled. " Tessie's gonna get laid, why can't I? Or do you want me to buy you a bottle of hooch, too?"

"Stop it, I said, damn it!"

Daisy left the skirt at half-mast as she looked at Joe. The expression on his face told her that he meant what he said.

"It's been two weeks, Joe," she said slowly. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. I'm not in the mood, that's all. Now come on; let's lock up and get out of this dump."

Daisy refastened the skirt and reached for the blouse.

"You've got another piece of tail," she said quietly. "I know you Joe. You can't go this long without it"

"That's not so," Joe slipped into his jacket and unlocked the door. "I told you-I'm tired and worried about business."

They were silent until they got into his car in the parking lot. As Joe started up the motor, Daisy said, "You said you loved me, remember, Joe?"

"Yes, Daisy, I do love you," Joe sighed.

"And I believe you. Now you tell me that you can't make it with me because of the way you feel. I believe that too."

"Thank you, honey." Joe swung the car into the street. "Just give me a little time. I'll come around all right and things'll be like they always were."

"I'll give you a little time, Joe." Daisy struck a match to her cigarette. "But if you're lying to me-"

"I'm not lying." Joe stared straight ahead at the traffic.

"-But if you are," the girl went on, "you know what'll happen, don't you, Joe?"

He looked at her quickly, his eyes wide and apprehensive.

Daisy laughed. "Oh, don't worry, baby, I won't kill you."

Joe sighed and stepped on the gas to make the next light.

And the girl said softly, "I'll do more than that baby ... I'll cut your dingus off and incinerate it."