Chapter 4

He strode under the long electric blue canopy past three doormen in blue and gold uniforms into the glassy plush entrance foyer and pressed the elevator button. Potted elephant ear grew on either side of the lift, its heavy gloss-green leaves bending down to the circle of earth. He dropped his cigarette butt into the damp soil, figuring how many times a day one of the doormen had to come pick them out, cursing slobs like himself for messing up the expensive decor.

The ride up to Millardson's penthouse was rapid and effortless, the square polished cage jumping eagerly like another anxious, underpaid servant. He touched the doorbell and heard the bing-bong echo softly inside. He waited, conjecturing about how far he was willing to put himself out for the Millardson account.

A maid in starched black nylon with a white starched apron over it opened the door to him, her servant's smile coldly warm but dimpled and charming nevertheless. She said, "Good evening, sir," with a rolled r sound. He hoped she would learn another trade in this country. Make better use of her rosy complexion and healthy peasant body.

Because it was warm, he had forgotten to wear a hat and she had to stop herself from asking for it as he came inside. He winked at her and grinned, noting her finely chiseled ankle bones and finding it a crime that her lovely legs had to be undermined by the lace-up, heavy heeled oxfords.

"I'm Eric Spokane," he said kindly and wanted to add: what's your name and when do you get out of this dump? "I'll tell Mr. Millardson you're here."

"Thank you."

He watched her almost bow herself out, making him feel like some kind of phony royalty. When and if he got this kind of money to throw around, he'd dress his girls in leopard skin suits or maybe pink nighties.

He came further into the room, surveying the gold antique mirrors and brocaded Louis XIV chairs, marveling at the lack of imagination someone had used in furnishing. The place reminded him of a typical movie set and he could see the old lady of the house corseted breathlessly into her champagne colored dress. He sighed, picturing Cee-Zee at home romping around in her skin. The starched collar cut stiffly into his neck.

"Eric old man, glad you could make it."

"Good evening, Mr. Millardson." He grasped the extended hand of the well-knit little man bouncing toward him and smiling broadly behind the thick glasses. The frames emphasized a young shrewdness that seemed to contradict the leathery rolls of age bunching his neck. The sagging skin looked more like a bag pulled over his head with two holes cut in it for eyes rather than part of himself.

"You'd better call me Martin," he said, "or my kids'll laugh at you for being a pompous old goat. What're you drinking?"

"Scotch and water'll be fine, Martin."

Their shoes clicked like race plates on the black and white marble floor as they moved through the hallway into a room -lined up to the ceiling with books. A pool table stood in the middle of the carpet with two cues crossed on it.

"I don't know who's coming for dinner," Martin said. "Anybody's liable to fall in. I hope you're prepared."

"Always prepared," Eric said, taking the glass and sipping from it.

"Good boy. We'll see if we can stir up a little trouble for you. Never met my kids?"

"Never had the pleasure." He thought it curious that Millardson always spoke about his children and never mentioned his wife.

Millardson jumped up on the edge of the pool table and swung his legs. "How about you? No family started yet? Smart thing to get in on the ground floor. I don't go for these bachelors prowling around town. Pub crawling idiots. 'Bout time you became a family man."

"Well, I try."

"Try? That's not good enough. Do. You've got to do."

"I was married. Bad loss and all that."

"Yes, I know. Sorry to hear it, old man. Help yourself to a smoke. On the table beside you."

Eric realized that Millardson had already checked into his personal life. He sipped at the Scotch uneasily. Being married was certainly an asset in conventional business circles, but not all that important. Hilda would have made a good impression, he thought with disgust.

"While we're having this little snort, let's find out who's available to entertain us." He leaped off the table and crossed to a sash hanging beside the maroon silk draperies. "One never knows what's prowling around this apartment. I woke up one morning with a tremendous urge to go horse back riding with my daughter Robin. She's a crackerjack with horses, better than her old man. So I got all spiffed up and knocked on the door. Three minutes later Alvie, that's my youngest, she comes marching by and says what are you doing there, Daddy?

I tell her I'm going horse back riding with Robin. So she looks at me and bursts out laughing. If you want to go riding with Robin, she says, you better catch a plane to Havana. She left yesterday." He put his glass down, laughing the while to himself and shaking his head. "That's what I mean."

The maid came in with tiny silent steps. "Did you ring, sir?"

Millardson scratched the iron gray bristles of his hair. "Can you tell me who's in this blasted house tonight, Kate?"

Her pink and white complexion took on a puzzled look that spread up into her round blue eyes.

"Who's living here now? Since I'm only the father, I thought you'd know better than I do."

Kate swallowed, maintaining her trained smile. "I saw Master Donald early this afternoon, sir."

"Anyone else?"

She drew a breath, trying to think. "Well, Miss Alvie's gone away for the evening...."

"I didn't ask who's out. I want to know who's here. Now Donald, that's a pretty fair start. Is Robin in by any chance? Not that I expect her to be."

"Miss Robin is expected for supper, sir."

He took a long cigar from an inside pocket and snipped off the end of it with a tiny folding knife. "Don't tell me." He turned to Eric. "You're going to like Robin, my boy. She's all firecrackers."

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. Thank you, Kate."

Kate executed a hide curtsy and left.

"You can see who my favorite is," Millardson said. "Girls these days are so pallid. Sour cream. I dislike 'em thoroughly. But not my Robin. I hope she'll be along soon. But you can never tell about her."

Eric discovered he wasn't especially looking forward to an evening with Millardson's kids. He hoped it wasn't going to drag out to all hours. Cee-Zee alone. She might decide on another party. He shuddered privately, making a mental note to see what he could do about keeping business appointments during business hours. There was nothing in his contract that said he had to resign himself to the torture of playing patsy with family brats. He could imagine this Robin creature, oozing money and egomania. Maybe a young nympho or a sprouting junkie. He wanted to comment about how great it probably was to have a fine family but he couldn't cough out the crummy words. He watched Millardson puffing on the cigar and felt a wedge of pity for him. All the money in the world couldn't buy him freedom from this prison sentence imposed by the young Millardsons. He conjectured about whether the old guy might be carrying some kind of guilt that he was trying to atone for through his kids. The possible combinations of skeletons were infinite. But Eric didn't want to know the sob story. He had his own and that was plenty.

The bing-bong of the door floated into the room and Kate's little footsteps were heard on the marble.

"Your father's just been askin' for you." Her brogue lilted in to Eric. He saw Millardson cock his head.

The snicking sound of flat heeled leather shoes came toward them.

"That's my Robin," Millardson said. "Never get her out of those sandals. She was born wearing them." Eric took a breath and prepared himself for the ordeal "Dad?"

Eric opened his eyes in the direction of the low melodious voice. He saw a young girl with auburn hair cut very short. Golden highlights shimmered in the strands pushed away from her high forehead. She moved toward Millardson, her black stretch pants not too tight, yet tight enough to shape the spare, resilient body. Black leather sandals clung to her feet as though she had indeed been born with them on. She kissed her father on the cheek and then turned to face Eric, unbuttoning the toggles of her cotton poplin jacket.

Instinctively Eric rose from his chair, smiling back at the sea-green eyes that focused on him.

"Robin, this is Eric Spokane who has come, in the guise of a friend, to do me out of a fortune of money."

She extended a hand to him with well-bred graciousness of a type one could never learn in a finishing school. "I hope you succeeed, Eric." Her smile revealed white teeth just the least bit uneven, which added a piquant interest to her mouth. The lipstick she wore was a pale orange, put on so very lightly that the color seemed a natural part of the lips, which turned up pixie-like at the corners.

Standing opposite her, he realized that she was much taller than he'd measured. Millardson reached just about up to her nose and he was beaming at her now.

"I'm glad you're not in Havana," Eric said.

She dropped her hands into her coat pockets, a faint blush tinging upward in her cheeks, but she did not drop her glance away from him. "Seems I have no more secrets," she said.

He thought that she must have lots of secrets and that he wouldn't mind finding all of them out for himself. Her nostrils flared slightly under his steady glance and he knew it would be polite to look away. But he didn't.

Millardson started to help her off with her coat, revealing a pearl gray sweater cable stitched in parallel lines over her round breasts, which stood up firmly beneath the light wool.

"Let's get you a drink," Millardson said, "now that you're legal."

"Dad means I'm twenty one," she said. "That was three weeks ago and he's been feeding me Gibsons ever since."

"Do you like them?" Eric said, feeding the conversation. Not giving a damn what they talked about so long as he could keep that lovely voice tuned in.

"Passable," she said. "But not for a serious drinker."

"All right, big girl," Millardson put in. "Name your weapons."

She looked at Eric and at the books and then at her father. "How about ginger ale?"

"On the rocks," Eric added. "Yes."

Millardson glanced from one to the other of them. He was standing behind the cabinet bar, the cigar ash long and dangerously poised above the bucket of ice. "My daughter, for whom I have waited all these long years," he grunted around the thickness of the cigar. "Ginger ale."

But it was obvious that her reply pleased him. He took a crystal highball glass and dropped cubes into it, the clinking sound vibrating like bells.

She drank half of it thirstily, then peered at her watch. "I think I'll do something different tonight," she said.

Both Millardson and Eric waited silently.

"Dress for dinner." She beamed on her father with a special kindness that Eric could not name.

"Praise be," Millardson exclaimed.

"Will you both excuse me?"

"Certainly," Eric replied. He was very conscious that here was a girl who knew her own worth. It gave him the feeling of being very much alive. Though he was curious to see what she would consider being dressed for dinner, he also knew that he wouldn't care if she came to the table in a gunny sack.

When she had left, a tenseness which had unconsciously gripped him began to ebb.

"Now what do you say to my Robin?" Millardson stood complacently jiggling the ice cubes in his glass.

"I say congratulations," Eric replied mildly.

Privately he reflected that sometimes there could be certain compensations for business conducted after hours. He did not intend to persue any further interest in Robin than the casual pleasantries of tonight's meeting. It was a pity he hadn't run into her on a beach or in a bar someplace before he'd met Millardson. In these circumstances, however, it would not be to his advantage, mixing private life with business. No doubt the doting father had plans for his lovely offspring. And he didn't blame Millardson. The percentage of worthwhile females was small enough. And here was one who definitely deserved the best. She should have a guy with something to give besides the usual kicks. For the first time in a long while, he felt used up, shabby. Whatever he'd been born with in the way of decent emotions was long since worn away. He wondered if this was how Cee-Zee felt. As he thought about her, he began to sense an inkling of understanding. Those unpredictable moods, the desire to trade herself for the superficial security of a marriage to someone like Lilio. The more he thought about Cee-Zee, the more he felt their strange comradeship.

But for tonight, he would allow himself to enjoy Robin. He would be a bystander at the spectacle.

"It won't take her long to dress," Millardson commented.

He nodded, expecting that whatever Robin's failings were, they would not become apparent on first meeting. His primary reason for coming tonight was beginning to take second place in his thoughts. With an effort, Eric hauled himself away from musing about Robin. He started to figure an opening maneuver about the account.

But Millardson was apparently in no mood to discuss finances. Already on his third drink, he felt even more than usually expansive about his children and he made no attempt to dilute it with topics that could more easily include Eric.

"Now that you've met the best of my lot," he said, "you can gear yourself to meeting the worst. And mind you, I'm just as fond of Donald. In a different way, of course."

Millardson needed to talk. It was not to Eric's advantage to interrupt him. But the reappearance of Kate saved Eric.

"The blasted supper can wait," Millardson said good-naturedly. He looked up to meet the girl's helpless expression. "All right. We'll come in."

Eric followed them through a long maze of foyer, overly decorated with arrangements of mirrors that caught and reflected light painfully. He wondered which of the family was so interested in looking at himself or herself. They came into a large dining room dominated by deep green panels of silk, green curtains and a green rug that blended with the mahogany table. The room did not feel conducive to eating and he got the feeling somehow that Millardson must often dine here alone.

"Sit down. Sit down. Robin'll be with us in a minute, if I know her."

And he had hardly finished the sentence when she came in again.

She certainly had changed, Eric thought, staring with bad manners at the pale yellow dress which made her eyes a deep emerald. It fell softly over her body, tantalizing him by implying the shape of her beneath it. As she moved, he could tell a soft curve of breast, the narrowing line of ribs as these outlines came and went in shadow. She seemed quite unaware of her body. Only the pink-white shoulders were naked. They seemed untouched. He could not really believe that she might be a virgin. Her very innocence was tremulous like the climbing of passion. A string of tiny pearls dipped into the curve of her throat, but other than that she wore no jewelry. Her slim arms were bare, her fingers too except for the gloss of natural pohsh oudining the ovals and the very white disks extending slightly beyond the tips of her fingers.

Behind her loomed an extremely tall man, almost paper thin. He did not seem to have the strength to hold his spine erect. He bore a caricature resemblance to Robin. Her auburn hair was carrot red on him. And the green eyes had become a watery gray.

"Hello again," Eric said, ignoring the man and speaking directly to Robin.

"Hello," she said softly, reaching behind her and taking the man's hand. "This is my brother Donald." She made the introductions casually.

Eric stepped forward to shake Donald's hand.

"You came on a good night," Donald said from between overlapping teeth. "Robin isn't always here so we can look at her. She is pretty, isn't she? I don't blame you for staring at her. We all wish we could more often." His voice was oddly high, as though part of him had forgotten to go through puberty. As he stood close to Eric, a fine yellow fuzz was visible on his cheeks indicating that he never shaved.

Eric felt himself stiffen. He waited for Robin to stop holding Donald's hand. But instead, she led him to the chair beside her own.

"All right, kids, break it up," Millardson laughed uneasily. "Does anyone know who else might be joining us?"

"I think we're complete," Robin offered. She looked across directly at Eric. "I hope you aren't too disappointed."

"Not at all."

"Why should he be?" Donald took his napkin and shook out the folds.

"Your brother's right," Eric said.

Kate rolled in a tray crowded with tureens and Eric subsided into silence. He wondered how far Robin went in pampering her brother.

Millardson took over the conversation, directing it back to his second favorite topic of horses. Many platters of food came and went. Eric managed to salvage his appetite in spite of Donald. Putting mental blinders on, he concentrated on the glowing Robin, allowing himself occasionally to accept Millardson into his range of view.

"I wanted one of my boys to be a jockey, except that I never got a son in the right proportions."

"We're a gambling family," Donald said. "You've still got time."

"That we are. That we are. I don't suppose you do much betting on the horses, Eric?"

"Not any more. I like a sport where the odds are a little bit more maneuverable."

"And what would that be?" Donald ran his bony fingers through his hair in a weak imitation of his father's habitual gesture.

Eric was about to say women but changed his mind. "There are lots."

"For example?" Robin questioned with an honest curiosity that amused him. He decided at that moment that she must be a virgin.

"Oh, cards, for example."

"You're not a poker player?" Millardson said.

"Yes. A little."

"I guess that's all right if you win. Do you win?"

"I've been winning." He moved the serrated edges of his steak knife slowly through the meat, watching the juice ooze and not wanting to look to see if Robin approved or disapproved. They made an interesting trio, this father and his two so-called children. Donald could be anywhere from nineteen to thirty five. And Robin was the kind who would look seventeen forever. Their personalities seemed to intermingle, making an odd family brew that he would rather have avoided. It seemed inevitable that Millardson had distasteful memories. And, too, it seemed inevitable that Millardson would have to talk about them. Not tonight perhaps. Not next week. But sooner or later. Eric felt that the man was going to get drunk and corner him with the burden of his story. Perhaps he was saving the contract for such a time, unconsciously tying Eric to him by dangling the sweet plum of his account until he had relieved himself of whatever incredible history haunted him. Uneasily Eric stirred in his seat, not sure that his commission was worth it, feeling that he wanted no part of Millardson's past and certainly no part of his future except for the signing of his name on a certain dotted line.

"Donald plays poker," Robin said.

"You're mistaken, my dear. I only watch the game." His thin blonde eyebrows moved nervously on the bony ridge of his skull. "I don't care to be involved." He twirled the stem of the sherry glass in front of him. "To become involved is so...."

He did not stop for lack of the right word, but rather because he did not wish to use it, Eric thought

"... dirty," Eric said.

"Yes." His pale lips widened a little. The ends of his mouth seemed to dissolve away in his fleshless cheeks. "We must talk sometime, you and I."

Not if I can avoid it Eric thought. He glanced over to see how Millardson was taking all this and saw that he had relapsed into his sixth whiskey. But the alcohol had not touched his senses. The eyes remained bright and alert Eric realized that Millardson had been watching him all this while to see how he was evaluating his children.

He struggled through the parfait dessert, avoiding conclusions in his own head about Donald. What troubled him most of all was Robin. She did not seem to mind her brother. He did not affect her. If anything, her protective attitude encouraged him. Eric wondered how long she could go on encouraging him without getting caught in something too distasteful even for Robin's innocence.

In comparsion with all this, Cee-Zee seemed remarkably uncomplicated. He tried to think about her to refresh himself with something familiar. He recalled lying between her legs, the short sounds escaping her wet mouth. He recalled when she sighed: Spooky, you're hurting me. The blunt, predictable action of sex was something he longed for right now in the company of these people who seemed to avoid it, substituting he knew not what perversions of the natural climax.

"Shall we go into the library?" Donald said. He got up and held the chair back for his sister, not touching her with his hands but working his gaze over the outline of her rounded shoulders and downward into the crevice of her gown.

Eric's hand balled into a fist at his side. It could not be that Robin was this unaware of her brother. Yet she smiled and swept up from her seat, refusing a cigarette from her father as though Donald's staring did not exist.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, "I must go upstairs for awhile."

"Letters again?" Donald exclaimed, his voice a trifle higher. "You're going to wear your pen out and that beautiful arm."

She smiled at him. "I'll be down as soon as I can."

Eric stood still until she had gone, cursing the fact that it wasn't Donald who had letters to write. Then he returned with Millardson to the library where Donald took away the pool cues and set up the triangle. He did not invite anyone to play with him but went slowly through the ritual of hitting the balls, playing with sleepy movements that belied his tremendous ability.

"You're a patient man, Eric," Millardson said, rolling the glass he had brought with him between his palms. "I hope I don't try your patience much further."

"You underestimate your friend," Donald said.

Eric wasn't quite sure that this was a compliment but he let Donald's words pass.

"To tell you the truth, I like to avoid business as much as possible. Frankly, I don't give a damn about this insurance. My factories could burn down over night and I'd still have more money than one man could spend in a lifetime."

Eric was not quite so patient as Donald had expected. "Just as frankly, Martin, why am I here?" He accepted another Scotch and set it on the table without tasting it.

"My account could mean a lot of money to someone without it being any skin off my nose. I realize that and I want to do something...."

"Philanthropic," Donald put in.

Eric felt himself getting angry.

"Uh uh," Millardson raised his hand, anticipating Eric's reply. "Donald said that. I didn't"

"Well, just what is it then?" Eric said. He wanted to cut this short before getting involved. Already he could see the growing signs of expansiveness returning in Millardson. He had a way of squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath as though he were preparing to jump from a great height

"My reasons are pretty involved."

To hell with your reasons, Eric thought. Do we get it or don't we?

"I know you don't want me to go into details. You don't strike me as a very patient man, Eric, despite Donald's observation. You're a getter, Eric. I used to be one too. I think Robin is."

"But not your son?" Donald looked up from his bent position over the cue.

"That's right. Not my son." Millardson's words were clipped. His camouflage of pride was beginning to crack now, not under the pressure of alcohol but because Donald himself was so obviously nothing one could fool a stranger about.

There was a knock on the door and Kate came in. She was carrying a red telephone on a long wire.

"It's for Mr. Spokane," she said.

Eric excused himself, unable to hide his surprise. Kate put the phone on the table beside the wing chair and he stood with the receiver.

"It's me, Spooky. I just had a terrific idea. And since you left your date book near the phone, I couldn't help seeing it. Why don't you meet me on the corner of Fifty Third and Third and we'll go to Lilio's place. That way he can see we're all friends again."

Eric glanced at his watch. It was already past eleven. "I can't make it definite."

"But you said between eleven and twelve."

"I know, I know. Look, why don't I just pick you up at the house so you don't have to wait on the street?"

"You don't fool me. It'll be hours before you drag yourself away. You're worse than an old woman."

"I'll phone you when I'm ready to leave." He cradled the receiver, hoping she wouldn't think he was hanging up on her and phone back again.

"At least you aren't celibate," Millardson said after Kate had left.

Eric looked at him narrowly.

"Come along," Millardson continued. "We're all men in this room. At least I think we are."

"My beloved father believes that women are either mothers or whores," Donald said. "I'll make it simple for you, Eric, so that you can leave in time for your appointment." He stood the cue on its wide end and rested his hands on the tip. "My father is convinced that some willing, and clean, woman should be employed for the purpose of initiating his eldest son into the animal delights of intercourse."

He's damned right, Eric thought.

"But, you see, he is also afraid to do the procuring for me because of a vulgar little complication known as blackmail. Therefore, if he can find a bright gentleman willing to act as a middleman, he would make it very worth his while."

"By giving him an insurance contract," Eric finished. He looked to Millardson for denial and found the man watching with controlled anxiousness.

Millardson took off his glasses and wiped them cautiously. "I'm sure you realize that it's not as simple as it sounds, Eric. But you can make it simple. I have made it my business to find out about you-or, more precisely, your women. They aren't the ordinary run. And that's what interests me."

The implications of Millardson's statement filled the silence. Eric thought, So the old boy figures Donald can't make it with an ordinary whore. He's convinced the kid needs something special and that I can supply it. And will, if the price is right.

He felt a great surge to say: you can both go to hell. What stopped him was the recollection of Donald looking down his sister's dress. The possibility that he would someday be alone in the house with his sister, or anywhere alone with her....It would be one thing if she were properly careful, if she could understand that her brother's desires were centering on her own body. No doubt she would think anyone crazy who tried to caution her.

Eric buttoned his jacket and took a final cigarette from the table case. He saw the old man waiting expectantly. He supposed that Millardson too was aware of Donald's potential action. "All right, Martin," he said. "I'll give it some thought."

His tacit agreement made the room almost bearable.