Chapter 9
The first autumn rain fell softly, the wind blowing it against the window panes of the apartment.
It made Marsha Kinsted think of that other time it had been raining, softly like this-that first day she had gone for the interview with Marc Ferris Enterprises, Inc. It drew her back in time, back over several months to that day, and then, in brief film-clip flashes, the time intervening. There was something sad and wistful about it-but maybe it was just the day.
This rain was different anyway. Colder, gustier; starting up and then stopping as though the season hadn't made up its mind yet. The apartment was different too, for that matter-no longer the brownstone near Riverside. She had moved to a new address in the East Fifties, a small, modern, tastefully furnished renovated apartment in a good building.
The rain and the apartment were different. But then so, she reflected, was the person, Marsha Kinsted.
She knew the ropes now. That was one thing. That was a difference.
There were others. Subtle differences, perhaps; not quite detectable by the eye-but definitely there. Differences brought about by different habits, by slipping gradually into a routine-the routine of a call girl. A very successful, very upper-bracket call girl, to be sure-but still just a girl leading "the life."
A pay-for playgirl.
She talked a bit slower and less, waiting for whomever she was with to give the conversational cues. She read a lot and consequently was able to talk about a variety of subjects, when such talk was demanded. But conversation, like most other things, was now mostly a commodity. Unless a John really interested you, you talked mainly to please him, to make sure he wasn't bored when he had you on an on-the-town date. It paid to be good at banter as well as good in bed.
It wasn't such a bad life, but at times, times like this, you felt suddenly very empty, loose, unattached, vaguely at a loss as to who you really were and what you were doing and why.
Routine.
The phone was now part of her routine. She had two, one in the bedroom, an extension, and the main one in the living room, where she sat now looking out the window, dressed in a flame red silk robe, her lips painted a pale rose and her face made up for the day. It was one-thirty on a September afternoon; she was expecting a call, smoking and waiting.
The phone obliged her. It rang. She took the cigarette from her lips, blowing smoke over the gold-and-ivory colored instrument, letting it ring a few times, and then she picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" she said, her voice throaty, and very seductive.
"Marsha? How are you?"
"I'm fine-but with whom am I speaking, please?"
"Oh-I'm sorry; of course you don't remember me. Henry Jackson's the name-from Texas."
"Oh yes, now I remember. We danced that night at Cynthia's apartment. How are you?"
"Single, for one thing. I've just been divorced, you know. And for another, I'm apologetic as hell-I never did call you."
"No need for that."
"But I really wanted to, you see. It's just that I had to rush back to Texas the next morning, damned crisis in a board of directors meeting at one of my corporations-I never got the chance. But I've been thinking about you."
"You're in New York now, then?"
"I certainly am. And just dying to see you, honey. Can we get together this evening?"
"I'm not sure. Hold on a minute, will you please Mr. Jackson?"
"You bet. And the name's Henry."
Marsha flipped the pages of a small gold date book in front of her on the stand.
Her voice was apologetic when she spoke again. "I'm very sorry, Henry; I would like to see you but I've got something on tonight. Want to make it tomorrow night?"
"Damn tomorrow night! I never forget a face or a figure, and yours has been haunting me for over a month. Now just how serious is that date, honey-can you break it?"
"Well, that might be difficult." Marsha said slowly, not wanting to put him off. They didn't come much richer than Henry H. Jackson, from Texas.
He paused, and then he said in an embarrassed, confidential voice: "Listen, it's a client, isn't it?"
"Yes," Marsha admitted succinctly.
"Tell him to go to the blazes then. I'll triple the amount."
Marsha thought quickly. The date she had set up for this evening was with a new John, an out-of-town client who had been referred to her by someone else. It was a bad policy to break a date with one John in preference for another-almost not done.
But Henry Jackson was being insistent. And very generous, for that matter.
Generous to the tune of six hundred dollars. She wondered if he knew that, but decided he must have. No girl who had graduated from the Ferris School got less than two hundred for a date. It was a rule, enforced even after graduation. You could give yourself away if you wanted to do so-on your own-but they were still getting a commission on her take, and nothing less than two bills would do. It was a matter of great prestige. They had ways of enforcing that rule, too.
And if Mr. Jackson had that kind of change to throw away....
"Well," she said, a smile in voice now, "you sound like a very determined man, Henry. I just may have to get sick this evening and become suddenly unavailable." She could transfer the date to another girl, maybe Jerri or Betty, she thought quickly.
"That's fine! What time shall I pick you up?"
Marsha named a time, and then they said till-later's and hung up.
Marsha got up, stretching, and looked out the window again. It had stopped raining and the sun was making a valiant attempt to shine through the gray overcast. For no explainable reason, she felt less depressed. It wasn't the money, actually. The money was fine, but she wasn't hurting for it and she couldn't force herself even now to look at things in as mercenary a way as did, say, Jerri-or most of the girls leading the life, for that matter.
Maybe it was the fact that he really sounded glad to talk to her. It would make the date more interesting, at least.
Responding to her change in mood, she flipped on the FM tuner to get some music as she went into the bedroom to change into a street dress. An afternoon at the hairdresser's seemed in order for Mr. Jackson's generosity. Before beginning to change, she removed the bedroom phone receiver. If anyone wanted her this afternoon, they could go to hell. She wasn't out to make a thousand bucks today.
Jerri Thornton lay in bed in the bedroom of her apartment in the West Forties, not far from the building that was used as a dormitory for Ferris School girls.
She was puffing on a roach-the leftover butt of last night's marijuana cigarette, the last of the reefers she and Bernie had smoked together in the wee hours. It was the first she had seen of the wiry jazz drummer since his return from the summer resort gig. They had smoked and made love and talked and smoked and made love, following the familiar pattern of their previous relationship, both of them taking that up again automatically.
She wondered what she saw in him. He was good, quite capable in bed-but so were a million other guys. Their backgrounds were completely different; the only thing they had in common was that they were both, in effect, criminals. They shared the bond of living outside the realm of respectability by their existences they denied the values of the respectable, workaday world.
He was far from good looking and even less romantic. He loved his drums as much as he could love anything, even her maybe-though he talked about marriage every once in awhile. She had broken off with him several times, and in this instance, while he was away, had sworn to herself that that would be the end of it; the next time he phoned she would simply be "busy." But as always, he had called. In the wee lonely hours he had called and asked to come up, and her resolution had faded away with the sound of his familiar, Brooklyn-tough voice.
She thought of him as she took a hard drag on the roach and held the smoke deep in her lungs, getting the full benefit.
She hadn't even had breakfast yet, but she wanted to get high. It was a lousy day outside and she wanted to get high, but not so much because of Bernie. On a day like this, you simply didn't feel like doing a damn thing, but she had been awakened by a phone call an hour or so ago-a client calling her up, wanting to see her today, that afternoon, as soon as possible. She knew the client and she knew what he would want from her, and on a day like this she knew that would be a drag, a hassle.
I always get the weirdos, she thought glumly, exhaling the smoke.
Maybe there was something about her, she thought. Something in her eyes, her face, her build, the way she looked-something. Most girls got their share, but she seemed to get more than her share. They liked her and they came back.
So she was getting herself a good head to face an hour or two with this particular John, a Mr. Lupkin.
She had to get dressed for him, but she felt lazy, and instead just lay there, finishing the cigarette, wearing only the dark lace bra and panties she had donned that noon upon getting up and taking a quick and disappointing shower.
The door buzzer rang. Mr. Lupkin. She should get up to answer it, of course. Like this, in just her unmentionables?
She laughed. Of course in her unmentionables! Let the little so-and-so's eyes pop out of his bony head. He liked to perform in the dark, with her fully dressed, but let him get a load of her form this way, for once.
She got up slowly and walked on bare feet through the bedroom and living room to answer the insistent buzzing.
He was a short man, odd-shaped and spindly. His face was skull-like and it grinned lopsidedly at her as he stood in the doorway, dressed in black like an undertaker, turning the rim of his fedora nervously in his hands. He was a very nervous man, and almost bald. He was the unmentioned son of a very rich family, very well off in the world but very out of step with it.
He shifted from one foot to the other, his beady eyes licking over her partially nude form, wetting his lips before he spoke.
"Good-good afternoon, Miss Thornton. I-I hope I didn't get you out of bed-"
She gave him a wry weary smile.
"As a matter-of-fact, yes. But please come in before the neighbors see us."
He shuffled into the living room as she closed the door after him.
Inside, he seemed very nervous, his eyes avoiding her.
"It's very light in here," he commented. "Couldn't we, ah, close the blinds a bit?"
"Of course," she said, going over to the Venetian blinds and closing them. The room became bathed in a dim half-light in which everything was soft and blurry but quite discernible. He ventured to look at her then.
"Would you like a drink, Mr. Lupkin?" she said, moving woodenly toward the bar.
"A bit of wine perhaps. Yes, a bit of wine." He sat down on the wide modern sofa, still fingering his hat nervously.
"I hope you don't mind my appearance," she said as she poured the wine at the bar. "I was just dressing when you arrived and couldn't find my good robe to answer the door."
"Quite all right, quite all right," he twittered, casting his eyes down at the rug.
She brought two glasses of wine over to the couch, handed him one and sat down next to him. She knew that he had very little resistance to alcohol and that the wine would dispel most of his nervousness.
They talked idly about nothing as they drank. She crossed her luxurious white legs, and his eyes fell on them greedily. He was halfway through his wine by then.
"To tell you the truth I was a little shocked by your appearance," he said. "But now I think I rather like this, ah, innovation, Miss Thornton. Yes; quite nice, quite nice."
She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again the other way, leaning back so that her bra stretched tight over her well-shaped breasts. It might be a kick after all, exciting him, she decided. The poor slob.
He had begun to sweat. His forehead was damp, covered with fine droplets, and his tie looked as though it were choking him as he sat humped forward on the couch, looking at her legs and her breasts.
"Whenever you want to begin," she murmured softly.
"I think I'm ready now," he answered hoarsely, gulping down the rest of his wine.
She relaxed while he got up and shuffled to the middle of the floor, where he began taking off his clothes hurriedly, really sweating now, excited. Though he was dressed very expensively, his dwarfish figure made his clothing look baggy and unkempt. He tossed each item carelessly at a chair, trembling now with excitement.
This was part of the bit, she thought. The poor ugly slob is getting his kicks undressing in front of me. The poor louse has to pay a woman to look at him.
God.
His body was fish-white and hairless as a baby's. His legs were spindly and thin, his chest shrunken. He looked more than anything like a deformed infant, a misfit child.
His thickish lips were pendulous as he turned to look at her.
"Yes; yes; I'm ready!"
And that was the most grotesque part of this.
He wasn't ready.
Not ready to make love, at least-not in the normal way a man makes love to a woman. In that way, he was completely harmless.
But that was because Mr. Lupkin was impotent.
As she began to get up from the couch, he collapsed suddenly to the floor, making strange whining sobs in his throat. Sounds that would have startled and shocked anyone-but Jerri had heard them before, and was used to them.
Ignoring them, she went over to a desk, and from a drawer she took out a short soft leather lash.
He was whining now, begging to be whipped.
This's his kick, she thought, going over to the limp form naked and humped on the floor. This's his groove; he likes this, so what the hell.
She began to use the lash on his back.
Again and again.
Hard, sharp blows. The whip was cleverly made, designed to sting without doing injury to the flesh, and she poured it on, trying to shut her ears to the sound of his rising whine. It was a strange, unearthly sound, like a feline in action on a summer night, or the wail of a mournful banshee.
Mr. Lupkin was quite impotent-physically. But not psychologically. He had the emotions and desires of a man. All he lacked were the capabilities of such a man.
She continued to use the lash until his whine turned into a low moan and he slumped forward onto his stomach. Then she tossed the lash aside and began to slide her panties down her legs.
When they were off, she knelt down to the trembling form.
She began to move slowly to the floor.
And then faster.
She closed her eyes and thought of nothing as she worked, gripping his shoulders with her hands and leaning back.
She began to laugh. That was funny; that had never happened before, but she was getting a kick out of this!
Even the weird noises coming out of his throat didn't disturb her this time. With her eyes shut, the high from the roach she had smoked on an empty stom-ache put her in a dream world-she felt a mounting excitement as she worked.
Faster.
And faster.
His excited cries sounded higher, louder.
Faster.
He was slobbering at the mouth, drooling to the carpet, but she didn't notice this, or the fierce blazing of his eyes.
Faster still.
"God!" she screamed.
And then that happened. That happened quickly, a huge expanding and sudden bursting. "Oh! Ohhhh!"
She fell back, limp and exhausted. Only their booming breath filled the dim room as they both lay still, recovering from the experience. She wondered idly, her mind in a half-stupor, if he had gotten anything from that. She had felt him shudder convulsively at that moment, a movement timed precisely to hers.
Perhaps he wasn't completely impotent after all. Perhaps a lot of that might be just in his mind.
She dragged herself up and reached for her panties on the floor a few feet away from her.
She was surprised to see he had gotten up and was sitting on the couch in the nude, lighting a cigarette.
"Some fun," she said, getting up and smiling.
"Yes," he said shyly. "You-you were never that good before."
"Maybe you ought to try the right way sometime."
He shook his head quickly. "No! I could never do that!"
She shrugged and went onto her room to dress. To each his own, she thought. At least the poor slob would leave the place satisfied. And unless she missed her guess, there would be an extra fifty on the coffee table when she went to the living room again.
No doubt.
Marc Ferris was having a rather boring afternoon. Things were slack and there wasn't much to do around the office, now, with the rush of girls wanting to launch their careers and spend autumn in New York having swelled the enrollment in the school almost to capacity.
It was a very big office to have nothing to do in. He had read the office copy of the paper through three times over, and an old magazine twice. He had smoked half a pack of cigarettes and gone to the window and looked out at the rain precisely seven times in a couple of hours. On the seventh time he had noted that it had stopped raining, and decided to quit before he wore a path in the carpet.
He sat down at his desk again and lit up another cigarette. He was in the process of reaching for the phone and giving Cynthia a call when the office intercom lit up and buzzed. He switched open the circuit.
"A Miss Alston is here, Mr. Ferris. She's an interviewee."
"Fine. Send her in in ten minutes, Priscilla."
He closed the circuit again and checked his wrist-watch. It was twenty minutes to three.
By ten of he had checked his appearance in the washroom mirror and found it immaculate, smoked another cigarette, looked out of the window again, and then seated himself in the plush swivel chair behind his big desk.
Again he clicked open the intercom switch.
"You have a folder on Miss Alston? Send it in please-with her."
Miss Alston came first, followed by the secretary, carrying Miss Alston's application and resume in a Manila folder. They both came up to the desk. Priscilla, the secretary, stepped around Miss Alston, put the folder on the desk, and stepped back, awaiting further orders.
"You may go," he said, looking at Priscilla.
Priscilla turned and left. Then he looked at Miss Alston. It was a posed look, a practiced glance, the standard one he gave to every interviewee who stood before his desk. But this time he held it a little longer.
Patricia Alston, said the application in the folder, was a five-foot-six brunette, weighing one-twenty, hometown Boise, Idaho, winner of several small beauty contests, part-time model, receptionist, some typing ability-
Patricia Alston was a lot of things. A lot of things that weren't in the folder, for that, matter. But they were standing in front of him, all those things, all assembled neatly for his evaluation.
Most of them were inside a tight-skirted, loose-bodiced black dress. His brief glance had taken them all in: breasts that seemed to lean out at you, big enough to blind your eyes; a waist you could almost put your hands around; hips like well-rounded parentheses. A face surrounded by a cascade of curly brunette hair. Yes; an interesting face, with wide, honey-brown eyes that smiled, concealing disappointments, and an eager, cupid's bow mouth, brilliantly red.
A hell of a figure. Big boobs, legs, the works. And an interesting face.
He pretended to look down at the folder, letting her stand there and squirm awhile. Something about her had interested him immediately. This would not be the usual interview. He knew this without even thinking about it.
"Sit down please, Miss Alston. I see by your resume that you haven't had much experience."
She sat down, her facade crumbling a little. Without the smile, she looked like a nervous college kid from Idaho. He wondered what had happened to her, what kind of a mill she had gone through before arriving here.
Then he put that thought out of his mind and continued with the interview.
It was just words. Words and psychology. He was doing his job, asking the right questions, but in between the right questions he asked the ones he wanted to know the answers to. He allowed her only the faintest of smiles; he was polite and aloof and commanding of respect. She would be impressed. She was.
Then he shot her the critical question: "What makes you think you want to become a call girl, Miss Alston?"
That invariably threw them, after the formal, business-like procedure.
"Well, I ... I need the money, I guess. I'm broke and I can't go home."
"A good looking girl like you never has to be broke. Have you tried selling yourself?"
She blushed. "Yeh. Once I-I picked up a man."
"We don't take on professionals, Miss Alston."
"Look, he didn't even pay me!"
"No? What did he do?"
"He beat me up afterward. That was a couple of weeks ago."
"I see," he said without inflection. But he was picturing the whole thing and getting very exciting images. He looked at a lot of pretty girls; a pretty face and figure were nothing to him, but every once in awhile there was a girl....
"Stand up please. Move around a bit."
Every once in awhile there was one that excited his imagination. They were all lovely, but with this one there would be something, something really different....
"Take off the dress, please."
A smile, maybe. A look around the eyes. The way she walked, carried herself, or her voice....
The tape measure in the drawer. Her statistics were all down there in the folder, but one had to check, make sure they weren't in any way falsified....
"Oh!"
"Are you nervous?"
"No-that sort of tickles when you do that, Mr. Ferris."
You could tell that that one would be more sensitive, would get more out of a good loving than the others. You could tell she would go wild if you did the right things....
"Fifty dollars, Miss Alston. If you're serious about this, you can follow the bill down. Or, you can walk out of this office and forget the whole thing. I have no intention of raping you, Miss Alston."
She chose the floor.
They always chose the floor.
He undressed slowly, his back to her. He let her lay there, wondering what the hell was coming off, why she was doing this, going through with this. He was eager as hell for her himself, but he didn't show a bit of emotion in his face. This was business, just business. Of course.
Then he turned, and saw her looking at him wonderingly.
She was soft, she was peaches and cream. Twenty-three, with a pair of boobs that leaned out at you, headlights that could blind you on a dark night, or even now, in the light of day filtering through the partially open Venetian blinds.
She had a narrow waist, beautifully formed legs-the works.
Her flesh seemed to jump electrically when she was touched.
"Ohhh!"
Those breasts-fantastic. Too much. More than two handfuls they were, but you could try to squeeze them all in.
"Oh, oh!"
"Ahhh!"
Play with her a little, excite her. "Oh-Mr.-Ferris-please!" Firm, delicious buttocks. And then, take her. "Ahhh!"
Make that look mechanical, disinterested, as though you were a machine. Practiced moves, slow, teasing, then faster. This was good, fine, the thing he had been looking for all day, the thing that would set him right again. Not just another girl, but one that made him feel like a man, a real man capable of driving a woman out of her mind.
Again.
And again.
Faster.
And faster.
Make this last. Make this last forever; make her think he was never going to stop, that I'm going to go on forever and ever, make the witch moan and groan and ask for more.
Give her plenty, Marc, Give her everything.
The works.
Everything.
Once, twice, three times he knew she shuddered in me throes of completion. She was near delirious, out of her mind; she had never tangled with anything like this before; she thought she was dreaming.
Then, faster and faster and faster, hanging onto her for dear life.
Up. Up. Up-And over.
Ten minutes later, he was straightening his tie, waiting for her to return from the washroom.
She came out, looking a little strained, but smiling.
"There are a lot of things I'll have to fill you in on," he said, returning the smile. "How about early dinner?"
"That sounds fine to me. I'm starved."
"There's a place on Lex that has fantastic steaks. We can have a couple of cocktails first and then go there."
"Wonderful!"
"Where are you staying now, by the way?"
"With a friend. I really don't have a place of my own any more, this girl's been letting me stay with her for the past week, till I found something."
"Can you move out tonight?"
"You bet. The things I've got will fit into two suitcases with no trouble."
"Good. You'll be moving out tonight then."
"Where to?"
"An apartment of your own. But I'll explain all these things to you later. Right now I could use a drink, Patricia."
"I could too."
They left the office together.
The sun that had come out had disappeared again when they hit the street. Dark September clouds were closing in again; it looked like rain.
He flagged a cab and they got in.
In the back seat he put his arm around her and slipped his hand under the hem of her dress.
"You're a very lovely girl," he murmured "A very lovely girl." '