Chapter 10
It was a fantastic evening. Much moss than Marsha had bargained for, even with all the oil in Texas.
There was a lot of oil in Texas, for that matter, but none of it clung to the hands of Mr. Henry Jackson, cotton, petroleum, and beef magnate. He was perfectly smooth without the aid of oil or pomatum, or anything much except his diamond-in-the-rough personality. She had met quite a few wealthy and/or successful men already, but none of them measured up to Mr. Jackson's style of doing things. Her first estimate of him was that he was a little bit crazy. A very rich eccentric.
In the first place, he hired a Rolls Royce for the evening-apologizing for not having one of his own in the city at the time. It came complete with chauffeur and deep plush velvety-leathered seats you could lose yourself in, and only the clock in the dashboard was loud enough to drown out the sound of its powerful engine.
"I'd like to go for a ride first," he explained. "Autumn in New York-despite all the trite things said about it, it gets me. Mind?"
"Of course not." He was paying for her time, wasn't he? But it was nice of him to ask, and already she was enjoying his company. He didn't act much like a recently divorced bachelor, though. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, almost like a kid out on his first fling. He was in his late forties but looked younger, ruddy-faced, and with distinguished prematurely silvered hair. In a white dinner jacket, plaid cummerbund, and dark trousers and patent leather pumps, a small neat mustache on his upper lip, a playful gleam in his sea-blue eyes, he looked like the man the whiskey advertisements were trying to promote as the image of civilzed luxury, the genteel yet robust successful businessman who appreciated the finest whiskey-and women.
Only the finest.
He had the chauffeur take them up the F.D.R. Drive rimming the eastern boundary of the island first. The rain had stopped again, for good this time, and the spicy autumn air was exhilarating. She was wearing a white strapless cocktail gown with a small cape, but she drew it off her bare white shoulders, enjoying the breeze.
He touched her shoulder gently. "This is perfect," he said, looking toward Brooklyn skyline. "It calls for a good drink, Marsha."
She nodded, not understanding his meaning until he pressed a button in the back of the front seat. A panel slid out-and there was a complete miniature cocktail bar, built into the seat. It swung out conveniently and, while rolling silently and slowly along, he made them both excellent martinis.
"I haven't done anything like this in ages," he said, clinking her glass with his. "To your beauty."
They drank, and Marsha was suddenly very curious.
"You said over the phone you were just divorced," she began.
"Yes. So I'm celebrating, in a way. You see, even a businessman makes a bad bargain, Marsha-but not every businessman can get himself out of a bad deaL"
"What was she like?"
"Rich, like me. And spoiled-like me."
"You don't strike me as being spoiled."
"But I am, you see. When I see something I like, I think it ought to be mine. Money does that-it spoils you."
She laughed. "Well, at least you're nicely spoiled, Henry."
He kissed her lightly on the lips. "Thanks. Somehow I knew you'd say things like that"
"We only met once."
"That's all it takes for me to size someone up."
"But your wife?"
"She's one of the things that taught me how to size people up. You learn from your mistakes. That was an old one; forget it."
She forgot it, letting him call the plays. He put his arm around her comfortably, and then they cut across the upper tip of Manhattan and began going down the West Side Highway. He mixed them fresh drinks and together they admired the breathtaking aspect of the illuminated Jersey shoreline.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"No, it's ugly," he said. "Next to you, that is."
And his kiss was warmer and longer this time.
They went down to the Battery, and to her surprise he insisted on taking a ride to Staten Island and back on the ferry.
"It's early," he said. "Well have time to do that and then take in a few good clubs."
The ride was wonderful, an experience that took her back to her first week in the city, when she had done things like this. They got out and stood at the rail on the upper deck, watching the magic island recede. She shivered, and he took off his jacket and put it over her shoulders, first kissing each of them.
It was a strange date, she thought. The fact that he was paying for her seemed to have nothing to do with the way he was acting. But that was fine with her.
After the ferry ride, they rode uptown again.
"Where would you like to go?" he said.
"Wherever you like."
"No; I've changed my mind about that. I want you to show me your New York, the places you would go to if you were just out on a casual date with a friend."
"Well, if you really want to-"
"I do. Where do you go, mostly?"
She thought. She had had a few dates like that, most of them with Phil, who she still called occasionally and went out with, though there was nothing between them. They talked and smoked or drank, but mostly she liked listening to him play.
She remembered that he had gotten a new job at a newly opened jazz cellar in the Village, and told Henry Jackson about it.
"Do you like jazz?"
"I could learn to. I really haven't listened to much of it."
"A friend of mine's playing trumpet at a place called Swingsville. If you'd like-"
"We'll go there."
They did. It was a good night for it, with a quiet, appreciative crowd, and the group really swung. They listened and enjoyed, and during the break between sets Henry invited Phil to come over and sit down with them, and the musician and the millionaire got into a conversation about, of all things, music. Mr. Jackson surprised her with a lot more knowledge of the subject than he had admitted to, and after ordering a round of drinks for the three of them, the conversation flowed, and then it was time for Phil to play again. They listened awhile and left toward the end of the set.
"Very nice," he said, bundling her into the car. "I liked that, and he really plays well. But I've starved you long enough; let's go over to the Angel."
It was probably the most expensive dining and entertainment place in town; she could hardly complain about the suggestion. And she was really famished after all the autumny air they had taken in. Her appetite, all her senses, felt sharp and keen. All this was an indirect route to the bedroom for her-but it happened to be a thoroughly enjoyable route at that.
No complaints at all.
He ordered pheasant under glass and she tried the lobster Newburg. A deferential waiter brought them a tall bottle of imported vintage champagne, and they drank before and during and after the sumptuous meal, on into the floor show, which featured a well-known female songstress who belted out a wide selection of show tunes to the accompaniment of a pocket-sized orchestra. Then a comedian came on and told a series of rather old jokes, so they decided to leave.
"Where to now?" he said.
She leaned her head back against his shoulder. "Yon know, I feel so good that I don't actually care. I mean, just any place will do."
"That's the way I feel," he smiled, stroking her arm. "And I can't think of a better place than my hotel suite."
That was where the Rolls took them. It was one of the three best hotels in town, a lavish suite of rooms giving out on a view of lower Manhattan. Room service brought them delicious piping hot coffee and a bottle of Courvoisier.
"Now I feel spoiled," she said, relaxing back on the comfortable sofa. "I haven't had an evening like this since I can remember."
He looked delighted. He took the half-finished brandy from her hand, turned her face to his and kissed it.
"Will you marry me then?" She sat up suddenly. "What?"
"I simply asked you if you'd care to marry me, Marsha. That's plain enough, isn't it?"
"I don't believe it!"
"Of course you don't. But you see, I do. I know when to buy and when to sell. I just sold something and now it's time to buy."
"I still don't get you. You're not talking business."
"No, I'm talking something else. I want you to marry me."
"But you don't know a thing about me, and I'm-"
"You're a call girl and I know all about you, thanks to Cynthia. Your background, everything. Are you willing to take a gamble on me?"
"But this is crazy!"
"Maybe so, T know what I want, though. Come into the bedroom with me now, and I'll ask you the same question again later. Maybe you'll believe me then, darling."
The route to the bedroom had ended-in the bedroom of Henry Jackson's luxurious hotel suite Naturally. He undressed her. Naturally.
He took her gown off, kissing her breasts and her body with visible excitement. He removed her bra cups and her panties, her shoes and stockings, rolling each one down carefully as she lay back on the bed, admiring every inch of her splendid physique.
"You're beautiful," he breathed, and began kissing and caressing her again.
"You better get undressed," she smiled, tugging at his jacket.
"Yes," he grinned, and got up and began to undress. He was well built, a tall, muscular man who hadn't let the years turn him to flab. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and hips, and strong, well-muscled legs.
And he was quite ready to make love to her.
Eminently ready.
She touched and stroked and kissed him first, showing her appreciation for the evening, putting all thoughts of his question out of her mind. She rubbed her breasts against him; she appreciated him with her hands and lips, and when his excitement became intense, she let him move her back on the bed again.
He was strong, and determined to satisfy her.
He was also tender and careful not to rush or hurt. There was nothing clumsy in his technique. He was skillful, practiced-and entirely convincing.
He took her quietly, strongly.
"Oh!"
Strong.
Stronger and stronger.
"Am I hurting you darling?"
"Yes-no, no! Don't stop!"
He worked faster, dipping his face to the golden splendor of her breasts, taking one and biting, stroking her with his strong hands, rhythmically, building a powerful excitement to an intense pitch. Faster and faster.
Faster and faster, till she felt every part of her strain toward him. All of her.
And then that happened. She had a moment of ecstasy that seemed to be timeless and timed to his, though that was only an instant.
Then they were floating back down to earth again, like feathers in a soft breeze.
He was whispering something in her ear: "Will you marry me, darling?"
When at last she understood, she laughed softly and said: "You are crazy, aren't you?"
"Very. I'm crazy for you." He laughed himself this time. "How do I know what it is? Maybe you remind me of my mother or something. That's for the psychologists to figure out-all I know is that I want you."
"Just as I am?"
"Just as you are."
"And you won't be sorry afterward?"
"That's not even worth talking about. I want you now, and that's all that counts."
"If I get married," she said, "I want( it to be for a long long time, Henry. I'm really old school that way."
"I know that. That's why it's going to work-I'm like that too. But I don't have time, Marsha-I want you right away. Say yes!"
She looked into his eyes a long time.
"Yes," she whispered.
And then they embraced, and they began all over again. Slower this time, and sweeter-but even more intense than before.
And when they were finished he gave her six hundred dollars-and a diamond ring.
"Will you spend the night?" he said.
"Silly-the night's practically over. No; I want to go back to my place, to be alone where I can think all this over, Henry. Do you mind?"
"Of course not. I'll go with you, darling."
"No; you stay here. Let the driver take me back alone."
"But I'll call you in the morning?"
"Yes. Oh yes; call me in the morning, as soon as you get up-or else I'll think this is all a dream."
"I won't sleep. But I'll call you, Marsha. I'll call you. You can be certain of that, darling."
She wasn't certain of anything as she rode in the plush Rolls back to her apartment building. Everything was turned topsy-turvy in her mind; the world turned upside-down.
In her apartment, she fell on the bed with her gown still on, and dead-tired, her thoughts all confused, she feel promptly asleep.
And that was the way she awoke-to the ringing of the telephone, and then his voice. They talked about nothing and everything and didn't manage to make much sense at all, but when they hung up it was agreed they would meet each other in an hour.
The next thing she did was to call up her friend Jerri and tell her the news.
The unbelievable news.
The good news.
Jerri Thorton was crying when she hung up the phone after Marsha's call.
She didn't know why. She was happy, glad for her friend; it was all so quick and so unbelievable and everything, so damned romantic it couldn't have happened to anyone she knew except Marsha.
Yes, to Marsha Kinsted. But not to Jerri Thornton.
Jerri Thornton was the girl who got the weirdos.
"That's a lot of self-pity!" she said aloud, getting up from the chair she had sat down in to talk to Marsha. "A good long shower and a slug of Scotch in your breakfast coffee will take care of that kind of emotion, Jerri darling!"
Of course it would, Jerri darling agreed. When she got to the bathroom she took off her robe and examined herself in the full-length bathroom mirror.
A lean, good-looking blonde with a rather hardened expression about the eyes confronted her.
And suddenly she burst into tears again. It came upon her like a great wave gushing over her emotional self, sweeping everything else away in its wake.
Pity for the girl in the mirror. It was like running into a stranger on the street, one who looks vaguely like yourself, enough like yourself to make you stop short and gape-and maybe shudder a little.
She sank down to the bath mat and with her back bowed she let the tears flow through her fingers. She hadn't cried like this in a long time, in ages. When was the last? So long ago she couldn't even remember. And why was she crying now? That too, was difficult to explain.
But it felt good, and she let it all come out. She had herself a good cry, and when it was over and there weren't any more tears left, she got up and got into the shower.
She took a long hot shower and then a short brisk cold one, soaping herself with expensive perfumed soap that sold for over a dollar a bar.
Then she got out and toweled herself dry, spending a lot of time powdering herself afterward, going through the familiar motions of habit that were somehow consoling at times like this. But her eyes still avoided the mirror. She was afraid it might start again if they didn't.
But the flow had stopped; her eyes were dry as she sat before her vanity making up her face. Only a slight trace of redness stLU showed in the eyes when she was done.
Just as she got up, the telephone rang-the signal of the start of her day. She got up in her dressing gown and went to the bed and sat down to answer it. But she paused. She had a sudden impusle to let it ring, to let all the lecherous Johns in the world go to hell with themselves.
But maybe, she thought wryly, it was her millionaire.
Of course it wasn't, couldn't be. She had become superstitious of late, and on the sly went to a fortune teller's to have her fortune read. This was something she would admit to no one, something she felt guilty about herself, being an educated girl. It was a silly thing to do and she told herself it was just an amusement, a way to pass a boring evening now and then.
But the man-he hadn't been in the cards.
The phone continued its muted ring, and finally, more out of indecision and boredom than anything else, she picked it up. She wanted company today-even a John would do today.
But it wasn't a John. It was Bernie.
"Good God!" she exclaimed. "What on earth are you doing up this early?"
"I'm at the race track, baby."
"I see. And you lost a wad and that made you think of calling poor little me. How much do you need this time?"
He laughed over the phone. "Plenty, sweets-but not cash. I hit the daily double, kiddo. How about that?"
"I don't believe it."
"Neither do L"
"What a day this is. Do you know that Marsha's getting married-to a rich Texan?"
"Crazy! Invite her down and we'll celebrate. I'm loaded with the green, baby-and I've got eyes for you."
"I'm afraid she's involved today. And I should work, I didn't do a thing hardly yesterday-" She paused, looking around the empty apartment, the silent walls and furniture. No; not another minute of this, she decided.
"Where can I meet you?" she said. "How about your place?"
She groaned. "I'm about to wig from this place. I'll come down to yours. We'll get stoned and then we'll do the town."
"My place? Okay-if you can take it."
"I can take it-believe me I can! Just give me a half hour to get into something, man!"
It took her fifteen minutes to get into an autumn-brown sheath and an almost-paid-for genuine leopard coat with matching accessories, and then she was cabbing downtown, to a corner bar on West Fifteenth where she waited in a booth for Bernie to show.
It took him three-quarters of an hour to get there after that, driving back from the track with a friend, and Jerri was working on her third whiskey sour.
Bernie was dressed in a sharp-looking muted plaid sports jacket, white shirt and tie and black pegged gabardines. They both looked at each other and whistled at the same time, and then laughed. He slid into the booth.
"You're too much," he said. "I've got to take you out somewhere and show you off, man."
"I hardly recognized you either, baby. Is this how you look in the light of day?"
He flashed a roll of bills. "See that? Almost two thou, baby. All green and a yard wide."
"Why don't you put it in a bank, Bernie?"
He laughed. "What, me? You're putting me on! When Bernie has, Bernie spends. How do you know there's going to be any tomorrow?"
"Yeah," she said glumly. "You've got a point."
"Hey man; cheer up! Where do you want to go, queenie?"
"Your place."
"You're serious then. Okay, we'll make love. But afterward-"
"We'll think about that afterward."
"Crazy."
They got up from the booth and he took her by the arm and led her out of the gin mill.
His pad was only a half a block away. Three flights up in a rundown walk-up apartment house, with unemployed Puerto Ricans sitting on doorsteps eyeing the well-dressed couple sullenly, or staring emptily at nothing.
Like most apartments of that type it was just two rooms, a bedroom and a living room, with a tiny alcove for a kitchen containing a greasy gas stove and refrigerator. The kitchen table was littered and the refuse piled in bags under the sink was overflowing. Part of the living room was taken up with his drums and a record player.
"Home sweet home," he said, putting an LP record on the player. "Take off your coat and sit a spell, man. I'll fix us both a little taste."
"You're turning me into a teahead, man."
"Some of the best cats I know are teaheads. You want me to roll one up or not?"
"Sure."
She took off her coat and her shoes and sat on the davenport while he took paper and some loose marijuana down from the pantry and sat at the kitchen table to roll, his long fingers working skillfully. The scratchy phonograph blared out a dynamically swining Konitz record.
Lighting the joint, Bernie removed his coat and tie and sat down next to her. They curled around each other and kissed, passing the stick back and forth between embraces.
"Mmm, you're ruining my dress, baby," she said.
"Take it off then."
"Help me. I can hardly move already."
Between the two of them she got out of the dress, and then her bra and panties and stockings. She finished the joint while Bernie got out of his things, watching him and thinking.
This is me, she thought. This is where I belong; this is all I know. He's a sweet guy and I'll never marry him, but he's a kick and he understands....
And then both of them were together on the couch again.
Embracing wildly, to the tune of fast jazz.
His hand slid over her graceful curves, her breasts and waist and legs, and she returned caress for caress. Time seemed to stop for them; time was the music and the record repeated itself on the automatic phonograph, over and over, so that it seemed the music had no beginning and no ending.
It just went on and on.
Like us, she thought. The same old tune, over and over and over.
But that's a kick.
They were both grooving now, feeling the music, the round notes hitting them and striking chords within. Their restless hands sought each other again and again, played melodies and riffs on each other's bodies.
And then she was back on the couch and he was leaning against her, kissing her excited breasts and caressing her; the foreplay was over and the main theme was about to begin.
That began with a long, sweet note that sent thrills all over her body.
"Oh, baby!"
And then a swift rhythmic attack, one two three, one two three-
"You're sending me, baby!" On and on.
Rising. The notes of passion rising for her in tune and in rhythm to the music, a kick, the kick, driving her wild, up and up and up and out, out, way out.
Out of her mind.
Then they were in orbit, whirling around in the outer reaches of space together. Faster and faster. "Ohhhh!"
The record stopped, the arm lifted and swung back, the record started again. And so did they.
Again and again. They were lost in a peculiar world known only to the way-out folk, the world where you could groove to pot and music and physical love at the same time.
"Ahhhh!"
They fell back, spent, floating down again, returning slowly to this world, the world of dirty apartments and cockroaches and a record that played over and over again on a scratchy beat-up phonograph, wailing out its agonized syncopation.
At last he got up and shut it off.
"Whew," he said. "We were gone that time, honey."
They sat down and smoked a cigarette in the darkness of drawn shades, neither of them saying anything for long minutes, listening to the sounds coming up from the street below. In another apartment a baby was crying, and somewhere a faucet was dripping with monotonous regularity.
"I'm hungry!" Bernie said finally. "Want to get dressed and go down to Chinatown for something?'
"Sure."
She got up and began dressing in the bathroom. He was already half-dressed, and he opened the door and watched her.
"You're nice," he said.
"Quit peeking."
"I mean it. Why don't we get hitched up?"
"That again?"
"Well, it's like something to say."
"If you didn't ask me that every now and then, I wouldn't think it was you."
"I dig you, baby."
"I dig you too." She stepped into her heels and turned toward him suddenly.
"You know what? I'll never marry you, Bernie."
He laughed. "I know that. Maybe that's why I ask you."
"You're a heel. You're a low life, a two-bit criminal."
"I'm hip."
"I'm going to marry a very rich man some day."
"Sure, baby."
"Marsha did it, so can I."
"Sure."
"It may take a year and it may take five. But that's the only kind of guy I'm marrying, see?"
"Yeah, right."
"You're nothing but a crumb. You and those drums!"
"Don't I know it?"
She came over to him and put her arms around him, and he put his arms around her. "You're nothing," she said. "I know it"
"And I'm looking for a meal ticket because I'm too lazy to do anything else and don't give a damn if the world blows up tomorrow."
"It might."
"Sure it might. But do we give a damn?"
"Hell no. You don't give a damn, and neither do I. We're sort of alike that way."
"Kiss me, baby." He did. "Again." He did again.
"No more-we're going down to Chinatown together, remember?"
"Hell, I almost forgot."
"So did I. But we better go now or we'll be too hungry later. Get me my coat, baby."
In the living room, he helped her into her leopard coat, and then he put on his jacket and they left the apartment.
"Cab or subway?" he said in the street.
"A cab. I want to dig things on the way down. I've still got a good head from smoking."
"Me too. Here comes one now."
They caught the cab and got in. The cab headed over toward Eighth and then down.
"I like this," she said, holding onto him in the back seat. "I was depressed when you called, baby, and now I'm not."
"We'll groove tonight, baby. We'll take in everything."
The cab rolled on downtown.
"Listen," she said, relaxing against his shoulder. "Save some of that two grand, will you?"
"What for?"
"I want to get out of this town. I'm going to take a vacation."
That's a groovy idea, baby."
"We'll go to Florida. As soon as it gets cold, well go to Florida together, spend a month or two. You can play the horses and the dogs all you want down there."
"And dig the chicks," he smiled, squeezing her breasts.
"Sure," she said. "Anything you want. I dig you, man."
"I dig you too, baby." The cab rolled on.