Chapter 2

That same evening, Marsha moved too the rather nondescript hotel she was staying in to a new address, a once-fashionable and still well-kept large brownstone in the West Forties, near Riverside Drive.

It was a rather abrupt switch. When things begin happening in the city, she thought, they really happen fast. She had been in the city for a little over a month and nothing at all had happened. She had the experience of being a beautiful face among the legion of beautiful faces clamoring for immediate room at the top. The city had come to mean to her an endless line of women with good legs and breasts and practiced smiles, applying for a job, trying to get to see the "right person," cutting each other cold with envious glances when one got as far as an agent's office or received a "please come back this afternoon, Mr. James will see you then," from a secretary or receptionist.

The lead, the "in"; that was what they were all looking for. Marsha had had hers, but they had all somehow petered out. The trouble was, every good looking girl from Bangor, Maine to Santiago flocked to the city to make her fortune, peddling a smile, a bust, a pair of legs for a chance to get near the money and the important people.

Without contacts, few of them, even the best-looking ones, stood a chance. Marsha was at least wise enough to know when a lead was really a blind alley leading to a one-night stand in a cheap hotel room or on an agent's studio couch. And from there, back to oblivion. She knew about the flesh-mills, the photographer's studios that churned out exotic pictures by the ream, using girls like herself. Girls without a friend or a contact, girls starving themselves, living in seedy hotels under assumed names.

Girls who went to bed with the wrong people and never got back on their feet. Girls who wrote notes and left them on their dressers before swallowing bottles of sleeping tablets. Girls who went back home in disgrace after winning a local beauty or talent contest, and fought the problem there, if they had the guts to face it.

Girls, girls, girls.

New York was the biggest girl-parade in the world. The only thing you get from marching in a constant parade is tired feet. Corns, bunions and calluses. Go to the city, girls, and keep the foot doctors rich!

But she had gone to the city with a lot of foreknowledge, thanks to Janice, and her experience had only confirmed all the things Janice had told her. She had this one ace-in-the-hole, the Ferris School for Call flirts, and she saved it as a last resort, the card to play when she was down to her last betting dollar-and she had no intention of going back to Ohio. There was nothing for her back there except a lot of things she wanted to forget.

Her apartment was on the third floor; an ageless old super brought her things up, few as they were, and gave her her key, and then left her there alone.

The apartment wasn't bad at all. The best feature of it was that the rent was paid by the school for as long as she lived there.

That, Mr. Ferris-Marc-had told her, would be little more than a month. The shcool owned the building and the building was part of the school, and she wasn't getting anything free. The rent money, like the tuition fee, would come out of the tricks she pulled. So that actully, the Johns were paying for this. Just what they were paying, she wouldn't know, because she would be given so much a week to live on, for food and clothing and spending money-a liberal sum by working-girl standards; a sum that would slowly allow her to bring her wardrobe up to par, to make it passable until the day when men started giving her "presents" of clothing, jewelry, etc. And of course, to eat on.

But at first the "Johns" wouldn't really be Johns at an.

They would be instructors. Teachers.

And then, two or three nights a week, she would attend a legitimate charm school which the Ferris people had connections with, to learn any of the graces her previous education might not have covered. She would be able to dance any step in the book, to mix drinks properly, to acquire impeccable standards of taste in clothing, jewelry, etc. All these things she might know already, but the school didn't take any chances. Actually, they would be her agent for the first year she worked in the profession, providing her with a "list" of preferred Johns and taking a commission on every date she made with one.

Marc had explained that and a lot more, and she had listened attentively, enjoying the steaks and his company. But then he had packed her into a taxi and sent her off to her hotel, and that was that.

"I won't be seeing you for awhile," he'd said. "You'll get to meet your instructors next, plus some of the girls going through the same thing when you move in tonight. A Mr. Rudin will call on you first thing tomorrow-listen to everything he says. And lots of luck, Marsha."

No good-bye kiss-just rotsaruck.

Oh well....

And here she was now, with an apartment of her own. Three rooms that were tastefully if somewhat sparsely furnished, a bedroom, a "receiving room," a small kitchenette and a bathroom adjoining the bedroom.

The walls were freshly painted and the furniture had come from a good department store. A couple of fairly good originals hung from the living room walls. The carpets were new and the pull-drapes over the high spacious windows didn't clash with the rest of the decor. If the place expressed little individuality, at least it was clean and pleasant.

A girl could like it here, maybe. It was not that tough an adjustment, after the hotel she had been staying in. It was not hard to take at all.

But she felt suddenly very lonely. Or very much alone-which is the same thing.

After she had stowed her meager but good clothes and things away in closets and drawers and explored the place thoroughly, making a few adjustments, moving an ash-stand from one place to another, a chair to an opposite corner, there was nothing for her to do. Her evening was free.

Free? It suddenly struck her as funny and she began to laugh. What did a call girl do with her free evenings? She sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette, thinking about it. There were other girls in the apartments around her-a few of them might be in this evening. But maybe they would be busy with clients-or, "instructors." She had a strong desire to see someone, to talk to someone. She had left all her attachments behind when she came to New York and she hadn't made any new ones. And now she was settled, practically; at least she knew where the next meal was coming from-and, well, it would simply be nice to have someone to talk to.

Any one.

She stubbed out the cigarette and got up. It was almost nine P.M.; someone might still be around in this place.

She removed the jacket of her suit and her spike heels and got into more comfortable slippers, and then she ventured out into the hall in search of company.

The door of the apartment across the hall from her brought no response upon knocking, but down the hallway she heard a radio playing, and at that one she had better luck.

A very pretty girl with her hair tied up in a kerchief and orange lipstick on her full mouth opened the door a few seconds after Marsha's tap. She wore a white silk dressing gown, white mules, and a cigarette dangled carelessly from her lips.

"Hi, honey-what can I do for you?"

Marsha was a trifle embarrassed. "Uh, I just moved in and-"

"Oh! You a new girl? Funny I didn't even hear Jake bring your things up. Well, come on in! My names's Jerri Thornton. I've got a date coming up later, but we can have some coffee and chew the fat awhile. Man, it's been a dead evening! Everybody's gone out somewhere, it seems."

Inside Jerri's apartment, which was substantially similar to her own, Marsha introduced herself, and soon the two women were sitting on the sofa sipping coffee.

"Well, I don't know what you've been doing, hon, but I guess you must feel pretty lost if this is your first night here."

"Yes, sort of."

"I know, I did too. I knew another girl but I felt lost anyway. You know, like when you start something new, when you first realize you're really entering the life, it sort of hits you."

"Yes. It's nice of you to talk to me."

"Hmm, it's nice to talk to anyone. You leave a lot of friends behind-but you make new ones, don't worry. Oh, all kinds! I've only been here three weeks and you've no idea the different types I've met and gone out with. A John can never really be a friend, I guess, but some of them are nice-treat you a lot better than some guy you're out trying to hook for a ring, if you know what I mean. Ever been married?"

"No."

"I was. Lasted almost a year, too. Like I thought I loved him but it was really a drag, he was a square and I couldn't stand the whole routine, but I kidded myself about it. Don't mind if I talk this way, it's from hanging around the Village so much. I come from a good family, Philadelphia people, really. Two years finishing school, dig! Enough to make you want to throw. I chucked the whole gig and ran away with a guitar-playing man, who turned out to be a one-night-stand in the Village. I stayed there and got hipped pretty fast. Pot, the whole bit. Only I have to remember not to speak the language around any of the instructors or square Johns who come up. The Ferris Girl has breeding, you know. What slush! I had breeding up to here, and let me tell you it stinks. I've met pushers I've liked better than some of the old man's business friends. How does my hair look, honey? I just set it, didn't have time to go to the beauty parlor today."

She loosened the kerchief and a tumble of silken honey blonde hair fell down about her soft white shoulders. Her face, with its deep blue eyes, actually did look quite patrician now, and Marsha had the feeling that her story, unusual as it seemed, was probably true. Her hip talk was no doubt part of a rebellion that had carried over as a habit-she seemed otherwise as poised and graceful in her movements as Marc Ferris had boasted of his proteges. Marsha found herself liking the girl very much.

"I'm a gabber,," she went on. "Why don't you tell me a few things about yourself, baby-and maybe later, after my date, if I can get rid of him early enough, we can go out and have a cocktail together or something. Unless you're too tired, that is."

"No, not at all. I'd love to."

"Swell. Sit here while I dress for this guy. He's coming up, and with luck he won't want to go out anywhere."

Marsha followed her into the bedroom and sat down as Jerri took off her dressing robe, revealing a body that was willowy and slimly superb, with ripe red-tipped conical breasts, good hips, and tightly curved buttocks. She was a bit thinner than Marsha and somewhat shorter, and a year or two younger-but somehow she seemed more experienced and self-confident.

"I suppose I ought to ask you what you're in this for," she said, bending to fasten her garter-belt. "That's the usual question. And the answer is usually the same, come to think of it-the money, a chance to meet different kinds of men, boredom and a bit of plain laziness, I guess."

Marsha laughed merrily. "You've answered it."

"Well, you do get some girls with kookie ideas. And then there are those who are simply out to find and marry a rich businessman from Iowa as quickly as possible."

"But not you."

Jerri made a face. "I'll say not! I love men, but I can't stand any one of them that long. How about you?"

"I never thought of that, I guess. Not since college anyway."

"You like men?"

"Oh, well enough, I suppose."

"You either like them or you don't, baby. If you don't, you better find out now. I mean if you like them, crazy; you're in the right field-but if you basically don't get that much of a kick out of them, you've got to learn to sort of separate yourself from what you're doing."

"Sounds schizoid."

"Well, you learn to pick and choose, if you know what I mean. Being with some Johns is like being alone, even when he's in bed with you. If I don't dig the John, I simply think about Kafka or something like-that. Something way out. Once this really foul stud was having me do crazy things on his patio, right out there in the open, in the mid-sixties, and I bet there was a battery of binoculars aimed at us from the apartment buildings across the street. But that was like his scene, you know-they were used to him acting up like that and maybe some of those cats across the street even got their kicks watching, I don't know. At least they never complained. The point is, I didn't dig him, he was like greasy, you know-a filthy rich foreign diplomat or something. So I simply turned off while he did his dance on the flagstones with me, and then I was all right-I made believe I was one of those Indian Yogis or whateveryoucallum, you know."

"Are a lot of the clients like that?"

"Huh-there's all kinds, baby-you learn that fast here. Some of the things they want you to do, you begin to think the world's full of nothing but flipped-out people, dig?"

"I think so. But-you seem to enjoy the life."

"Name me a better one. A couple of years and I'll be on the Riviera with some filthy rich old man or something, but a girl's got to have a bankroll first. I want to travel, and not just where some man wants to take me."

"I'd like to travel too some day."

"Do you read much?"

"Quite a bit."

"So do I. You know, I've got one John who likes to buy me books. Really. Like he'll bring me a book one time and the next time I have to talk about it while he's getting his kicks. He says I have an interesting mind. How about that?"

She laughed, and Marsha joined in, almost spilling her coffee. Jerri had put her so much at ease she had forgotten how lonely she had been feeling a few minutes ago, and though it was sometimes had for her to follow the way she talked, the meaning always came through. It was interesting to hear first-hand how a girl who had been in this for a while felt about the life, and Jerri liked to talk.

As she talked she dressed-in a strange black outfit, a dress that was almost schoolmarmishly prim, with a white collar that buttoned at the throat. It had long sleeves with white cuffs and a full skirt.

Jerri saw Marsha staring at it with a surprised expression on her face as she stood before the mirror, buttoning the collar.

"Some outfit, huh? Believe me, it's not my idea to wear a rig like this. The guy coming up to see me tonight has rather, uh, special tastes."

"Special tastes?"

"You know-Like a weirdo. Hey! I bet you could watch!"

"Oh, I don't think-"

"Well, if you don't want to."

"It's not that. It's just that I-I'm-"

Jerri came over and touched her cheek.

"I know-you're the quiet, shy type. Like I saw that right away-something about your face, I guess. I said to myself: 'Oh-oh. here's one in from the sticks. She's been around, but not for the whole trip.' That made me like you, hon. I'm shy too, down deep. Like way down deep, dig?"

Jerri's eyes smiled at her, and then her lips, and then both of them were laughing again.

"Tell you what," Jerri said when they stopped. "If you're bored, or if you have a good stomach, stay right here doll and see the show. That might give you a few laughs. And I mean like you've got to get over that shyness sometime."

"Well-"

"I'll see if he goes for that, and if he does it's an extra quarter for you. We'll go out and celebrate."

Jerri had a knack for making the whole thing sound like fun, a game-instead of business. And before she could make up her mind whether or not to accept the offer, the door buzzer was ringing.

The John had arrived.

His name was Ferdinand Foxx, with two x's. His suit was very black and so was his homburg, and so indeed were his forty dollar patent leather pumps, imported. By contrast, his silk dress shirt-imported-was very white, and so was his tie. White on white, framed by black, like the white carnation in his lapel buttonhole. In the center of the white tie, like a tiny droplet of blood, a ruby stickpin. On the hands, which were small and delicate, a pair of gray morocco gloves, and in one of them, a straight black walking cane with a gold knob for a handle.

Ferdinand Foxx just missed being a caricature of Bat Masterson. The small eccentricities of his dress were toned down by the expensive conservative cut of his clothing and by the fact that he was a small, almost demure man slipping unnoticed into his forties. His face was thin and pale with large dark watery eyes, a thin, slightly hooked nose, and a tight line of neatly clipped mustache adorning the surprisingly fullish upper lip.

"Good evening," he said, smiling thinly and bowing slightly to Jerri when she opened the door to let him in.

"Hello, Mr. Foxx. This is Miss Kinsted, a good friend of mine. Marsha, Mr. Foxx."

"Oh. How do you do, Miss Kinsted." He took Marsha's hand as she arose from the couch. "Are you, uh...."

"She's okay." Jerri put in quickly. "Just one of the girls. She was just leaving but I told her to stay, since she seemed interested in meeting you."

"A pleasure, I'm sure."

"Well, I better go now," Marsha said.

"Why not have a drink with us first?" Jerri said, giving Mr. Foxx a questioning glance.

Ferdinand Foxx was covertly eyeing Marsha up and down. "Yes, please do, my dear," he smiled, removing his hat and gloves and laying them neatly on a table. "There is absolutely no rush as far as I'm concerned."

He sat down next to Marsha on the couch while Jerri went off to the kitchen for some ice.

"You're new, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. I detect from your accent that you're somewhat Midwestern. Are you not?"

"Yes, from Ohio."

"An interesting state. Have you known Jerri-Miss Thornton-very long?"

"No, we just met."

"How nice to make friends so easily. I'm rather shy myself."

"Well, I guess we all are really."

"Yes. Yes indeed."

"Are you in business?"

"Oh, I own a few theaters about town. Not the biggest ones, but I dare say they do modestly well. Do you like the theater?"

"Oh yes! But I haven't had much chance to see anything yet."

"A pity. I can get you tickets to any show in town. I will leave some with Jerri if you're interested."

"That's very kind of you."

"Nothing at all. You do have lovely hair, my dear-"

Jerri came back with a tray of highballs. Mr. Foxx got up.

"Would you, ah, excuse us just a second, Miss Kinsted?"

"Of course."

He motioned Jerri aside, and the two of them disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Marsha alone with her highball, wondering whether or not she was supposed to leave. She was curious about the whole thing now, but she didn't want to risk spoiling Jerri's deal-whatever it was.

But after a minute, Jerri came out, smiling.

"How'd you like to make twenty-five bucks, kid?" she said.

Marsha looked up. "For doing what?"

"For doing nothing but sitting there on your pretty little bottom."

"Really?"

"No lie. Ferdy digs you, hon-you made a good impresh. He'd like to have you watch the gig. I didn't know if he'd go for that, but he brought it up, which makes it nice. He's loaded and he'll be a good contact later."

"I don't want to-poach."

Jerri laughed pleasantly. "Don't worry, you won't be stealing. He's not a regular anyway, but he knows lots of people. It's okay by me, and like I said, you might as well get over that shyness right away."

"What-are you going to do?"

"He's weird. Nice, but weird, you know? You must sit there with your drink and watch, and you'll see."

"Well, all right."

"Good. Cool it while I go get him back here. Now he's being shy about this, believe it or not!"

Marsha suppressed a giggle by sipping her strong whiskey highball while Jerri went back into the bedroom. This was strange indeed and she realized she was getting a little high-her tolerance for alcohol never having been much in the first place. But, braced by the whiskey, she waited patiently and with growing excitement for the two of them to return.

After several minutes, they did.

Much to her surprise, Jerri was fully clothed. More so than before, because now she wore over her previous outfit a handsome fur coat, a hat and a veil which partially hid her face.

Mr. Foxx, on the other hand, was completely in the nude.

Naked as a jay.

Bald.

There was something almost hilarious in the picture presented by the two of them walking side by side, she looking like a fashion plate in full splendor and he looking like a fugitive from some kind of nudist club.

He was small but well built, with just the slightest paunch for his years, his body white and smooth and practically hairless. He ignored Marsha and went straight over to a straight-backed chair near the far wall of the room and primly sat down, fastening his eyes on the figure of Jerri.

Naturally. She presented quite a figure, standing posed in the middle of the room, hand on hip, in the classic fashion. She had fixed the lights so that most of the light fell on the center of the room where she stood, and as Marsha watched she began parading up and down in an exotic hip-swinging walk that said all kinds of things.

Nice things.

She walked slowly around like that, circling the room, strutting, and as she walked she gradually began to shed the fur coat. It fell from her shoulders to the floor as she walked, no break occurring in her aloofly exotic motion.

Marsha glanced across the room at Mr. Foxx. Although he wasn't moving, she could see that he was visibly stirred by the spectacle. His eyes were intent on Jerri, and he leaned forward ever so slightly in his chair. It looked like a rather uncomfortable position, but she could see that he was striving to control himself-his face was noticably flushed and his breathing faster.

She wondered what he got out of this, watching a woman walk around while taking her clothes off.

Something, evidently.

A lot.

Jerri, for her part, acted as though he weren't even there. Her face wore a frozen, almost bored expression, and she seemed to have become haughty and remote from everything in the room. She stopped her parading and stood in the middle of the floor, unbuttoning her dress with her gloved hands very slowly, thoughtfully, casting glances at herself in a mirror hanging from one wall. Marsha had to admit that there was something beautiful in her studied motions. She was making a thing out of the simple act of undressing. Only her mouth revealed her expression, below the dark veil-she still wore the hat.

That struck Marsha as odd, but it became even odder when the dress slipped down and Jerri stood there in dark lace bra and panties and dark nylons and spike heels.

Very odd.

She was beautiful, willowy and statuesque, like a carved model or a mannequin. She looked almost unreal in the indirect lighting of the room. The silence gave a fascination to the whole scene that was near hypnotic.

She began to walk around again dressed like that, the veil serving to make her face abstract, while the lovely white curves of her body, in motion, contrasted and showed through the black frothy lace with startling effect.

Marsha heard a sound of heavy breathing coming from the chair across the room now. She looked over to see him straining forward, his face red and excited now, his eyes shining brightly. And his hands were gripping-not the sides of the chair, but himself.

He was thoroughly excited, excited as a schoolboy peeking into a woman's boudoir. Marsha wondered what kept him rooted to the chair, in the condition he was in. It seemed as though he were torturing himself with this spectacle.

Finally Jerri removed the bra. Her white, conical, red-tipped breasts tumbled out in swaying loveliness-now she was dressed only in the hat, the gloves the skimpy panties, sheer stockings and high heels.

Mr. Foxx, shaking with uncontrollable excitement, slid off the chair to the floor, where he lay prone before her feet.

Little stifled squeals escaped his throat between the heavy panting of his breathing. He was like a child-

It seemed strange for a man to behave like this. Marsha leaned forward, wondering what would happen next, how he would get fulfillment from this bizzare situation.

She soon got her answer.

As she watched, Jerri slowly raised one foot from the floor and with the spike heel still on, she stepped lightly up on his prone body.

That must have hurt. That must have caused him real pain, agonizing pain-but he never uttered a cry.

Only the sound of his loud breathing filled the room as the muscles of his slim body bunched tensely.

While Jerri walked over him.

The heels left marks and drew blood in a couple of places. His whole body trembled from her weight. Marsha stared open-mouthed at the scene. This was at once revolting and vaguely disgusting-and yet exciting in a weird off-beat way.

Suddenly a series of loud animal cries filled the room:

"Oh I Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahh!"

The prone figure almost doubled up into a ball and Jerri stepped off him to the floor again.

Her job was over.

Her client had been satisfied.

She gathered up her clothes quickly and motioned to Marsha to follow her into the kitchen.

Marsha got up and followed her, and in the kitchen. the door closed now, Jerri reached into the pocket of the fur coat and handed her a fifty dollar bill.

"Here," she smiled. "Your first fee-sort of."

Marsha accepted the money, thinking it wasn't really, but not wanting to tell Jerri for some reason. That wasn't really necessary anyway.

"Thanks," she said. "That was really weird."

"Like I said, you get all types. He's not a bad John, really-some of them can get pretty damn demanding of a girl. He wants to be left alone now while he dresses-let's have another drink."

"I'm starting to feel mine already."

"Lucky you. I've got a hollow leg myself. As soon as I get dressed we'll leave and go down to the Village for a gay old time. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful-I mean crazy!"

Jerri laughed. "You catch on quick. I don't think you're going to have a bit of trouble in this game, hon."

Jerri poured her a drink and she sipped it while her new found friend got quickly into her things.

"There-all set. Let's split, man I"

They re-entered the living room just as Ferdinand Foxx was coming in from the bedroom. He was fully dressed now, appearing the same as when he had entered the apartment-neat, dapper, a trifle foppish, and somehow prim.

It was as though nothing at all had happened. He nodded courteously, again bowing slightly to both of them.

"It's been a pleasant evening ladies. Could I give either of you a lift somewhere?"

Marsha opened her mouth to say yes, but Jerri stopped her.

"No thanks, Mr. Foxx. Someone's picking us up."

"I see. Very well, then-good evening, ladies." Jerri showed him to the door and he left.

"Never go out with a John unless it's strictly on a business basis," Jerri said, returning. "That's just a bad habit to get into. Maybe he wanted to give us a ride or maybe he wanted to take us to his place. Whatever the case, you make it a rule to get things decided beforehand. Avoids a lot of trouble.

"I see."

"Okay baby-that's his car pulling away now I think. Let's make it."

Marsha stopped at her apartment first and got a light coat to wear for the evening, and then the two of them went down the stairs to the street.

They walked a couple of blocks over before they caught sight of a cab. Jerri stepped out from the curb and waved and the cab slid to a halt.

The girls got in.

"Where to?" the cabbie said, getting as much of an ogle as he could. "Downtown."

"Sure, sister. Like you mean the Battery or Penn Station?"

"Like I mean the Village, man," Jerri said. "The one called Greenwich."

The driver laughed and pulled away from the curb.