Chapter 7

Marsha had little time to smart under the stinging words of Letitia Ritter. She met Jerri upon returning to the brownstone near Riverside in the West Forties. Jerri saw at once that she was in a state, and, observing her customary tact, invited her out to dinner after Marsha had had herself a good cry in the privacy of her own apartment. It was the kind of catharsis she needed. Marsha was like someone who had been sleepwalking up to that point, going through the motions of life without really being involved in what she was doing.

Letty's words had been harsh, calculated to shock. But she had made a point, and, later that same evening, Marsha came to a realization concerning herself: she wasn't anywhere nearly as tough a person as she had thought herself to be.

Talking with Jerri helped. Jerri didn't pry or question her concerning what had actually happened up in Letitia's penthouse apartment-she had a pretty fair idea anyway. And she could see that her redheaded friend was going through a crisis and had neared the breaking point.

That happened with every girl sooner or later. The sooner the better, Jerri philosophized-to herself. She liked Marsha as a person, a woman who had been kicked a few times by life but retained somehow a way of looking at things that often blinded her to faults and weaknesses of people, including herself. Perhaps because Jerri often saw people too clearly, she felt attracted to these qualitites. But it is difficult to be a call girl and retain your innocence and/or sanity. Jerri was tough.

She managed to steer the conversation that evening around to generalities.

"You know, no matter how you look at this we're just tramps. Maybe that sounds like a big bring-down, but it's true. I never walked the streets or turned a trick for money myself before I came to this outfit, but I used to give plenty away free to guys I didn't give a fig about, for other reasons. Bad ones, invariably. And maybe that can be worse than selling yourself, I don't know. I mean, if you're having guys from emotional dishonesty because you're like all messed up inside and you're taking that out on yourself, or a guy, or the world. I've got to have my loving, and like I prefer that to be a transaction-until I meet the right guy."

"Is there a right guy, Jerri?"

"There has to be, baby. It's never the one you think it is the first time, either, if you know what I mean-and I think you do. But, man, you've got to go through a lot of heartache before you find the diamond in the trash pile." She laughed. "One thing Jerri's learned is to be particular. That's going to cost me a lot of time looking, and maybe I'll never find the diamond. In the meantime, I'm willing to settle for this. This's the fastest way to financial independence I know of, if a girl's careful. And I need that-my family's cut me off without a sou."

"What kind of man are you looking for?"

"Rich. That's his first quality, honey, and I'm not making any bones about it. I want to hook some filthy rich sucker who'll keep me in yachts and furs the rest of my life. Then, he's got to be intelligent-or at least understanding. You get old, you've got to be able to talk about something besides your bank accounts. Bored rich don't interest me in the least-I've seen too many of them. They're worse than bored poor; they have more time to be bored and they spend the time refining their boredom until they wear it around like an extra skin."

"I haven't met too many of that type," Marsha laughed.

"You will. We happen to be one of their refinements. But this guy I'm telling you about-he's got to be able to see me as a person,, dig? He'll know I've been a call girl for one or three or five years, but that won't mean a thing to him. He'll want what's me, not what I've been doing to stash away the bread. He'll be able to take care of me in the bedroom and he'll be able to talk to me at the breakfast table. He'll be kind and considerate and-"

Marsha broke in with a laugh. "Wow, you make him sound like something from another planet!"

"I don't care if he has green skin and three eyes, two in front and one in the back of his head-as long as he can see me with all three."

"Well, I hope you find him."

"So do I," Jerri sighed. "You know, III be moving out next week to a place of my own. I'm just about done with the school."

"I didn't know that," Marsha said, looking suddenly glum again. "I'll miss you, Jerri. You're the first real person I've met in the city."

"Hey, it's not like I was moving to the other end of the earth, baby! I'm getting me a pad near here; we'll still get together."

"Yes, we must. But we'll have to throw a graduation party. Do they give you a diploma?"

They laughed, and Marsha soon forgot her previous mood. But it returned to her that evening when she went back to her apartment and found herself alone again.

The blues returned in force. Few things are as empty as a bachelor or bachelorette apartment at night; she began wandering around, peering from the front room windows down into the street to observe passers-by, filing her nails several times over, deciding to go to a movie and then rejecting the idea.

Going to her handbag for a fresh pack of cigarettes, she found the book Letitia had lent her earlier that day. Since she hadn't put it there herself, she was annoyed on finding it, but she took it out and sat down and opened it up, deciding any book at all was better than the kind of thoughts nibbling around the edges of her mind.

The title of the volume was printed on the inside page: Love Through the Ages.

That took her by surprise, and she began leafing through the pages. The first thing that hit her eyes was a color plate five pages in.

It was a beautifully done photoplate. Exquisite. It said more than all the words in the preceding five pages could have, proving again the old Chinese proverb.

Love Through the Ages was evidently not muck different from Love In The Present, judging by the plate. In bright, clear color it showed a man making love to a woman. They might have been Adam and Eve or they might have been a British diplomat and a call girl. Their stance was classic, ageless. It was the first stance of love, love physical, love profane, in full clear-toned color, right down to the last detail. The photo was so stark and simple it managed to surprise. The girl had a good body and so did the man; their embrace was one of studied passion, their expressions were those of unadroned lust.

She hurried on to the next plate. That one was more interesting. It showed another position, one that looked very uncomfortable for the woman, who nevertheless was obviously enjoying herself. Marsha got a little excited looking at that and the ones following. Each successive plate contained something different; orientals, darks and browns and whites, and with each plate the process got more and more complicated. It was an illustrated handbook of fleshly love, the kind a child could follow. But toward the end of the book the pictures became really torrid.

Especially in the chapter titled: "Lesbian Love." The corner of the title page was folded back; obviously Letitia had meant her to read this one with special attentiveness.

She snapped the book shut in anger and tossed it on the couch. It brought back the whole afternoon's experience in lurid detail. It disgusted her with herself and the world. She wondered if she would ever be able to do that with a woman again. She knew she would probably have to, sometime. It struck her that she no longer owned her own body, in a sense. Her body wa up for grabs, to those who had the price. This thought depressed her. Yet she had gone into this thing knowingly, making her own decision about it.

Unable to bear her thoughts, she got up and began pacing the room. Back and forth.

The walls seemed to press in on her; the silence of the apartment magnified every little sound in the house and street-the sounds of loneliness, desperation.

Get a grip on yourself, she thought. Jerri said there would be bad times like this, and now you're in one.

But what to do? How to get out of it? The radio, a book-nothing could do the trick for her.

And then she remembered Phil Manzilla, the dark-skinned musician. She had scarcely given him a thought for days, but now she thought about him. He had been nice that night, not trying to make love to her, sensing she wasn't really in the mood. And she needed someone to talk to.

But there was also Marc Ferris. She had seen him once since the interview that day in the office, but she had thought about him a lot.

Too much, in fact. She saw his face too clearly at times, and thought of him intimately at odd, unexpected moments of the day. And he had just dropped in to ask her how everything was going and then buzzed off, the busy executive. Her heart had thumped too loudly during those few minutes he was in her apartment though, and she scolded herself for being a damn fool afterward. He had mentioned something about a future luncheon date, something very vague, that was all.

Forget Mr. Ferris, then. He was not the kind of person you could call up late in the evening just because you were lonely. What had Jerri said about a person seeing you? Marc Ferris looked right through her. As far as she could tell, he didn't see her at all. Not with his eyes, at least.

But Phil was nice, nice to talk to and listen to, once you understood his hip jargon, and maybe....

She got the phone book and looked up his number. He lived at an address in the West Twenties, just north of the Village. She picked up the receiver and dialed.

It rang seven times and she was about to hang up when his voice answered.

"Yeah?"

"Phil?"

"That's me, baby-who'm I talking to?'

"Marsha Kinsted-remember me?"

"Do I? Like wow, honey-I can't believe this. It's really you, huh?"

The inflection in his voice made her laugh. "Yes. I'm off tonight and-well, I was wondering if I could come down and watch you work. I forgot the name of the club and where it's located."

"Baby, that gig's blown for keeps. The fuzz closed it up last night, some kind of hassle about fire laws or something, I think they were really hip to the smoking going on in the back room though. But like forget that; come on down by my pad and we'll go out some place and dig somebody else's sounds. How does that hit you?"

"Great. I can't stand this place another second."

"I'm hip. You come on down, honey-I need someone to jaw with myself right now. Like I'm out of work and finding any gig at all in this town is a hassle, so I'm about to wig. But hell; if you make it down it'll pick me up, and maybe I can do the same for you!"

"I'll get a cab. In about an hour?"

"Crazy!"

"'Bye."

"Later, man!"

She hung up. His voice had really cheered her. She still felt funny about going out with him, but knew that that was her Midwesternism showing through again.

And what the hell.

She went to her bedroom to change into something for the evening, deciding on a black sheath she had Just purchased that morning. It was good to be going somewhere, at least. Anywhere.

Thin-faced and ferret-eyed, Bernie Goldoni walked along a narrow Village street, the beat black leatherette case of his snare drum dangling like a poor imitation of a woman's hat box from one sinewy-fingered hand.

He was on the lookout for The Man. The Man was many men, and they were all around the Village and streets like this particular one.

No street in the world was really clean-not if you happened to be peddling marijuana. Behind every door, every shaded window; standing casually on every street corner was the fuzz, the Man-the plainclothes cop looking to bust somebody. The darkness of night became thick with paranoia.

Bernie Goldoni's nerves were as taut and steely as the turned skins of his drums, and just as sensitive. He was paranoid and he knew it, and knowing, he knew how to deal with it. He had learned that long ago. Paranoia is a person inside you named Fear; a very sick cat who can see a threat to his existence even in a kid's innocent face. See it in the shape of a building, the passing of a casual stranger in the street, the darkness of a gangway opening between city buildings.

You learned to control the sick cat. The first thing was to recognize him, let him come out in the open and identify himself, and then you beat him down.

Not completely. Never completely. There were always bad times like this, when the cat just wouldn't stop bugging you, but eventually you got the upper hand and maintained your cool. Maintaining your cool was the first rule of living in the city.

Bernie always maintained his cool, but the street spooked him a bit. He grinned at nothing, at his fear, rounding a corner and coming upon a flight of stone steps leading up to an old five story apartment house. He stopped there to light himself a cigarette, setting the snare case on the pavement.

The street was empty, and you could see down the block either way. That was probably what was bugging him, he thought; the emptiness of it. You expect a few cats to be walking about. It's the natural thing, the scene.

He took a few drags on his weed and saw a busty young chick cross the street down the block and go into an apartment house. That somehow made him feel better. He had his cool back and things would swing. He picked up the case again, sticking the tailor-made in the corner of his thin mouth, and climbed the steps.

The case was a bit heavier than with the drum in it. It contained his jacket and a finely balanced instrument of another kind-a weighing scale.

Inside the apartment house foyer was a row of battered mailboxes and door buzzers beneath with name slots for each. Some were empty and some had paper slips with names and some had the names scrawled in pencil or ink on the metal backing. He pressed the button beneath the name Rudy Blau. In a few seconds he got an answering buzz which unlocked the inner door and he entered.

Inside, halfway up the first flight of creaking wooden stairs, a voice called down through the spiral of bannisters above: "Who is it?"

"Bernie."

He went on up the next two flights. Rudy, a short, swarthy and pock-faced young man, grinned with his fleshy lips.

"Hi, man-come on in!"

They went through the open apartment door together and Rudy closed it and turned the snap-lock after them. The room was dark, illuminated by a single bulb in a pole lamp which gave the outlines of a couch, several chairs, a scarred coffee table, an ancient fireplace with a stereo set, two bookshelf speakers, a changer and an amplifier atop the mantelpiece. Bernie recognized the tune, a thing called Low Flame, and the instrumentalist coming over the speakers.

"Nice sound," he said.

"Yeah, man; he's always nice," Rudy smiled.

"I don't dig the drummer though."

"No. Some day that cat's going to get a good group around him."

"Right-when he's made enough bread, maybe. I'd sure like to gig with him, man. You could fence around, dig."

"I'm hip. Hey, like it's good you fell by early this evening; a lot of squarish cats are coming down later for a set."

"Who's the party?"

"Uptown cats. They smoke and pick up nickels, but like I don't dig doing big business with them around."

"Well, I'm ready. Want to do the thing now or have a smoke first?"

"Let's go in the bedroom, man-we can do both."

The apartment consisted of two rooms, a living room plus kitchenette and a bedroom, not counting the bathroom. They went into the bedroom which was more brightly lit and closed the door after them.

Bernie put his snare case on the desk, opened it up and took the scales out.

"How much you going for, man?"

"A lot, maybe. How was the last batch of grass?"

"Boss. Listen, man; I blew my head with it when it got here the other night, so there's no sweat. How much?"

"Okay, man; I'll give you a taste, let you dig it yourself."

Rudy went to his dresser, opened a drawer and took out a plastic bag containing a couple of pounds of marijuana. He opened it and carefully packed some into the bole of a miniature pipe, then lit a corner of it with a match.

The two of them sat on the bed and smoked, saying nothing.

"Mmmm," Bernie said presently.

Rudy broke into a wide grin. "Am I trying to beat you down, man?"

"It's like beautiful. Let's put it out and smoke later. I want to take my load now."

"How much?" Rudy asked again, getting up.

"I'm going up to a resort next week. A very rich place, dig, and like I know the cook and the cat who does the hiring."

"Are they hip?"

"They're cool. The guests are all filthy with bread, and the same ones come back every summer. They'll lay out a good penny for some top grade stuff."

"Crazy! You ought to be able to really beat them down with this stuff. It's clean, too."

"I'm figuring at least fifty on an O-Z."

"Wow! But like, how much, man? I've got to have some bread myself."

"This stuff, a couple of pounds."

Rudy got a very respectful look on his face.

"Nice," he said, and went to get another plastic bag out of the drawer. "You can weigh it yourself. Do you have the bread?"

"Same price?"

"I'll knock off fifty on that amount."

"I can make the tariff then. I've been saving up for this. After this gig up in the mountains T don't plan on doing anything all winter except study my instrument."

Rudy was busy setting up the scales and shaking the weed out of the bag into the metal tray.

"How's your chick?" he said over his shoulder to Bernie.

"Jerri's okay. She's getting a new pad next week. I'm taking an ounce up for her and one for another girl."

"You were talking marriage the last time you were here."

Bernie made a face. "Yeah, I know. I'm still as Strong for that chick, but it's a hassle, you know. I mean, she knows what I am and I know her, and she can't see us. Not right now, anyway. She loves me, but who wants to get hooked to a small-time gangster?"

"Maybe she'll come around some day."

Bernie was now thinking out loud, his thoughts flowing free as a result of the blast of pot they had smoked. "And I can't change. The music's my only bit, the only thing I dig, and selling stuff's the only way I can stay loose, play what I want."

"I'm hip, man-you don't have to explain."

"A two-bit gangster, that's all I am, man. She knows it."

"At least you know what you are. How many do?"

"I'll make it one of these days. I'm not going to change and I know it, but give me a chance to play with a real group and I'll swing."

"You know it, baby."

"I got a lot to learn yet, though. To make it with a good group you've got to know everything. I could get a lot of gigs if I wanted, but like terrible stuff, you know? Dances, the sticks."

"Look; you're cool this way, so why bother, man?"

"Right The hell with that noise. I'll gig when I can play jazz and that's all. And when I can't do that, I'll sell. Jerri's looking for a rich cat to take care of her, I know that. But if she ever decides to quit, she's mine. Hell, I don't know if I could take the marriage bit at that!"

"It's scary, man! Dig, I've been living with Betty almost a year now. That's the longest stand with a chick I've ever had. You don't dig a chick that long and not think about taking out a license for it. But the way I figure, marriage is only for when you want kids."

"That right, man! It's a sin otherwise."

"Right. Don't get hung-up now. Here; want to check this count?"

Bernie got up and went to the dresser. The stuff looked green and very good in the silver tray. He jiggled the balance a bit and nodded his head.

"Two on the nose. You're a good man, Rudy."

"Have I ever tried to beat you down?"

"No, man-that's why I like you. You know who to beat down and who to lay it on straight with."

Rudy laughed merrily. "Hey, man; you should see the square cat I beat down last week. A kid from a rich fraternity. He got half grass and half trash, and he'll never know the difference. This stuff will knock holes in his skull and make him the most popular man on campus, even cut I don't like to cut, dig but this cat is really foul; he deserved it."

They both had a good laugh at that, and then Bernie packed his load away in the snare case while Rudy re-lit the pipe. They went back into the living room. Bernie flipped the record on the turntable, turned up the volume, and then they sat down together and smoked, surrounded in the dim room by waves of physical sound, the far-out and faraway glides and dips, the intricate lines of an alto saxophone solo. It took them on a trip to other places, and neither of them talked as they passed the pipe back and forth.

The mood lasted for a good ten minutes when the door buzzer sounded.

Rudy jumped up. "Wow, that shook me! That's probably Paul, coming down for a bag. Want to stick around and smoke with us?"

"No, I better go. Jerri should be done with her work, now I want to see her and give her an ounce."

Rudy pressed the upstairs button opening the front door, turning to Bernie and laughing.

"That all you going to give her, man?':

Bernie grinned. "Hell no. I feel like going all night tonight. Like I won't be seeing her for a couple of weeks, so I've got to get everything tonight, see?" He got up, remembering to take his snare case, now exactly two pounds heavier than when he had come up.

"Crazy, man," Bernie said. "She'll really groove on this stuff for you. Like drop me a card when you go upstate, huh?"

"Sure, man. Later."

"Later."

They shook hands and Bernie left, feeling very good. He passed the kid named Paul on the stairway, nodded, and then he was out in the street again, "feeling high with a good head and grooving. Three blocks away he found an empty cab cruising. He flagged it down and got in. The cab made a U-turn and headed uptown.

Within the half-hour, he and Jerri were sitting together on the couch in her living room.

He lit up a cigarette and passed it to her. "How did it go tonight, honey?" he said, slipping his arm around her.

"Bad. I drew a weirdo."

"A nut, huh? What did he make you do?"

"I don't want to talk about that now. My work day's over: I want to relax and listen to music"

"Solid, as long as you want to make some, too."

"I's getting there. Just don't push please, hon?"

"I never push," Bernie said grinning. "I just squeeze a little." And he slipped his hand under her robe and squeezed a little. She moved, getting closer to him. "I like the way you squeeze, man."

"I could squeeze you like that all the time if we got hitched. And you wouldn't have to sweat the weirdos, either."

She made a face. "Fine. And what are you going to support me on? Grass?"

"You could do worse."

"I won't. Come here, honey." She reached out with her hand and touched him. They moved closer together on the couch, getting entangled in a tight, grasping embrace.

"There," he said when they parted. "You're not that tired after all."

"You're sweet."

"Sweeter than sugar candy. Try me."

"That again?"

"You know I dig that."

"I do too. Something about you makes me want to." After a bit of wrestling around on the couch, they were ready.

Bernie leaned way back, his head against a cushion, smoking. Little sighs escaped his lips, and Jerri made sounds of her own.

"Mmm!"

"Uh?"

"Uh-huh! You got me!"

"Uhhh."

"Oh, wow! Easy; you're going to make me flip!"

He stroked her blonde hair and slipped his fingers to the top of her robe, caressing her breasts and feeling the nipples rise under his fingers. She was never too tired, he thought. God, she was almost a machine sometimes. "Easy, easy!" he gasped when she got a little wild. She stopped.

"Shall we go into the bedroom now?" He shook his head. "I dig the couch. Let's stay here."

"Okay, hon. Then I'm going to send you off and get me a good night's sleep for a change."

"Sure," he said, hurriedly getting out of his clothes, fully excited by her now. His garments fell to the floor beside the couch in a heap, one by one, as he removed them. They were wrinkled anyway.

She slipped the robe off, revealing her remarkable nude body. He reached for her breasts and began caressing them again, exciting them with his fingers and then with his mouth, kissing them to stiffness.

"Ohhhh!"

He made her shake with excitement. He cupped her buttocks and squeezed them, playing the softly pliant flesh like dough.

"Oh, God! You know how to excite me!"

"When you're ready, say so." He dipped his face into the valley of her breasts.

"Now, now!" she groaned.

But he made her wait. He made her wait until she became uncontrolled and uncontrollable, and then he slipped down onto the couch and took her.

"Oh!"

And then, very slowly, they made love together. Nothing fast or hurried about that at all, the soft music in the background lulling them into effortless pleasure.

They struck up a rhythm which seemed as though it could last forever.

But after an hour they became more frenzied, going through a change. She began to work differently, and he answered with a staccato series of moves.

Wild, frenzied, taking them up and out. Up, up, and up. And out.

That was like a shell bursting and setting off another, so close.

"That was dreamy," she said sleepily.

He slid off the couch, stroking her lovely white body.

"The next will be dreamier," he said. "Come on; let's go to bed."

She got up and started off with him before she remembered her resolve.

"You louse," she said; "you tricked me into this."

"Did I?" he said, his hand closing over her buttock as they lurched toward the bedroom. "Well now how about that!"

She giggled, and then the bed greeted them-but not for sleep.