Chapter 8
It wasn't until the following week that Marsha met Cynthia Lockhart, the silent partner of the call girl school.
First Marc Ferris dropped in to invite her out to lunch. He was dressed in a gunmetal gray summerweight, cream tie against beige, and looked like an upper income bracket Madison Avenue type. Except for the face, which was a trifle too handsome.
"I'm taking you to lunch, Marsha. Get into something."
She was already into something, a rather plain gray dress she had donned for a visit to the dentist to have a slightly crooked incisor straightened, but she took the hint and went back into the bedroom to change.
She selected a clinging indigo sheath from her growing wardrobe, struggled into it and then a pair of black heels, finishing off the outfit with jade earrings and a matching brooch. She fluffed her recently created bouffant out with a brush and then returned to the living room.
Her efforts got her a low whistle, which, coming from him, was the equivalent of several cartwheels and a rousing school cheer.
"Lovely," he murmured appreciatingly. "Turn around once."
She did, slowly.
"Yes indeed! Letty Ritter's done a lot with you."
Marsha made a grimace. "Thanks a lot! I was just a lump of very crude material, I suppose!"
"I didn't mean that," he said, flustered for the first time. "I simply meant-"
"Oh, skip it. Where are you taking me to lunch-darling?"
A smile twitched his lips. "You've grown claws too, I see. Now I'll just have to impress the hell out of you-sweetheart. How about Sardi's East?"
"I'm impressed," she said, giving him her good smile this time. "And if you want me to call you Marc, I'll do that too."
He took her arm. "I should have watched you closer," he said as they went out the door. "A little wind blew in from the Middlewest, and now it's threatening to become a hurricane."
"But it's not raining outside," she laughed. "And it's very flattering for a girl to be invited to lunch by the boss."
"Don't get too conceited. He's already seen everything, remember?"
"That was before I knew it wasn't in the contract. And besides, I'm different now."
"That I'd like to find out about. I bet you still look splendid on a rose colored carpet."
They taxied down to the posh restaurant, a new kind of tension between them. Beneath their banter they were fencing, probing, sensing new things in each other, or perhaps trying to meet each other for the first time. But Marsha felt she really had him on the defensive for once; he had been impressed with her looks and appearance more than he wanted to admit, and now that he saw she wasn't merely clay in his hands, there might be an opportunity to extend that feeling into a semblance of respect.
But she also knew she could not push that too far. There was an unaccountably worried look in his glance at times; at other times it was piercing and superior, putting her in her place. He had some kind of weird pride that wouldn't allow for a woman getting past his armor.
Over spare ribs, broccoli au gratin, curried rice and candied sweet potatoes, they talked. Their conversation flitted about casually, but by the time coffee and dessert were served, he began to get to the point.
"Well, I hear you're doing very well, Marsha. How do you like this so far?"
"It's an experience, to say the least. And I haven't had a bank account in ages."
"Laying it by already, huh?"
She laughed. "By bank account, I mean any kind of bank account. Mine's a personal checking, and I think there may be a hundred or so in it, if I'm lucky. The clothes I've brought I've been charging-Ferris Enterprises gets a lot of respect as a reference for charge account applications."
"It's standard procedure. On the surfaces we're perfectly legitimate, and eminently solvent. It would take something like a Congressional investigation to even annoy us. But that, of course, is Cynthia's influence behind us."
"You mean Cynthia Lockhart?"
"Yes. You've met her?"
"No, she's just a mysterious name to me. The scuttlebutt is that she's the power behind the royal throne."
"She holds a major interest in the corporation; that's quite true."
"She must be some gal."
"She is indeed. Would you like to meet her?"
Marsha put her hand to her bosom in a gesture of mock astonishment. "Little old me, Why, I'm not even a graduate yet!"
Marc smiled across the table at her. "But you're a star pupil, sweetheart. And Cynthia's a woman who can do a lot for somone she happens to take a liking to. Have you ever thought of staying with the outfit?"
"Me? As what?"
"There are lots of angles. But, hell, I'm talking too much. Let Cynthia speak for herself, when she sees you."
Marsha wjas really curious now. "And when might that happen?"
Marc Ferris stroked his jaw reflectively. "Soon, perhaps. In fact, she's throwing a party for some of the girls about to leave the school. I could arrange it for you to be invited-especially if it were as my date."
"I'm dying of curiosity!"
He reached across the table and took her hand. And, under the table, she could feel the pressure of his knee against hers, subtly moving-a curiously exciting effect, there in public with crowds of diners around them.
"I'll do that then, baby. But-I think I ought to warn you about Cynthia first."
"I'm all ears," she said, returning the knee pressure.
"Cynthia's an odd person. A great person, when you get to know her-she's made money in everything, she's fabulously rich and cultured and can hobnob with the best of circles-but fiercely independent and, well ... a bit odd. She's never married, for one thing. To look at her you wouldn't believe she's almost fifty. And, well She-"
"You sound like you've made a study of her," Marsha broke in. "Are you in love with her?"
He gave a short laugh. "No, I don't think so. She's not the kind of woman who would accept love anyway. But she really likes people if she thinks they measure up, and I think she'll like you. But she'll seem cold to you at first, I'm afraid. And she may ask you to-do things."
"Things? You mean like I'm doing now?" she laughed.
"Perhaps."
"Like I say, she's funny."
"Is she a Lesbian?"
"Lord no. At least, not as a matter-of course."
"Well, that's a relief at least, after Letitia."
Marc grinned, moving his knee under the small table. "Did Letty give you a bad time?"
"She gave me a lovely time. Then she drew her pistol and shot me down, right between the eyes."
He laughed. "But you got up again. I bet she's been respectful to you since."
"Come to think of it, she has-in her own sweet way. At least she hasn't lured me to the rack again."
"She won't. But forget her. You're game for the party tonight then, right?"
"Game."
"Fine. I'll pick you up around ten." He signaled the waiter and signed the tab, and then they got up and left.
Cabbing across town back to her apartment, he held her close and slipped his hand under the hem of her sheath. The warm tingle left by his knee turned into a glow as he caressed her nyloned leg.
"You're really quite beautiful," he whispered. "I'd like to come up."
"I've got an appointment with Joe Rudin this afternoon. He's going to work on my bossa nova."
Marc Ferris was working on her leg.
"I'm going to cancel that," he said. "I want you fresh for tonight."
"Then you better not come up either, mister."
He laughed, closing his hand so hard she almost gasped.
"You're right, of course. We both should be fresh for tonight, shouldn't we?"
"If you get much fresher I'll scream."
"I was merely getting re-acquainted," he said, removing his hand. "But here we are. I'll drop you off and take the cab back to the office."
He leaned over and kissed her fully on the lips as the cab drew to a halt at the curb outside her brownstone. Then he opened the door for her and she got out.
"See you at ten, lovely."
"Yes."
The cab pulled away.
Cynthia Lockhart's apartment was a study in muted plush. If it fell below Letitia Ritter's in originality, it surpassed hers in expensive luxury.
Cynthia had surrounded herself with softness, with muted tones and with dark, deep tones. Her furniture was custom made according to her own specifications: wide, deep soft-cushioned sofas cornering two ends of a room, plush carpets of a dark navy color, muted blues and greens in the walls created by colored indirect lighting over neutral or basswood or bone-white walls. Even in the kitchen, the pale lemon and peach petal motif carried out the effect. Primary colors were practically nonexistent anywhere in most of the rooms of the sprawling apartment.
The guests began arriving at ten. They came in couples and foursomes and, as it turned out, Marsha knew some of them as acquaintances and some by sight. Jerri was there, with the athletic dancing instructor, Joe Rudin, at her shoulder. Letty Ritter gave her a coolly impersonal smile. And there was Betty and a few others whom she had met either in the apartment house where the girls stayed or in one of her clashes, accompanied either by male instructors or men who looked very well-off and very much at home.
Marsha herself wore a three-quarter length strapless of russet which showed to good advantage generous portions of her handsome frontage, as well as her smoothly contoured shoulders and back. Just a suggestion of red in it set off her hair, darkened a touch to the color of a ripe freshly opened chestnut, from which sparkled a gold comb matching the small gold pin between the cups of her bodice. Her slippers were golden also, completing the striking ensemble.
"You look like the glories of autumn, my dear," Letitia said, drawing her aside once drinks had been passed around by a British looking butler. "Very smart indeed. I hope you're not angry with me for the things I said the first time we met," she added, momentarily humbling herself, since no one was noticing them at the moment.
"Why thank you, Letitia," Marsha answered neutrally. "You look stunning yourself. But I'm afraid I can't remember which remark you're referring to at the moment."
Letitia Ritter gave her an icy glare, muttered something and moved on. Marsha refrained from breaking out in a smile over her little victory. And it was pretty obvious to her now that the woman still had a strong yen for her.
She was conscious also of another woman staring at her-one which could only have been Cynthia Lockhart, from the descriptions she had heard.
She was standing near the beautiful mahogany-and-leather bar at the opposite end of the room, greeting her guests as they filtered down her way. She had lightened her ash blonde hair almost to platinum, and in a clinging full-length strapless of electric blue shantung, slit Chinese styled from the hem at one side to enable her to walk in the choke skirt, reclining slightly against the cushioned bartop fender, she looked like a picture waiting for a good enough magazine to come along. Glancing at her, it was hard for Marsha to believe the rumors about her age. She had a big, bosomy, but graceful!, curved body, Nordic appearing, built along lines the lusty Vikings must have had in mind when they constructed their sailing ships. She dominate that end of the room, which happened to be full of lovely women.
"You cut class this afternoon, baby," Joe Rudin said, sidling up to her. "It ruined my day."
"We'll bossa nova later, darling. Right now I think I'm supposed to meet the Grand Lady Of upper-income gay ladies."
He put his fingers to his lips. "Shhh!" We don't discuss that around here, redhead. In Japan, they have a different feeling about it. And a highly respectable tradition behind the institution, too."
She laughed. "My, I didn't know you were such a learned person, Mr. Rudin," and then Marc Ferris was taking her by the elbow off to the bar to introduce her to the hostess.
At the bar, Marsha felt herself being observed very critically by the great lady.
"You're a lovely girl," she said matter-of-factly. "Couldn't drive a wedge into the modeling racket, eh?
"I'm afraid I was either not thin enough or not girl-next-door enough. I almost had something in swim suits once, but it fell through and I was broke."
"There's no future in swim suits anyway," Cynthia observed.
"There seems to be a lot more out of them."
The remark brought a faint smile to the older woman's face. Marc Ferris permitted himself a laugh.
"She's got a sense of humor," he said, handing Marsha a mixed drink.
Cynthia gave him a sharp glance. "Leave us, Marc. I want to talk to this girl."
He nodded and walked off with his drink. His prompt response caused Marsha to wonder about the relationship between the two owners of the school.
"Sit down, dear," Cynthia said, indicating a plush highbacked bar stool.
Marsha sat down.
"Marc seems very impressed with you. As for myself, I know nothing about you except what I see before me! I let Marc handle that end of the business, and generally speaking he seldom makes a mistake. Are you interested in him?"
The question took her by surprise. "I find him interesting, if that's what you mean," she said finally.
Cynthia's greenish almond-shaped eyes looked very steadily into Marsha's. "Forget him. He's not for you."
She was really astounded. "But I-"
"I mean you should become completely disinterested in him. I'm not even speaking of love. Or anything else you may have in mind."
"I'm afraid I don't understand. Are you in love with him?"
Cynthia snorted delicately. "Love doesn't even enter the picture. The fact is, I own Marc Ferris. It was my money that started this venture; I merely permitted him to take shares because he needs to own something to support his ego. He's never been a success in business and never could be. He's an illusion built on an illusion. But he's my investment, my property, and I never tolerate anyone putting their hands on my property."
"He's a very talented property," Marsha couldn't help saying.
But Cynthia merely smiled. "Of course. His talent is his biggest asset, as I believe you know. But I can't afford to have it all concentrated on one thing. You're an intelligent girl. I think you know exactly what I mean."
Marsha laughed. "I really don't understand this. He hasn't shown that much interest in me."
"He wouldn't. Marc thinks he's the complete master of women, but he's naive. They've been his downfall, too. I can always tell when he's thinking about one woman too much. It's happened before, you see. He's like a collector. His collection is vast, but there's always that one more jewel which sparkles a little brighter than the rest, the one that puts the gleam in his eye."
"You understand him pretty thoroughly, don't you?"
"I've gotten where I am by understanding people. Especially their weakness."
"Well, at least I'm warned."
"Advised. You'll go far if you heed good advice. And keep a good business head." She gave Marsha a half-smile. "How would you like to make three hundred dollars, for instance?"
"Tonight?"
"Yes, tonight."
Marsha knew that it was a baited hook-and that she had to bite.
"What do I have to do?" she said after a long pause.
Cynthia's face wore no expression at all as she delivered the answer to Marsha's question.
"What you've been trained to do," she said. "That's all you need to know for now. You'll received the details when it becomes time. And now," she smiled, getting up, "enjoy the party, my dear. We'll see each other later."
She moved off and Marsha was left alone for the moment. She finished her drink and ordered another from the white-coated barman. He fixed it and handed it to her and she began to work on that one. The party had soured for her suddenly. Marc was off in a corner near the piano, talking to Cynthia as she played. Some date, she thought. Some invitation.
Some party.
She had been invited not as a guest, but as part of the evening's entertainment, evidently.
She laughed to herself. In a way, this was to be her coming-out party then. She wondered who it was to be-some lecherous married executive who had gotten eyes for her, or an unescorted male playboy who had come to take his pick of Cynthia's fine choice crop-someone who was willing to drop three bills. And all for the glory of the old school tie....
Fun.
But then Joe Rudin came over and asked her to dance, and for the moment she forgot her troubles. They danced out on the terrace, where a small group played softly under the stars, casting an illusion that was something out of a Hollywood movie about New York. The palm fronds, box hedges, dwarf pine trees and exotic shrubbery giving off exotic odors helped considerably to cast everything in this light, but mostly it was the backdrop of the Manhattan and Brooklyn skylines. This was a world she had never made as an honest girl, and now she was making it as a call girl.
Something ironic in that.
Very ironic.
But at least she was making it. At least the surface dazzle was there, the gleam and polish and glamour, the gown she was wearing, the beautifully dressed beautiful people of her childhood dreams of the city. She had made it, and it had been so easy after all.
All you had to do was sell yourself a little.
To the right people, of course. That was the important part-to the right people. In another century, she would have been called a courtesan, and only nobility would have visited her doorstep, plying her with gifts and money to receive the beneficence of her practiced embraces. She would have a house in the country, gilded carriages and fine horses-all of them given to her by men, because she had a beautiful face and a beautiful body.
She would have the equivalent of those things now. Men would give her things in return for what she gave them.
A stranger cut in on them, a tall, white-haired gentleman with sparkling blue eyes dressed in semi-formal dinner attire.
"I couldn't help admiring you from afar," he said in a rich baritone voice. "But you're much better up closer. My name's Henry Jackson. I'm up from Texas on business. I wonder if I could give you a ring tomorrow?"
They glided effortlessly across the tile terrace to the music. He was a good dancer. "I'll give you my phone number," she said. "My name's Marsha Kinsted."
"I'd like to take you to dinner, Marsha. The Alhambra perhaps, or the Angel, if you prefer. Whatever's your pleasure."
Whatever's your pleasure. The phrase stuck in her mind after the dance was over and they had parted. So that was the way that worked, she thought. That was the way you added to the list, got to know people. The ring on his finger told you he had a wife and his eyes told you he would pay plenty for a chance to take you out on the town and then make love to you afterward in his or your apartment, or a posh hotel suite. And he would no doubt become a steady client, if he liked the the way you treated him. A well-heeled, regular John. He would know people who owned yachts, or perhaps he had one himself, up from Texas, docking at City Island.
Very nice. A little weekend cruise maybe, with plenty of champagne and plenty of things going on down in the staterooms. A free pleasure cruise, all expenses paid, plus.
Cynthia caught her by the arm as she was going to the bar to join Marc for another drink. She was already feeling the three she had had, carrying a nice little edge, and he saw no reason to stop now.
"You're doing well, my dear," Cynthia smiled.
"Am I?" Marsha said, returning the smile. "Oh, you mean Mr. Jackson."
"He's exceedingly wealthy. He came with another girl, but I could see it was you he was interested in right away."
"Yes, he asked me for a date."
"Take him up on it, by all means."
"I gave him my number."
"Fine. And now, I'd like you to come with me if you don't mind."
The "if you don't mind" were merely a formality. The request was on the level of a command. Marsha pictured the day when enough Henry Jacksons would get her out from under this woman's thumb, but right now she knew that Cynthia could crush her if she so wished.
She followed Cynthia through the spacious entertaining room, down a long hallway, and into what turned out to be an antechamber leading into the master bedroom.
Cynthia went over to a cherrywood lowboy and took out a sheaf of bills.
"Here's your fee in advance." She handed Marsha three hundred dollar bills. Marsha took them in her hand and looked at them. She had seen few hundred dollar bills in her life, and now three of them back-to-back was just a bit awesome.
"Fine," she said finally. "Who's my client though?"
"Me.'!
"You?"
"I'm paying you the money to turn a trick for someone. I want to see just how professional you are. Go in there. You'll find a closet to hang your clothes in and a bed to get onto when you're undressed. I'll be back with your John in five minutes."
Cynthia turned to leave, and Marsha was about to ask her who the recipient of her generosity was. but decided against it. She turned and walked the opposite way-into the bedroom.
In her slightly tipsy condition, she thought she was having an hallucination when she stepped into the big room. She gazed around her, owl-eyed-at several hundred beautifully dressed Marsha Kinsteds.
"God!" she breathed. "Well I'll be damned!"
It took her a while to find which mirror was actually a closet door. When she did, she began undressing and hanging up her things.
Then, completely nude, she walked over to the spacious circular bed and got onto it, a little dizzied by the sight of all those other naked Marsha's doing the same thing. She stared up at the ceiling and there she was again!
Amazing, she thought. This is how I look to a man. She touched her breasts and ran her hands over her body experimentally. The girl all around her did the same thing. She had never felt quite so naked, so exposed. The silk sheet beneath her was cool, deliriously smooth and cool; even that seemed calculated to excite. Her nipples rose slowly under her fingertips. Whoever it was would find this pose very alluring, she thought, smiling at herself. He was bound to-because she certainly felt alluring.
The door opened and two people walked in.
Cynthia Lockhart was one of them.
The other was Marc Ferris.
Marsha was suddenly a mixture of surprise, confusion, and embarrassment. For him to find her like this-
But suddenly the whole thing dawned on her. This was a put-up job. A put-up and shut-up job. Marc turned his back to her after a brief glance and began removing his clothes. Cynthia took a straight-backed chair and moved it close to the bed and sat down.
Marsha opened her mouth to say something and then promptly closed it.
The whole thing didn't make sense at first, after Cynthia's little speech to her out at the bar.
But then it did. Then this made perfect sense. Cynthia was going to watch while he made love to her-by courtesy of the three C's Cynthia had given her for the job.
The very professional job.
What kind of a kick Cynthia was going to get out of this was hard to figure. But the rest was easy.
Cynthia was putting her in her place once and for all.
When Marc was finished undressing he came over to the bed. He did not speak to her and she did not speak to him.
No one said a word.
Marsha felt as though she were blushing crimson.
This was demeaning, in a way. She was being used for sport by Cynthia-sport with the man she had real feelings for. God.
No; she thought; no, I can't do this. I can't let that woman do this to me, I won't.
But she didn't move. The absolute silence in the room, the mirrors, the bed beneath her, the tableau presented by the three of them, multiplied a hundred times, all combined to put her in a state of tense excitement that paralyzed her will to rebel against the demeaning situation.
And she was excited, despite everything.
Intensely excited, by the time he moved onto the bed and began touching her.
Touching her and caressing her. His face was a blank, his eyes veiled, without expression. But his hands, his body, his caresses were magnificent.
He touched her all over. He kneaded the flesh of her breasts, her hips, legs. He handled her like so much goods, professionally, disinterestedly.
And she responded-professionally.
She moved, returned caresses, loosed her lips when his mouth met hers.
She saw that all happen and she saw Cynthia watching, a keenly interested look of controlled excitement on her face. Leaning forward in the chair, taking in everything, every last little detail. She could see Cynthia's nostrils whiten and flare with excitement, her ripe bosom heave.
In an unearthly voice she said: "Fix her good, Marc. She's a pig. A filthy, disgusting pig. Treat her like one."
His caresses grew rougher, hurting her.
"Slap that face of hers, Marc."
A sudden stinging blow rocked her head.
"Oh I"
"Excite her, Marc!"
But she was already excited. He slapped and pinched and handled her carelessly-and even that was good. She felt her excitement grow, expand, her breath rush faster and faster as the bed jolted with his rough movements.
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked, arching her backward.
"Ahhh! Please, darling, please !"
"Fix her, Marc I" He moved. "Ahhh!"
Again and again and again. She became delirious with the insane motion, the images dancing all around her. She wanted to close her eyes and scream, but she couldn't. She was fascinated, hypnotized by the whole scene.
And suddenly she became aware that Cynthia was as excited as she was. She ripped off the gown she was wearing in a scurry and climbed naked onto the bed with them.
She was beside herself. Her face had changed completely to an expression of blazingly intense animal excitement; her marvelous body moved with supple swiftness.
"I'll show you what to do with a pig like this," she rasped.
And before Marsha realized what was happening, Cynthia was forcing her to cooperate. She barely had time to cry out.
Then there were the three of them, forming a trio of need, moving desire that shook and rocked the bed.
Faster and faster and faster.
Marsha was ablaze; she was caught in a maelstrom formed by their bodies, male and female; helpless before their crude manipulations. Faster and faster.
She felt that happening for her, the rumbling of desire about to erupt of its own will.
She screamed.
But the scream was lost as another's passion choked it off, her own releasing simultaneously, and his. A three-way race. That was fantastic. Unbelievable.
A three hundred dollar finish if there ever was one.