Chapter 1
STEVE TURKO whiled away the time by waiting for Mildred Whitney to re-cross her legs. Perched on a stool, the flame-haired private secretary was every bit the queen bee, relishing each glance from the twenty-four suffering drones seated about the conference room. She radiated a strict policy of: "Look—but don't touch."
Steve waited. Somehow, he always preferred the right leg crossed over the left . . .
This day looked like the start of another routine week to Steve Turko. Another Monday morning—another sales meeting. The same smoke-filled conference room, the same huddle of men feigning interest in Dick Sheldon's pep talk. And as always, long-limbed Mildred Whitney with steno pad in hand, perched atop her throne.
Sheldon, New York sales manager for the Polar Bear Home Freezer Corporation, had a habit of pacing with his hands knotted behind his back while addressing his captive audience of twenty-to-thirty salesmen—depending on how many had legitimate excuses for playing hooky. Whenever Sheldon uttered what he considered a brilliant pep-phrase, he'd turn to his secretary for a nod of acknowledgment. In-variably, he'd turn back to the men with an eat-your-hearts-out-you-poor-slobs look. All the boys knew that Sheldon, a supposedly happily-married man, had a little something going on the side with his curvaceous secretary.
Mildred re-crossed her legs to Steve's favorite position, and the young door-to-door salesman settled back to endure the remainder of Sheldon's spiel.
He should get out there to face the housewife's sales resistance, Steve grumbled to himself. He forced himself to divert his attention from Mildred's statuesque pose to his energetic boss. Steve guessed him to be roughly five years older than his own age of twenty-seven. Steve was slightly over the six-foot mark, broad-shouldered and possessed a face alive with the mingling of Greek and Irish blood in him. In contrast, Sheldon was a nondescript man with a sagging, emaciated frame. About all they had in common was coal-black hair—but Sheldon's hairline receded, while Steve's well-groomed crop was thick and low on his forehead.
Put to the test, Steve was certain that he could out-sell his boss any day of the week. "So what?" Steve mumbled to himself with a sigh of defeat. Sheldon was in the front office with his sultry secretary while he was selling deep-freeze units from door-to-door to straggly-haired housewives with screaming brats at their feet.
Selling was all Steve knew, starting with the magazine subscriptions he had sold in his youth. Since then he had sold just about everything from ladies lingerie to life insurance. It gave him confidence to know that he could do one job well—the only job he could earn good money at without a college education.
Steve pondered over the problem that was plaguing him: if he was so damned good at selling the company's merchandise—why couldn't he sell him-self? Once again, he wondered if his being single had anything to do with it. Maybe a wife—the right one —would give him the incentive he needed. He concentrated on Mildred as she arched her back primly. He gaped at the smooth lines of her body; his common sense told him that this type of woman wasn't wife-material, but his physical senses told him that she would be worth the try.
Mildred caught him at his mental-rape-play and tugged at the hem of the pale blue sheath, tossing him a glare. Steve put his pride in his back pocket and faked interest in a point Sheldon was attempting to drive home to his sales crew. Some day he'd be top man in a large sales organization, Steve daydreamed. And he'd have his private secretary on display at sales meetings. He'd pick a tall, leggy creature with soft hair tumbling down over her shoulders. Ever since he was a teen-ager and first saw a painting of Lady Godiva, he imagined his fantasy-princess with a lush bouquet of hair streaming down to her ankles.
He sighed momentarily and returned to the reality of the present and his seemingly drab existence. He was a single man, but his heart wasn't in it. A real bachelor would enjoy his footloose existence. But Steve was miserable at the game, tired of the same old rut. And part of that same old rut was Matty's Bar and Grill around the corner from the office. Matty's Bar and Grill. It might just as well be named "The Polar Bear Office Extension Bar and Grill." Listening to the salesmen, and especially the office girls, you'd think Matty's was a halfway house between the Latin Quarter and the Stork Club, and was in business exclusively to cater to the Polar Bear Company clique. You'd walk into the hangout at five o'clock and see the same, old tired scene. The credit department girls at one table, the shipping department at another, and the steno pool at still another. And the salesmen at the bar, anxiously waiting and watching, always ready to infiltrate the various tables. Then came the hard part: prying the "sure-thing" girl away from her girlfriends.
Steve shuddered at the thought of his latest con-quest in Matty's Bar—Gladys, the new girl in the credit department. Gladys was an attractive peroxide-blonde still in her twenties who didn't need one-third of the heavy make-up she wore. She was a leggy creature with snakelike hips; her breasts were well-proportioned mounds of firm flesh. Steve grew sweaty as he recalled his impatience with Gladys . . .
It was a Friday evening after work and he had entered Matty's with a determination. "Something new," he had told himself, and concentrated on Gladys. He was hazy about the way it happened: the table-hopping, the idle chatter, getting stuck for three rounds of drinks, that annoying thin girl with the shrill laugh drinking those damned grasshoppers, finally prying Gladys away from her girlfriends, more drinks at a corner table for two, more office chatter and then, all of four hours later, the pitch.
He distinctly remembered the moment they had entered his room-and-a-half apartment. After a five-second appraisal, she said the place lacked "a woman's touch." He had fought back an urge to in-form her that the only part of his apartment that needed "a woman's touch" was his bed. Instead, he offered her a drink.
And when he was finally seated comfortably on the daybed alongside her, his arm drawing her closer to him, she had to turn on the radio—a certain disk jockey who played the "most divine music!"
"C'mon, dance with me," she pleaded.
He fought back another urge to tell her that this wasn't exactly the Junior Prom. But he accommodated her with his one-two-three step through most of a rock'n roll record. He put a stop to it by gripping her sleek wrists and drawing her close. Her plump breasts flattened against his chest.
"You're a fast worker," she sighed.
Steve winced at the not-so-original line and brought his lips down heavily on hers. His hands re-leased her wrists and rapidly stroked her back. He heard her moan softly and he grasped at the high cushion of her buttocks. Suddenly her mouth was open and she was twining her tongue with his, her hands clawing at his back.
Breathing the heavy perfume, Steve expertly undid the zipper of her dress. He eased the garment off her shoulders, his fingers pausing on the hook of her bra. Before he could undo it, she pried herself away from him, gathering the dress about her waist.
"Well, I guess I asked for it," she sighed in a hurt tone that didn't ring true to Steve, "coming up here to your apartment."
She sat down on the edge of the daybed, reached for her drink on the coffee-table and daintily took a sip.
Steve studied her momentarily. "Okay," he told himself. "The girl's a clerk-typist all week long—let her play out her big movie scene—as long as it leads to bed."
And when it did—the even flow of her nudity clinging warmly to his—he quickly forgot his annoyance over her "waiting game." Her skin was soft and smooth and white. He massaged her rubbery haunches and her whole being seemed to come alive. He felt her arms tighten around him as her open mouth sought his. She was as anxious to please as he was to take pleasure in her and her body rolled and throbbed against him. For a few wild moments nothing existed for Steve but the feel of her and the fire began to spread in his body until he clutched her tightly, his breath ragged.
Steve remembered the shattering explosion that rocked them simultaneously. He remembered that but, most of all, he remembered the morning after. Gladys was just a barroom pick-up. So it had been at Matty's instead of some cheap dive on Forty-second Street—so what? She was still a barroom pickup. He didn't buy her story that going to a man's apartment was a new experience for her, and he was cool to her overtures for a repeat performance. What she was didn't bother Steve. It was her dishonesty that annoyed him—the game she wanted to play. He was tired of games—just as damned tired of games as he was of Matty's Bar and Grill.
He had finally persuaded Gladys to get dressed and leave by telling her that he was expecting relatives to pop in at any moment. This wasn't exactly a lie, he reasoned, but more of a remote possibility. And then Steve had settled down to a lonely, boring weekend: mostly television and beer-drinking, a little reading.
Sheldon was still going strong, sounding more like the top man than the "second banana." Everyone at Polar Bear knew that there was no love lost between the outfit's president, Dan Moore, and Sheldon.
Moore was a small, silver-haired man with an alcoholic flush to his face. He was a huckster of the old school, rumored to have been involved in a number of shady deals before organizing the Polar Bear food-freezer plan. Office rumor also had it that the hard-drinking President had a weakness for teen-aged females—jailbait.
Steve never put too much stock in office rumors, but he did have firsthand knowledge on this perverted segment of Moore's life. He restrained a grin as he recalled the somewhat puzzling incident that had occurred almost a month ago.
Steve's apartment was within walking distance of both the office and Matty's Bar and Grill, and one night he was restless, unable to sleep, and he had decided on a little nightcap at Matty's. Steve was about to enter the hangout when he went wide-eyed at the sight of an alcohol-benumbed Dan Moore leaning against the building, lewdly pawing a hippy, full-busted kid in dungarees and bulky sweater. The girl couldn't possibly have been older than sixteen.
Steve had decided to mind his own business and was about to enter Matty's when the lush teen-ager suddenly let out a torrent of sobs and protests.
Steve had remained the spectator while two men garbed in almost identical trenchcoats and slouched fedoras stepped out of a hallway, confronting Dan Moore with a flash of badges. Almost too quickly, the young girl was blurting out wild accusations. One of the men inquired about her age and the just-ripe girl proudly proclaimed that she was only fifteen.
Steve really got suspicious about the charade when the taller of the two men suggested to Moore that they continue the interrogation in the nearby hallway.
Steve recalled the hunch he had played, the way he moved in with authority: "I'm Lieutenant Turko, Vice Squad. What precinct do you two work outa?"
A month later, Steve still found himself grinning at the words that had instantly tumbled out of the teen-ager's mouth: "Cripes, a real cop!" And it still amused Steve to think of the trio's hasty getaway.
Steve would have enjoyed a phoney chase, but he decided on a safer, more sensible course, hustling Dan Moore into a taxi. After a silent ride to Moore's residence, the plush Blyden Hotel on upper Park Avenue, the silver-haired executive threw Steve for a total loss with two short statements as he got out of the cab. The first being in the form of a self-answered question: "You're on our sales staff, aren't you?" The second statement more of a concession than praise: "You've got a good head on your shoulders, young man."
Steve still fumed when he thought about it. That pair of phoney detectives might still be blackmailing Moore, and after all this time, not even a thank you. And the irony of it all was that the pompous old bastard had stuck him with the cab fare!
Steve was beginning to wonder if Moore was nothing more than a figurehead. Maybe there was some-thing to the favorite office rumor that a mysterious woman of wealth actually controlled the corporation.
Steve squirmed in his seat. Sheldon seemed to be catching his second wind and would probably be good for at least another twenty minutes. Steve couldn't think of anything better to do with this time than to give Mildred another mental-undressing. He gawked his neck slightly, wondering if the zipper was on the side or back of the sheath. In the back, he wanted to believe and he imagined himself expertly undoing the clasp, his face buried in the thickness of her stylishly-coiffured hair.
Steve was cheated out of the interesting part of his weekly daydream by Sheldon stopping his spiel abruptly. Sheldon moved in on Steve, hovering, over-acting his authority. "Mister Turko," he cynically intoned. "You're not with us this morning." He distorted his face for obvious dramatic effect. "Is there some other demand on your attention? "
Steve bit on his lower lip as Sheldon gloated, the other salesmen suppressing smiles.
"All right, men," Sheldon concluded. "Get out there and sell. Remember, the week starts on Monday —not Wednesday or Thursday."
As the scramble for the exit ensued—most of the salesmen anxious to get to the corner cafeteria for a badly-needed coffee break—Steve hesitated, wondering whether or not to have it out with Sheldon. He could shove the job!
Steve mulled it over quickly, calmed himself. He'd stick it out for the remainder of the week. The Sunday Times employment section would be loaded with juicy sales positions. Steve avoided Sheldon's searching glance and scurried into the outer office where a number of girls were processing sales orders.
Steve needed to hit the street, breathe some fresh air, but Nina Caldwell, a plain-looking, brown-haired girl was standing by her desk. Steve knew there was no escaping her. Steve had taken more than his share of ribbing from his fellow salesmen—mostly married men—about Nina getting her matrimonial hooks into him. He'd take all the kidding they could dish out until they'd start being derisive about the drabness of the girl. At this point, he always found him-self defending her. In a sense, he felt guilty about the crush she had on him. Nina handled leads and call-backs for the sales staff, and at first Steve sweet-talked her for preferential servicing of his accounts. When she took it as romance, Steve compounded his blunder by repaying her office favors with perfume and candy. He was really knee-deep in quicksand after being seen treating her to lunch at Matty's. Now, whenever he was with Nina, the men elbowed each other and the office girls smiled coyly.
Nina had not been at Matty's that Friday evening —it wasn't much of a habit with her—and Steve doubted that she knew about his date with Gladys. Not that Nina had any "claim" on him—he just didn't have the stomach to hurt the sensitive girl.
"Steve!" Nina shrilled as he approached her. "I have a lead for you."
Steve smiled, reaching for the slip of paper clenched in her hand. "Thanks, Nina."
"It's in a real ritzy part of town," Nina beamed. "The Cragmore Arms, over on Sutton Place."
Steve stopped short, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't escape Nina that easily. He looked her over, wondering why the supposedly form-fitting black sweater did absolutely nothing for her breasts. And her excitement over a possible sale for Steve only brought a pinched look to the plainness of her face.
"Sutton Place?" Steve questioned. A fashionable area like that was hardly the place to sell Polar Bear's freezer unit and packaged food. Steve made most of his sales to middle-income families in the Bronx, Brooklyn and outlying territories.
"Mrs. Thomas L. Crandon," Nina announced, reading from the slip of paper. "And she asked specifically for you, Steve."
"Crandon . . ." Steve repeated slowly, unable to recall the contact. "Oh, yeah, I remember," he lied, seizing the opportunity to ease the slip of paper out of Nina's hand. "I'll hop right over there and see if I can do myself any good," he said, edging away from her.
"Steve," Nina started in a voice that always seemed to whimper. "Did you have a good weekend?"
"So-so . . ." he shrugged, thinking back again to his peroxide-blonde.
"I was up to my neck making plans for mom and dad's thirtieth anniversary party. We're surprising them!" Nina shrilled, then added, "it's this coming Saturday night."
"Gee, that's nice," he managed. The surprise party was all she had talked about for the past two weeks and here she was filling him in on the details again as though for the first time.
"We've invited about twenty couples," she in-formed him, placing the stress on couples. My brother and his wife, my younger sister—and her date . . ."
Steve didn't need the building to fall in on him to take the hint. "Oh, the hell," he muttered to himself. If he'd squandered the past weekend with Gladys—it wouldn't kill him to go to a party the following Saturday night with Nina. So it would be a dull Saturday night.
"Nina . . ." Steve started slowly. "I hate to butt into private parties, but I'm not doing anything Saturday night"
"Would you like to come?" she gushed.
"Yeah, sure," he stammered. "If I'm invited."
"Oh, you are!"
"Yeah, I guess I could drop by for a while." Steve looked about uneasily as the other girls sneaked glances at them. "I have to run now, Nina."
"We live in Brooklyn!"
"Well, I'll get the address later," he said, rapidly backtracking. He offered Nina a slight wave of the hand, executed a swift about-face and fled into the hallway.
Walking down the corridor to the bank of elevators, Steve felt like kicking himself, angry that he had given in to Nina. "You have to be heartless to get ahead in this world," he told himself.
"Oh, well," Steve said aloud as he pushed the but-ton for the elevator. The portal opened and he stepped into the self-service car. He glanced at the lead-slip as the car clicked into action and started downward. Mrs. Thomas L. Crandon.