Chapter 3
AUTUMN in New York, Steve thought, the rusty leaves floating downward, grazing him and swirling about his feet. He eased himself on the bench along-side the path, pulled out the bag of peanuts he had purchased from the old vendor. He took a handful of peanuts and held them out on his flattened palm to tempt a nearby squirrel. He watched the bushy-tailed animal scamper close to his hand, then hesitate.
"That's right," Steve shrugged. "Beware of strangers bearing gifts." He tossed the handful of peanuts a few feet away and the squirrel raced to the feast.
Steve shrugged again. Thinking back a few hours to his encounter with Adele Crandon, he suddenly put himself in the position of the squirrel greedily go-mg to the banquet. But a woman like Adele Crandon doesn't place a sumptuous feast before a guy for nothing, he told himself knowingly.
"Dammit," he sighed. He had walked and thought himself out—and still he remained decisionless. He arched himself tautly against the back of the bench, smug about his afternoon vacation from extolling the virtues of the Polar Bear Freezer to straggly-haired housewives.
He viewed the passing baby-carriage parade. The first woman was definitely a housewife. She had that pinched look about her. Steve knew that she'd have to really get involved before entering into an extra-marital affair. She'd turn a fling in bed into a never-ending Bette Davis-movie of torment.
The second carriage-pusher was a statuesque wheat-haired girl possessing all the finer Nordic qualities. A domestic for a wealthy family, he told himself, enjoying his little game. He studied her giant strides, the well-turned ankles, rounded thighs, firm hips and heavy bosom. Too damned healthy for fun-sex, he snickered inwardly as she passed him by.
An extremely young mulatto girl uniformed in white was next in the parade and Steve was instantly aware of her tall, angular frame, the distinct pin-points of her breasts; but most of all, the haughty manner in which she pushed her carriage. There was something about the catlike movements of her hips which was not in harmony with the stride of her thighs.
"What gives?" he muttered inwardly, kicking at a stubble of grass. This constant pre-occupation with sex, he mused, angry with himself. He suddenly felt like kicking himself. At least if all these affairs were real and not imagined—a panic nudged him.
Escape.
That's what he sought. Escape. Escape from reality. That's what he was trying to run away from. "The plain, unadulterated damned truth." He had sought refuge in the Park like a little boy climbs a tree to pout.
"The truth," he muttered, still kicking stubbornly at the same patch of grass. And the truth was that his encounter with Adele Crandon had annoyed him; left him totally frustrated.
He started walking out of the park, the grayness slowly lifting from his brain. He had met Adele Crandon—a regular female Waterloo—he told himself. It was all real enough. No one was playing a bad joke on him.
"Damned female," he muttered, quickening his pace. She had played the "cat'n mouse" game with him to the hilt. And that farewell kiss—the bait.
"Damned female!" he intoned, thinking of her intricate spy network. A scheming broad like that probably has spies spying on her spies. He recalled her saying: "I probably know more about you than you do about yourself."
"Damned!" he cried out. Only this time he was damning himself. While his eyes had been having a field day on each and every undulation of her curve-some body, his brain had gone out on vacation.
Adele Crandon needed another flunky. "Another spy to spy on one of her spies spying on everybody," he cynically told himself. "So a little title and money went with the dirty work . . . maybe for service beyond the call of duty she'd reward you with a fling in bed . . . and then again, she'd most likely hold back . . . tempting . . . teasing . . . the promise of her body goading you on until you were dizzy from want . . ." Steve shook his head negatively. "Thanks—but no thanks!"
Crossing Fifty-seventh Street on Sixth Avenue, he realized it was only three blocks down to the office. He also realized that if he turned thumbs down on Adele Crandon's offer—life might become pretty unbearable at the Polar Bear Company. Adele Crandon would discreetly see to that.
"Mutual funds," he told himself. "That's where the money is—selling mutual funds." Anyway he was tired of selling freezers, especially tired of Sheldon and his Monday morning pep talks.
Concentrating on a course of action he almost collided with a redheaded Amazon in thigh-tight purple slacks, white-sweatered breasts jutting out proudly. He swiveled his head over his shoulder, nodded approvingly at the buttocks . . . those tight purple slacks . . like a couple of weird or-chid petals . . .
"Stephano?" he called to himself in that particular manner and tone his father had employed on him when he was still a boy. "Stick to the grim reality."
Steve relaxed, resumed his pace, anxious to reach the office. A smile traced his lips. This would be one time when he'd thoroughly enjoy the grim reality. Telling Mister Sheldon exactly what he could do with his job.
Resuming his thinking, the smile slowly faded. Telling Sheldon off would be a luxury Steve couldn't afford. He'd need a clean slate for his next selling job. He'd resign in a gentleman-like manner.
Crossing the final east-west street before reaching the office, his gaze played momentarily on the neon:
MATTY'S BAR AND GRILL.
Maybe he needed a drink?
"No, dammit," he asserted, moving rapidly into the lobby of the building. Taking giant steps to the bank of elevators, he told himself that he'd be able to survive nicely without Matty's Bar and Grill once he left the Polar Bear Company. Of course, he'd have to make a few rapid adjustments if there wasn't to be too great a lag in his customary "once-a-week sex life."
Steve thought about trying some of the more posh bars on the east side. "Same love-starved broads," he shrugged, playing the same old "I'm really a virgin" game. Only the booze would be higher-priced.
Then, of course, he'd also make fresh contacts on his new job—whatever ti at might be. "Another job—another hangout," he sighed, going up on the elevator. He thought back to other sales positions he had held. Different names, decor, prices—but each hangout had been exactly what Matty's was to the Polar Bear Company employees.
Steve scanned his gaze about the deserted outer office area. A look up at the clock told him why it was deserted: twenty-after-five. The office girls were famous for their trigger-fast five o'clock getaways. Steve creased his brow. "Where'n the hell had the afternoon gone?"
Steve shrugged indifferently at the loss of time and moved swiftly down the corridor to Sheldon's office, hoping the sales manager was still in.
Steve opened the door, stopped short at the sound of muffled voices. Keep it business-like, he thought. Close the door and knock. The door still slightly ajar, Steve froze as Mildred Whitney's voice shrilled the office:
"Not now, Dick! Please?"
Steve heard Sheldon whining. "Aw, honey, don't stop me now."
Steve craned his neck, peering at an angle around the door, and he caught at his breath, his hands suddenly sticky with sweat.
Steve stared at the lewd picture of Mildred on the red leather couch, sprawling wantonly, the sheath above the line of her gartered hose. And Sheldon kneeling.
Steve sucked in his breath and bit hard on his lower lip. Sheldon's hands were see-sawing the length of her thighs, in rhythm to her guttural whimpering.
"I just can't get enough of you," Steve heard Sheldon moan as he expertly unsnapped her gartered hose. Wide-eyed, Steve watched Sheldon speed the sheer nylons down the length of her legs, first one, then the other. Sheldon's lips followed his hands with what seemed to be a deliberately skilled slowness until Steve heard the female strangled-scream.
The signal.
Mildred flung herself backward on the red leather until only the length of her legs were visible to Steve from his vantage point. That, and the hands she clamped tightly on Sheldon's head. Sheldon groaned loudly, frantically bobbing and weaving.
Steve felt a dryness in his throat, a fire kindling in him, rising and coursing up through his entire body until it numbed his brain. Momentarily, he forgot that he was the spectator and he imagined himself the understudy waiting to be called on stage, ready to replace the lead.
Suddenly, Sheldon's busy hands slowed and then, with deliberateness, he tossed the white satin panties over his shoulder.
Steve disengaged his eyes from the red-leathered couch, moved them slowly to the small blotch of white material on the maroon rug. He concentrated on the delicateness of the sheer cloth in contrast to the hardness of the dark floor-covering. From the couch, the mingled groans of seeking, moans of finding, cries of encouragement, words of lewd victory continued.
The manner in which Sheldon had tossed the sheer, white undergarment over his shoulder. It seemed to tell Steve: "You've had your little show, now move on you lowly crumb of a door-to-door salesman. This is a top executive action."
Defeated, Steve slowly backstepped, turned with a lumbering effort and moved, noiselessly to the main exit. Holding the door open, he thought of all those Monday morning pep sessions, Sheldon's favorite battle cry: "Men, the week starts on Monday!" Steve let out a gush of hair. The boss was sure as hell getting his Monday off to a royals start!
Unable to deny his envy, a sudden anger mounted within Steve. Powerless to do much more about it, he gave vent to his anger by loudly slamming the door closed.
"You bastard," Steve sneered inwardly as the sound reverberated throughout the empty office. "Maybe that'll crimp your Monday action!"