Chapter 9
THIS oughta be a pushover, Steve told himself, unlocking his apartment door. "Just the two of us," he mumbled. "How nice'n cozy." He pushed the door open and gestured broadly for his guest to enter.
"Nice, little place you've got," Dan Moore started. "Stay single, Steve—it's the only way." He shot Steve a knowing glance. "I'll bet the female-transient traffic is pretty damned heavy up here."
"I manage," Steve replied glumly, closing the door behind him. He watched Moore move about unsteadily, most likely half-drunk. Steve shrugged inwardly, telling himself that he ought to have his head examined. At this very moment his guest might have been a neat bundle of female named Mildred Whitney!
Steve realized that his life had been totally upset during the past few days—but purposely standing up a dream-package like Mildred Whitney was pushing the limit. "Maybe later," he consoled himself. So Mildred is a snake, he thought, so what? He'd still like to see her crawl into his bed.
But this evening was reserved for business. The business of getting a number of questions answered. He sized-up Moore. It wouldn't take a helluva lot more Scotch and soda to start him talking.
"Sit down, Dan," Steve started. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Fine idea meeting here at your place to get the new plans rolling, Steve. Nice and informal—away from that damned office."
"You must have had quite a session with Adele this morning," Steve started to pry. "You weren't in until noon."
"I haven't seen Adele for days," Moore replied. "I was at my club this morning—turkish bath and rub-down." He winked knowingly. "Rough weekend."
Steve smiled, inwardly still wondering who was spying on him. "Scotch and soda, Dan?"
"My boy," Moore beamed, wetting his lips. "You just said the magic words!"
Steve busied himself, getting a tray of ice from the refrigerator, setting up bottles and glasses on the coffee table. "As you can see—I'm the butler and maid."
"Not for long," Dan replied. "You're going places, Steve!"
"We are going places," Steve cut in, pouring an ample amount of Scotch for Moore.
"No." Moore shrugged tiredly. "I've already been there. I'm tired and perfectly content being put out to pasture."
Steve handed Moore the drink. "You're president of a growing Corporation—
"Steve, my boy," Moore interrupted as he took the drink, "you're a pretty damned good salesman—and a good salesman knows when to stop pushing—don't oversell a point." He gulped quickly at the drink. "We both know what I am."
Steve hesitated. "I still think you've got a lot on the ball."
Moore downed the remainder of his Scotch and soda without coming up for air. He reached for the fifth of Scotch and poured another. "You don't mind?" Moore asked, measuring a few drops of soda to the generous' portion of amber fluid.
"Not at all."
Moore smiled. "I've never taken anything under false pretenses. You'll get full value for your fifth of Scotch." He squared with Steve. "Just spill it—I'll answer all the questions I possibly can before I get drunk."
Steve was forced to smile. "Was I that obvious?"
"You're in a deep spin, Steve, trying to figure out Adele Crandon. Well, take a piece of advice from an old husband—"
"Hold up, Dan. I'm not married to her."
"You're sleeping with her, aren't you? A license is a mere formality."
Steve tightened. "Look, this isn't necessary—"
"Don't be so damned squeamish," Moore cut in quickly. "I'm the original member of the Mister Adele Crandon Club—you're the latest member. And there will be a helluva lot more Mister Adele Crandons when you finally get tossed out of her bed." Moore tasted his second Scotch and soda, smiled approvingly. "Steve, my boy, you and I are sort of special cousins." He hit the drink again. "Hey, one of these days I'll introduce you to some of the other former Mister Adele Crandons."
"Dan, you reek of sour grapes."
"Sour grapes?" Moore pondered. "No, not really. I've been enjoying the sideshow all these years. You see, I'm the only one she didn't toss out of bed. I—sneaked out of her bed."
"That's your version of it," Steve shot back.
Moore reddened. "Boy, I may be a helluva lot of things—but I'm not a liar!"
"I'm sorry."
"That's okay," Moore loosened. "I know it's hard to believe." Moore banged his glass down on the coffee table, tightened a fist and steadied it against the palm of the other hand. "You know, Steve," he started reflectively. "There's a chance—just a chance —that I'm responsible for the present-day Adele Crandon. You might not believe this—but she was my virgin bride. Yeah, she made me marry her first.
She was a seventeen-year-old farm girl," he mused, as though to himself.
"Were you in love with her?" Steve asked.
"Steve, I hate to sound philosophical—but every man in heat imagines he's in love." Moore remained fixed, creased his forehead. "I had a sales crew selling `one hundred per cent rainproof roofing—guaranteed to last a lifetime' throughout the southern states. I saw this lush'n ripe, barefooted creature on her daddy's farm—and that was it. I was determined to take her along with me. Steve, I was such a good salesman in those days that I convinced her she had a great career in store as a saleswoman. Hell, she hadn't gotten past the seventh grade in one of those one-room red schoolhouses." He leaned over closer to Steve. "You know something—I oversold her. In four years she got to be the smoothest soft-sell artist I have ever seen!"
"So why did you leave her?" Steve asked.
Moore shrugged, palmed his glass and took a heavy slug. "Drinking wasn't always my bad habit," he started. "I only had one bad habit in those days. Some men prefer mature women—I never did."
"You like them young?" Steve cut into the pause.
Moore shrugged in admission. "So one day I had my sales crew operating in a small town down in Virginia. I stopped for a cup of coffee and there was this perky little seventeen-year-old girl behind the counter. She didn't look a day over fifteen." Moore paused reflectively, wetting his lips. "Lena was one of those tall and lanky creatures with little cast-iron knockers . . ." Moore killed his enthusiasm, drifted into a pause.
"So you went to work on Lena."
Moore finished his drink. "Adele had just turned twenty-one," he pleaded in self-defense. "And out there selling—she was getting too damned sure of herself. She didn't really need me anymore." Moore bowed his head. "I worked that territory over for al-most a month—until I ran off with Lena."
"And you made a saleswoman of her, too?" Steve half-asked, half-presumed.
"And a few others," Moore bragged. "But none like Adele! Why, when I ran into her four years later she was blazing on to really big things!"
"She forgave you for running out on her?"
"Turned out I did her a big favor. 'Her second husband had money."
Finally, Steve tasted his drink, squared with Moore. "Dan, you might very well have created the monster in her."
Moore shrugged, poured a heavy slug of Scotch. This time he didn't bother with the soda. Now it was his turn to get back at Steve. "And if I hadn't, Stevemy-boy, where would you be at this precise moment?"
Moore's drunken smile was contagious and Steve joined him. "Maybe you've got a point there, Dan."
"Steve, maybe it's just wishful thinking—but my money's on you. Before she makes you over into Mister Adele Crandon—I'd like to see you make her. Mrs. Steve Turko, a fairly honest woman."
"She's already married."
"The tennis hero in the short white pants? His time is just about up; he's outlived his usefulness." Steve hit his drink, tightened.
"That's great!" He started. "Now I've got two mysteries on my hands. Now I can't really figure you out."
"It's simple enough," Moore smiled. "To me—Adele will always be that barefooted farm girl. Call it what you like, but I feel an obligation, something a bit fatherly." He nudged Steve. "So to speak—I'd rest easier with you as my son-in-law."
Steve shrugged dumbly. "This is crazy."
"Don't sweat it, Steve. Save your energy for Sheldon."
"Another mystery!" Steve quickly cut in.
"On that score I can't help you much, Steve. The slick bastard's got something on Adele. Exactly what, I don't know. All I do know, is that she's never maneuvered him into her bed. 'Cause if she had—she'd control him."
"Does he own any stock in the company?" Steve asked. "Any control?" The doorbell rang and Steve turned suddenly. "I'm not expecting anyone." He got up and started across the room while Moore poured himself another drink. Steve pulled open the door and caught offguard the wide-eyed young girl. "Dolly? What are you doing here?"
"Steve, I just had to see you! I just had to explain about the other night," she rattled on. "I mean, can't we still be friends?" Dolly's eyes bulged, finally aware of Moore. "Steve, isn't he the president of the company?" she whispered, somewhat incredulously.
"Well, who's your little friend?" Moore beamed, rising and straightening himself.
Frightened, Dolly froze. Steve took her arm, urging her into the room. Moore, eyes bulging, shortened the gap between them.
"Mister Moore," Steve started, "this young lady works in the accounting department."
"At Polar Bear?" Moore questioned, his eyes raking the length of Dolly. "Incredible!"
"I've only been there a few weeks, Mister Moore," Dolly cringed.
"Aha, that's the reason," Moore started, nervously fisting and unfisting his hands. "My child, I make it a point to know all my employees."
Something clicked in Steve's brain: Moore's pen-chant for young brides. "This is Dolly's first job out of high school," Steve explained. "She's only eighteen."
"I'll be nineteen next spring," Dolly quickly put in.
"Now-now," Moore beamed, taking her hand gently, giving it a little squeeze. "Be proud of your youth!" He re-examined her, concentrating on her white-sweatered mounds of lushness. "And your name is Dolly—"
"Dolly Conway, sir." The girl trembled. "It's really Dorothy," she explained.
"A formal name such as Dorothy would never do for so pretty a young thing," Moore gushed, as though oblivious to Steve's presence.
"I—I really should be going," Dolly quivered. "I only stopped by to talk to Steve." She hesitated. "We're just friends, Mister Moore. You do under-stand?"
"Perfectly," Moore assured her, quite fatherly, while bringing his hands up to the collar of her opened car-coat. "You must stay and have a drink with us."
"Oh, I couldn't!"
Moore expertly slipped behind her and removed the coat. "Just one little drink," he pleaded.
"I really couldn't."
Steve decided to go to bat for Moore. "Dolly, Mister Moore is only being friendly. Since you're a new employee—"
"Well, just one drink," she conceded.
"I'll do the honors," Moore informed Steve, as though to push him out into left field. "Dolly, what'll it be?"
"Well, I don't really drink—but I just adore grass-hoppers!"
"Grasshoppers?" Moore questioned.
"All I've got is Scotch and rye," Steve shrugged apologetically.
"Gosh, I don't know what goes into them," Dolly dumbly started. "But they taste just divine!"
"They most certainly do," Moore agreed, taking her hand in his again. "It's a delightful cocktail—always a favorite of mine."
Steve fought to suppress a spasm of coughing. Dan Moore's modus operandi with Dolly was much-toomuch, he thought. He devilishly decided to put a crimp into Moore's style. "I'll be glad to call the liquor store," Steve offered. "They deliver in five minutes. What do you need, Dan?"
"Steve, my boy, I'm surprised that you're not pre-pared for such occasions. Now, my bar is completely stocked," he stated suggestively. He snapped his fingers. "And just like that—Dolly would have her grasshopper!"
"Gosh, Mister Moore," Dolly oozed. "Do you really know how to make a grasshopper?"
Steve bit his lower lip to suppress his smile. "How do you make a grasshopper, Dan?"
Moore ignored Steve, seated Dolly on the couch and graduated to holding both of her hands, while managing knee-to-knee contact. "Dolly—my dear child—a grasshopper must be prepared with great finesse, using the finest ingredients. For you—I would measure one-and-a-half tablespoons of cream, one ounce creme de cacao, one ounce creme de menthe." He paused, caught his breath in a grand manner. "Add cracked ice, shake well, blend thoroughly and strain the delightful concoction into a cocktail glass."
"Gee whiz," Dolly gushed. "You're real smart, Mister Moore!"
Steve smiled and conceded the victory to Moore, "You'll have to take Dolly up to your place and demonstrate your artistry."
"A splendid idea," Moore nodded, the back of his hands riding Dolly's thighs.
"Gee whiz," Dolly started, "wouldn't your family mind? I mean—your wife and children?"
"No, Dolly." Moore feigned sadness. "I was never that fortunate. I'm all alone," he sighed, "at the Blyden Hotel."
"You live all alone in a hotel room?" she questioned sympathetically.
"I'm afraid so, Dolly." Moore shrugged, obviously pulling for more sympathy. "I envy the man with a delightful daughter such as you are—a happy house-hold busy with your teen-aged activities."
"Huh," Dolly groaned, "my father's almost never home—and when he is, he's always hollering for me to be quiet."
"No," Moore started, deeply pained. "The man doesn't know how fortunate he is."
Still standing, reeling slightly from Moore's rapid-fire progress with Dolly, Steve suddenly needed his drink. He started for it, but the steady ring of the telephone stopped him. On the third ring, he darted a glance at the oddly-matched pair, Moore's hands boldly pawing more and more of Dolly, and Dolly delightfully wallowing in the pool of attention. Steve shrugged dumbly and crossed over to the phone on the desk.
This was obviously his night for surprises, Steve told himself, as Mildred Whitney's sugary greeting oozed through the receiver. Steve nervously glanced at the couch but Moore was too engrossed with Dolly.
"Look, I'm sorry I stood you up," Steve started awkwardly. "But some business came up—"
"Steve," Mildred's voice cut in. "I must see you right away. It's urgent."
"I'll be in the office tomorrow at nine."
"No, Steve—not at the office. I'm not very far from your address; I'll be over in ten minutes."
"No." Steve tightened, then smiled over at Moore and Dolly. Why not make Moore a present of Dolly? Maybe the old buzzard had more patience than he did and would know how to cope with her.
"Steve?" Mildred's voice questioned over the receiver. "Are you still there?"
Steve smugly placed his lips close to the mouth-piece. "Come over in twenty minutes."
"What's the matter, Steve? Is someone there?" Her voice bit into his ear sarcastically.
"I said twenty minutes," Steve stressed, "Apartment 3-C." He quickly hung up on Mildred.
Steve wheeled about, moved slowly back to the pair, groping for a start in his new role of match-maker. "Some very important business just came up," he tried, for a starter. "I'm afraid I'll have to put you two out."
"Well, I really should be going home," Dolly sighed, easing herself out of Moore's clutches.
"Allow me to see you home," Moore offered Dolly.
"Mister Moore, Dolly is a fine, understanding girl." Steve started into his act. "I know you'll be angry if I let her in on our secret—but I'm really concerned about you." Moore stared dumbly. Steve sneaked him a wink, then turned solemnly to Dolly. "Dolly, Mister Moore has been feeling depressed lately, spends too much time alone."
"Oh, that's dreadful!" Dolly moaned..
"Personal misfortunes," Steve stated, as though that should certainly explain everything. "Why don't you keep him company a while this evening, Dolly? I'm sure you can cheer him up."
"Well, I'd like to—" Dolly started.
"Good," Steve cut in, quickly helping her into her coat.
Moore took bewildered Dolly's arm. "Young lady, I'll mix you the most delightful grasshopper!"
"Will you really?" Dolly dumbly asked as Moore marched her to the exit.
Holding the door open for their hasty departure, Steve suppressed a grin as he thought of the problem and possible struggle Dan Moore would soon be facing with Dolly and her constant plea of "Please don't get me in trouble." Steve shrugged. Maybe Moore would settle for her substitute-love-actions.
"Enjoy yourselves," Steve waved to the pair as they started down the stairway. And to himself he smugly mumbled. "Lots of luck, special cousin. I'll be too damned busy with the real thing—Mildred Whitney."