Chapter 3
Matt Schaffner was assistant manager of the actuaries division at Great Western Insurance. As such he came into daily contact with Terri Cavan, she being one of the circulating secretaries in the vast steno pool the company employed. When Schaffner needed a girl to take dictation, when he needed a spool of form run through, Terri was invariably that girl. Which was fine by Terri. Anything, even typing tables for Schaffner, running mass forms for him, was preferable to working at the clattering, maddening banks of data processing machines, crediting the deluge of policy premiums that daily innundated Great Western.
If there was anything that drove her stark, raving mad, made her want to bang her head into the nearest unused wall, that was it.
Matt was a man of thirty, handsome enough, personable enough in his somewhat stodgy, non-aggressive way. He was tall, dark-haired, stood trim and erect, was possessed of physical attributes which made him quite a catch in the eyes of many and many a marriage-happy Great Western slavey.
But the fact was that Schaffner didn't want any of this flirty, bubble-brained breed. He wanted Terri Cavan; indeed he'd been conducting a low pressure campaign to ingratiate himself with her, to win her, make her Mrs. Matt Schaffner, almost from the first week she'd come to work at the insurance firm.
Terri wasn't having any. For Matt was, in her eyes, scant inches shy of being an absolute nonentity. She had and Pam often joked about her persistent swain. Granted, he was good for an occasional luncheon date, for a dinner and movie outing now and then. But beyond that, to consider him as husband material, to think of him romantically at all, was to laugh.
Schaffner was a man to put aside for a rainy day. And when the glooms became too intolerable, when she just had to get out of the apartment or go berserk, then she'd smile, say, "Why yes, Matt. I'd love to go out tonight...."
Which wasn't totally Matt's fault. The fact was that Terri was sincere when she announced her disinterest in men and marriage. So recently escaped from suffocating supervision and prying eyes, enjoying her hedonistic freedom in L.A. to the hilt, she wasn't about to surrender it, deliver herself to the minor bondage that marriage imposes.
Had she not been so busy simply living for the first time in her life, she might have regarded the man in an entirely different light. She might even been greatly flattered. She might have even given the clumsy man a chance to put his long-suppressed longings into words. She might even-
But, no. She wasn't that far gone as yet.
As second in command in the actuary division Matt drew down roughly $7,500 per. There was a chance that, in time, he might move up into the $9-10,000 bracket. But that was a gigantic if. He was stuck in a rut so far as Terri was concerned, both career-wise and personality-wise. The man she'd marry would have to possess more professional drive than Matt, would have to have more flair and dash. Security, pipe-and-slippers-by-the-fireplace, definitely weren't her idea of marriage's necessary ingredients.
No hurry at all.
Yet she was amused by the man, felt small stirrings of warmth in her heart this Tuesday morning as she sat before his desk and took his rambling dictation. Struck by a sudden streak of mischief, uncaring and brazen, wanting to shock Matt into something rash, she purposely jiggled her lovely leg, let her skirt ride up over her nyloned knees. And when the skirt didn't cooperate, she even pulled at it with her hand until she knew he could see her bare flesh above her stockings, her garter snaps. If the timid dope really concentrated he'd be able to see the gay red panties she'd put on today. When Schaffner's voice died, when he came to dead stop, she asked, "Mr. Schaffner?" Her eyes went wide in ingenus stare.
"Excuse me, Terri. My thoughts drifted. Where were we?"
His eyes were almost regretful when she reached down, modestly rearranged her skirts. "The tables submitted on December tenth...." she prompted.
"Oh, yes. Now, let's see."
The man reddened slightly as he interpreted Terri's teasing smirk, his dictation became even more snarled. And Terri felt sorry for him, thought him cute in his embarrassment. There are lots worse men than this one. Harry Gardner in accounting would have been around his desk by this time. That wolf! Her eyes narrowed. Why can't I let myself like Matt more?
"Let's drop the letter for now, shall we, Terri? I guess I've got other things on my mind."
Terri couldn't control the impish grin. Like what? she wanted to tease. "Yes, Mr. Schaffner. What is it?"
"Why can't you call me Matt? I've asked you to often enough. Not just on dates, but here, in the office too."
Terri feigned censure. "We were told at...."
"Yeah, I know. You were told at business college that office policy demands...." He winced. "Nuts to business college." He leaned toward her, his eyes ardent, almost pleading. Terri was reminded of a small puppy squirming on the floor to be petted. "How about it, Terri? Have lunch with me?"
"Sorry, I've already promised Pam. Unless you...."
"No, I don't want to buy lunch for both of you.
You can't seem to understand I want to be alone with you. Pam gives me the creeps. Talk about grasping, opportunistic wenches...."
"It's a cruel world, Mr. Schaffner."
"Don't you be flip too, Terri," His expression became even more imploring. "How about tonight? I know a wonderful Italian place. We can take in a movie afterward."
"Sorry again. You know it's my drama class tonight."
"You still at that? I thought you were the girl who had no acting pretensions."
"I don't. But it helps pass the time. It's always an interesting evening."
"How about me helping pass the time? Don't we have interesting evenings? They are to me anyway."
Terri tried to be nice. "I promised Pam. I'm sorry."
"How about some other night this week?"
"I'll be busy," she lied. "I go to the gym on Wednesdays and Fridays. And . ." Terri attempted to sidetrack him. "These letters, Mr. Schaffner?"
"Matt," he insisted.
"Mr. Schaffner."
"How about next week? Will you go out with me then?"
"Maybe. Check with me then."
"The way you treat me, Terri. You forget I'm one of your bosses."
"Are you pulling rank on me, Mr. Schaffner? Somehow that's not at all like you." Terri's expression was grave.
"I didn't mean it that way, Terri. Really I didn't."
"Shall we get back to these letters then? You want me to read back again?"
A chastened expression grew on his face. It's incredible, Terri thought, how easily I can control him, how easily he caves in.
Schaffner said no more about a date during the remainder of the dictation session, he kept completely to business. When Terri left she knew he was smoldering in frustration, she knew his eyes were hungrily watching her legs, her hips as she walked out. Purposely she gave her hips more sway than was necessary.
Mean, she thought. Terri, you're getting meaner every day.
"I can't get over it," Terri said, cautioning herself to drink her Gin Buck more slowly. "All the times I've been in places like this it still gets me."
"What's that, baby?" Pam said, not once taking her eyes off the curvaceous, elfin blonde who was busily peeling off the squined, blue silk costume up to the postage-stamp-sized stage.
"That girl," Terri whispered, "Ramona, or whatever she calls herself. She's absolutely beautiful. Her body is magnificent! Why she's got these guys in a trance. If ever I saw a case of mass hurting...."
"So?"
"What I mean is that if this girl's so beautiful, if she has a body like that, why isn't she in the movies? Why doesn't she have a TV role? What chance do girls like us, like you, have?" There was genuine awe in Terri's voice. "She's so beautiful. Breathtaking, that body."
"Thanks a bunch," Pam regarded her innocent friend dourly. "I didn't know I'd become quite such a hag."
Terri smiled apologetically. "I didn't mean it that way, Pam. I mean, if every one of these girls is a knockout, what chance, really, does anyone have of breaking in? How can they make themselves do things like that?"
"Shh," Pam hushed her. "You want everybody to hear you? I'll tell you why they do it, for two-hundred clams a week. That's one helluva big reason."
"But this girl's so lovely. You'd think an agent or someone...."
"Maybe the lint-head can't act. Worse yet, maybe' she can't read. What then? You have to do with what you've got." Pam's chuckle was lewd. "And that babe's got plenty." Her eyes swept the small, moderately well packed lounge. "Anyway if you can judge by the way these slobs are gouging their palms."
Terri and Pam were in The Scarlet Garter, one of the newest 'trip parlors; a new one seemed to open up every other week along Sunset Strip. It was another in the long line of such illustrious flesh joints as The Body Shop, The Crazy Horse, The Pink Pussy Cat, The Largo. It was 10:30 Thursday night, and killing time before ankling down to showcase themselves-for Pam to showcase herself-at Cyrano's coffee house, they'd dropped in to appraise the new club's decor, to see if they had anything novel in the entertainment line.
The Scarlet Garter didn't. Their decorations were gaudy, brassy, consisted of sketches of nude females in frisky poses; the colors maroon, black and gold. The table girls wore costumes which left no doubt that each dolly's accessories were the genuine article. Each shapely right leg bore an oversized red garter, repetition of the club theme.
And like so many of the clubs on the Strip, there was no cover, no minimum. Only a steep $2.00 per drink making it mandatory that the peons nurse if they were to see themselves through one show. Which was exactly what Terri and Pam, peons deluxe, were doing.
There was the usual scattering of tiny tables, the small, twelve-by-eight stage, the stand up emcee, the three piece combo to the left to emphasize each movement, each feathery divestiture with an appropriate trumpet blare or drum roll.
And of course, the girls. The breathtaking, pneumatically endowed ecdysiast, who, in Los Angeles, had perfected the strip tease to its ultimate finesse, had made Los Angeles world capital of a rapidly disintegrating art form.
Like the ravishing blonde onstage at that moment, a toy doll of a woman, with firm, exploding breasts, with ebullient, charging buttocks, all complimented by an unbelievably tiny waist the most exquisite set of gams in captivity. Ramona Romance, the limp-wristed emcee had announced, the same Ramona who'd now peeled away the filmy blue harem outfit, was driving the men to hissing fits as she dallied with her brassiere, stroked her nipples with graceful touches and waves, finally flung it aside.
To reveal her bobbing, beach ball breasts, the nipples hidden by red, sequined pasties, her hips in bikini tights, a silk scarf blossoming over the waistband, jiggling, mesmerising, swaying maddeningly over the nether region . of her body.
For long minutes Ramona turned, bounced, and swayed her boobs outrageously, the monumental globes, on so small a body, making the males wince with eviscerating pain. Then, in deliberate, lowdown tease, she reached behind her, grasped the scarf where it emerged at her back, began drawing it between her knees. The act was accomplished in fits and starts, Ramona arching her body, smiling blissfully, eyes closed, as if deriving a terrific charge from the tickling. The drummer accompanied each tug with a rim-shot paradiddle.
Other than that there was no other sound in the club. Save for an occasional, betraying gasp of pain from some anguished male customer.
"Wowee!" Pam whispered. "How do those guys stand it? If I was a man I'd be screaming charging that stage."
"Pam," Terri admonished.
"It's the truth, kid."
Ramona finished her act, drew riotous applause. The emcee began spinning suggestive patter swiftly, silencing the male hecklers with deadly efficiency. In the pause Terri glanced about, saw the hungry male eyes devouring her and Pam. "Don't look now," she whispered to Pam, "but we've got an audience. Talk about being charged...."
Pam smirked, regarded the wolves to their right with veiled eyelids. "I really enjoy being a girl," she slurred.
Terri hadn't wanted to wear the blatant, off-shoulder gown; she'd protested it was too skimpy for January, it revealed too much bosom, made her look like she'd fall into public view at any moment. Then the witchy hosiery and spikes-
"Cool it, baby," Pam had argued. "If we're gonna lure an agent, a lead of any kind, we have to go loaded for bear."
"We?" Terri had retorted. "How'd I get into this? Remember me? The original movie-shy dolly?"
"You don't think I'm going out prowling by my lonesome, do you? That'd be worse than anything. You want them bozos taking me for a round-heels?"
And that had been that. Terri had dressed to the nines, had fastidiously labored over her make-up, had accompanied her star struck roomie on this unique Hollywood promenade.
Abruptly Pam turned back, gave the obvious salesmen-conventioneers a quick chill. "Squares," she sneered to Terri "We'd best clear this place soon."
Another stripper, this one in gold lame patinos, gold blouse, and a black, terribly strained vest, came onstage. "Let's stay through this one," Terri urged. "Isn't she the most beautiful thing? How can they make themselves...?"
Pam rolled her eyes. "Here's where I came in." She began gathering her cigarettes and lighter.
At that moment there was movement behind them, an aggressive hand closed on Pam's wrist, a chair was simultaneously drawn up. "Hold on there, Pam," a male voice said. "Not so fast. Old dad'll pop."
Pam wheeled, her face brightened. "Lloyd! Of all people. Where you been keeping yourself? Last I heard you were down in Mexico on that Luis Bunnel thing."
"Just got back last week." He instantly summoned a waitress, ordered a fresh round. "Hi, Jayne," he winked at her. At the same time freely ran his left hand up and down her mesh-stockinged legs. At which the tip-hungry girl curved her back, smiled dreamily, like a kitten getting its ears scratched. "What a rat-race down there," he turned back. "But I got my client in. Just a bit, but that's the way stars are born." He regarded Terri, his gaze slightly lupine, definitely interested. "I don't think I've had the pleasure."
"Excuse me, Lloyd," Pam said. "You surprised me so. This is Terri Cavan. My new roomie. Three months now. Just shows you how long you've been gone."
"Pleased," the man smiled, a very attractive, disarming something in his smile. "Terri Cavan. Very exploitable name. You're beautiful, baby."
Terri flushed, was at momentary loss.
"What a kid," the man sighed. "Get a load of that smile."
"This is Lloyd Deming," Pam said in mock snideness. "Don't get shook, Ter. He's a P.R. man. Dealing, in superlatives is his business. He's been lucky, he's placed a few gals. So now he thinks he's God's gift to Hollywood's undiscovered starlets."
"Don't knock it," the blond, square-jawed man said. "I'm good enough to run interference for you, ain't I? He had out his notebook and pencil. "What was that new address again, Pam? Now that I'm back again...."
Terri couldn't help but be impressed by Deming's savvy ways, by his supreme confidence and imperturbability. He was perfect match to Pam. Now he glanceed up, stared mockingly at Terri. "How about you? Put you down too? You want to be a movie star? I might come across an ingenue roll one of these days. God, you'd go over big. Maybe we can have dinner some night, talk it over."
"Don't do it," Pam chuckled. "He's one of the biggest wolves in L.A."
"Let little brown-eyes decide for herself." He wrote Terri's name in his notebook. "C-a-v-a-n? That right?"
"Yes," she smiled. "But really, I'm not interested ... "
'Funny how interested dolls get all of a sudden when someone dangles a movie contract in front of them. And that phone number?"
Pam reeled off the Hollywood exchange. "But it won't do you any good. She's strictly a home and garden type."
"L.A.," Lloyd said, staring at Terri unflinchingly, "has a way of knocking that out of people too." The drinks came then. "Here's to honor...."
"Lloyd!" Pam cautioned. "There are young ears."
He ignored her, plowed on. "To you too, Terri." They drank. "Where to from here?"
"Cyrano's."
"Cyrano's is out. Even I know that. The Pastiche is in now."
"We're still going to Cyrano's. I happen to know that Hartman still hangs out there."
"Hell, if you're courting that has-been...."
"Skip it, Lloyd. Cyrano's."
Deming raised his glass, and Terri had to smile at the feral mischief in his eyes as he grinned at her.
As further indication of Deming's blase attitude was the fact that he gave only passing glances to the performing stripper. Instead his eyes were everywhere else, appraising every female patron, every drink hustler, instantly spotting anyone who came in the door. He was a nervous companion, and yet he kept the girls in stitches with is account of. the shooting of Forbidden Nights in Mexico.
Then abruptly, the drinks gone, Pam was rising, shrugging into her fur jacket. "Onward," she said.
"Sorry I can't join you," Deming smiled, helping Terri with her coat. "But I have another appointment."
Pam's eyes were caustic. "I know what kind of appointment that is. Happy hunting. Show her the one with the four pillows, baby...."
"I'll be calling you," Deming purred softly into Terri's ear. "Think over what I said."
A goodly number of male eyes followed the stunning pair from the Scarlet Garter. But Terri didn't notice. She was preoccupied. And if she wasn't thinking over Deming's movie offer, at least her self-built wall of antagonism toward the idea had a very noticeable nick in it.
And wasn't Lloyd Deming a most charming, witty man?
Five minutes later they were entering Cyrano's.