Chapter 6

Deedee's journey from the exclusive Edith Pyne Seminary near Providence, Rhode Island, to the off-limits "Blue Swan" cocktail lounge on Charles Street in Baltimore, Maryland, had been a devious but very well-planned trip.

She was well aware that once her absence had been discovered, both parents and school officials would instigate a search to locate their errant girl. She was also well aware that she had no intentions of being found.

Her first impulse, once she had withdrawn the tuition money from the Providence Bank of Merchants and Farmers had been to by some kind of a ticket-any kind of a ticket-and go someplace, anyplace. This, she immediately realized, would leave an open trail for her followers. Checking into the local YWCA (the last place anyone would think of when seeking a pregnant girl), she decided it would take at least a week before all points of exit could be thoroughly checked. And then, just as they decided to look for her in Providence, that was when she would leave.

As she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, Deedee's mind was whirling. One thing was of the utmost importance: She had to earn some money, and she had to earn it while her pregnancy was still unnoticeable. She'd purchased a local newspaper before she'd come to the Y and had gone through the classified section with growing dismay. Most of the jobs called for references, so, most of them were immediately discarded as possibilities. How, her smooth brow furrowed in concentration, could she raise some money without leaving a wide-open trail to her whereabouts. On the long walk from the school to Hartmann she'd decided she would have to make more each day than it cost her to live. She'd have to build up a bankroll to carry her through the difficult days ahead.

Sales work? No. It might pay well, but you had to make an investment, time-wise, in the best of selling jobs, and time was a commodity of which she was very short.

Waitress? Yes, but then again, no. True, you got your meals, a small salary, and certainly, if you were any good, enough tips to build up the kitty. But all the good places, the spots where there was money to be made, would require references. Wait a minute, she told herself. Just wait an ever-lovin' minute. Why bother about the "good spots." All of them were frequented by parents and friends of the Edith Pyne group. Any of them would represent the possibility of discovery. But now was no time to be proud. What about the lower-class joints? The spots where everyone-employees, employers and customers-had something to hide. She stood up and looked at herself in the cheap mirror covering the bathroom door. Turning to one side she pulled her skirt as tightly about her stomach as she could. Not a sign of her condition. She had, and she knew it quite well, a most flamboyant figure. That, combined with the naming red hair, should make her a welcome addition to such a spot. Even if the tips were small, there ought to be a lot of them. And, most important of all, she wouldn't need references; almost as important, when she left they wouldn't come looking for her. If she could line up something like this in Providence, she could work at it for the week, save every cotton-picking tip and have enough money to leave town without touching her precious bankroll.

Deedee was a girl of impetuosity. Before the day was over, she had a job to go to that night. And before the week was over she had enough new money to buy a ticket for Boston. She knew the danger of discovery in actually going to the destination named on a ticket. She also knew that inasmuch as most hunted people don't do this she might stand a chance of getting away with it.

In Boston she found a job near the waterfront. Within ten days she had enough money to buy another ticket-this time she could afford a false destination. She smiled sweetly at the warped little man behind the bars of his cage.

"Coach, please. To Washington. D. C."

Wearily he reeled off the timetable, departure and arrival times, stop-offs, carriers. Deedee wasn't to be ignored, however. She wanted to be noticed.

"Sweetie," she almost drawled the words, in the pseudosexy manner she'd picked up during her short hiatus as a cocktail waitress and B-girl. The man looked up sharply, for once forced out of his long-time retreat. The shapely redhead standing on the other side of his cage was smiling with obvious invitation. The twisted little man felt a sense of outraged shock. Who, he asked himself, was this strange, sinful tart to interrupt his tight, safe world?

"Sweetie," she drawled again. "Do you know very much about Washington? I'm going there as a stranger, and a girl can get very lonely in a strange town. Know what I mean?" She arched an eyebrow, made a quick little movement of her body, and there could be no doubt as to exactly what she meant. The man shifted uneasily, glad of the bars separating him from this (and he actually called her the term, to himself) "painted woman." Roughly, he pushed a ticket through the slot towards her and counted out the change from the bills she'd given him.

"Don't know nobody down there. Sinful town. For sinful people." Shocked at giving this much information he turned away and began counting his bank. Deedee laughed with actual mirth as she walked, hips swinging with arrogance, away from his window. He stared after her as she left. This man, Deedee told herself, is going to be a great witness for me.

She stayed on the train all the way to the capital city. Once there she took a quick job at one of the more notorious bars in the southwest area, near Anacostia and the naval station. She worked it for three days, telling everyone she met and worked with of her plans to leave soon for Florida. The morning of the fourth day Deedee was on her way to Baltimore. Let them, she thought with sad satisfaction, find me here.

When she first hit the Blue Swan, Charley tried to discourage her. The boss wasn't around, and as coarse and evil as he'd become Charley still knew a nice gal from a bum. Deedee, he spotted the minute she walked in the front door, was a nice gal. She might have picked up the B-girl's walk, the lingo used by them in every joint in the States, the air of sexual phoniness; still, she wasn't one of them. Deedee was not to be dissuaded. She had only a few weeks left to play this game. So far, she'd managed to keep her original bankroll intact. She'd lived, traveled, and even saved a little of her earnings. Not, she told herself several times daily, nearly enough. The few low-cut, tight-fitting gowns she'd purchased in bargain basements as a part of her disguise, were already becoming too tight even for this work. She had to locate quickly and save every cent. She knew where she wanted to go, what she wanted to do. She knew also, she had to get the money for it now. While Charley was still trying to talk her out of working the Blue Swan, Angelo, the owner, walked in. Charley at once gave up his attempt at decency, knowing she'd be the icing on the cake for his perverted boss.

"Hi, Ange." He indicated Deedee with a quick nod of his huge head. "Broad here lookin' for work. Says she knows the ropes." Charley couldn't resist one last dig at her obvious superiority to these surroundings. Angelo didn't notice. He was giving Deedee the slow, sweeping study that went out with the early George Raft movies; eyes moving not from head to toe, but vice versa-and stopping to linger at all the obvious places.

"Where you worked, doll?" the sexual tones of his deep voice were so studied Deedee almost burst out laughing. A quick glance at Charley changed her mind.

"No place in this town, but you can check me out in half the joints from Boston to D. C." Deedee knew there'd be no checking; however she refrained from mentioning any points farther north than Boston.

"Ya got any kind of specialty?"

"Two of them. The just twenty-ones and the over fifties-they both seem to dig my type. The in-betweens go for the more mature dollies. But-" She shrugged.

"I see whatcha mean. Well, we get plenty of all kinds in the Blue Swan." The coarse man sat down on a bar stool, one leg on the brass rail, the other stretched out behind him. He motioned for Deedee to sit, and ordered himself a shot of bourbon. He didn't ask her if she wanted anything, nor did he order for her. "You lookin' for straight B-work, or you wanta' cover it a little by waitin' table?"

"It's not a matter of cover, Mister-?"

"Call me Angelo. Everybody else does."

"Well, it's not a matter of covering up, Angelo. I like the doubt bit because I can make more money at it."

"More money?"

"Yes. I've never worked a joint yet that hasn't had slow nights as far as John's were concerned. If you're on a straight B-girl basis, and the lonely one's don't show up, you can't make a dime. But if you're waiting tables those nights, you at least pick up something in salary, and a few tips. Also-" and she looked intently at the brutish face of her possible employer-"I don't like to leave with the boys. Keeping them company and drinking with them for a percentage of my drinks is one thing. Going home with them another. If you're looking for a straight hooker, count me out. If you're looking for a girl who can bring customers back to your bar to spend their good money, I'm the girl for the job." Deedee had found out the difference in her first week away from school. The lesson had been an ugly one, and had come close to costing her more than just her job. She'd made the point clear from then on out. A B-girl she might be, she'd tell herself every night as she dressed for work, a whore, she was not.

Angelo's drink was tossed down in one quick gulp, and he nodded to Charley to fill his glass again. "You want a drink? A Coke, or something?" he asked the lovely young girl. She knew she had the job.

In her first two weeks at the Blue Swan, Deedee became the queen of the bar. Young servicemen from nearby Fort Meade began to swam to the place, practically standing in line to buy the lovely redhead the colored water they thought was booze. Her lilting laughter could be heard above the noise of the jukebox, and night after night she collected a fair hunk of loot with her dancing lessons in both the Twist and the newer Watusi. When the servicemen cleared out to return to the base, the older men moved in. She'd listen to their stories, become fatuous over the pictures of their grandchildren, and accept their fumbling tips gratefully.

Charley watched in amazement as this young girl out maneuvered her more experienced competitors time and time again. She had, he figured, walked out of the joint with at least a couple of bills each week. And she'd stuck to her word. She never walked out with a customer. She never met one elsewhere either. This was one of the favorite games of a B-girl, trying to knock a bartender out of his share of her loot. It seldom worked because the victims usually came screaming into the bar the next day, trying to get their money back-or bragging about their prowess with women. Charley's original doubt of Deedee was replaced by a definite and very strong sense of respect. This little gal, he told himself, was going places. At the rate she was earning the buckniks, she wouldn't be around the Blue Swan very long. Charley was glad for her. It was a different story with Angelo, the boss.

Night after night he'd watched the new girl, flaunting her charms before his customers, making money for him as well as for herself. Angelo had always made it a policy to separate business and pleasure. He was finding it difficult to stick to this policy when it came to Deedee. He found himself wanting to get rid of the jerks lined up around her, wanting to buy her drinks (and her company) for himself. He found himself unable to keep his eyes off the lithe young body, the flaming hair, the full warm lips. He faced the fact that he was getting hung up on her body. He refused to face the fact that he was very close to falling in love for the first time in his life.

Charley was aware of what was happening to his boss, and it struck him as funny.

Deedee was aware of what was happening to her boss, and it struck her as meaning trouble. Sooner or later he was going to make a play for her. She'd never be able to say "no" to him and keep her job. In just two more weeks she'd have more than enough money put away to take her to the Coast and keep her in shelter and clothing until the child was born. But she needed those two weeks.

So the game between the two became a desperate struggle for time on Deedee's part; a struggle for possession on Angelo's part.

Getting dressed that Saturday afternoon, Deedee had thought to herself that tonight would probably be her last night at the Swan. She'd used every trick she knew, and many she'd not known before, but Angelo's patience had worn thin. Charley had acted as a kind of buffer between the two, but he was running scared. He'd actually told Deedee the night before that she'd have to go it on her own from then on.

"I like you, Red. I like you a lot. But I like my little old job better. Ange's gettin' hip to my interference in his chase. I either step to one side or I'm gonna get kicked out. So, I'm steppin' to one side."

"It's okay, Charley. I can't blame you, and gosh knows you've helped me tremendously, up till now. I'll see if I can't finish out the week, then I'll take off. But don't say anything about it to him. Promise?"

"You know it, kid." Charley said a silent prayer that she'd get away with her plan. Angelo, he knew full well, was far from stupid. If he had the slightest suspicion she was planning to skip, she didn't have a chance.

That was the situation at the Blue Swan when Deedee walked in and saw the sketch behind the bar. Pat's sketch.

She reacted immediately, try though she might to hide it. Angelo, seated in the darker side of the barroom watched her. Although he did not connect her recoiling stance with the small sketch on the bar, he did connect it with her hatred of his place of business. He watched her move forward, and his face assumed a mask of ferocious intensity. Damn the bitch! Damn her superior attitude! Damn her elusiveness! He'd had just about enough of them. Tonight he intended to have her, instead.

He stood up and walked, smiling, across the room toward Deedee. He was holding his desire in deep reserve. None of the pigs in this room should see it. He wanted to make quick, urgent, insatiable love to this redheaded child; he wanted to keep the desire a secret between them. It was, he thought meanly, too good for the other beasts in his bar!

Deedee hadn't noticed his approach. From the minute she saw Pat's sketch, all of her wariness had left her. She saw nothing but the hands she loved. She reasoned without reason. She told herself there could be but one explanation behind that picture. Pat had come after her. Pat had traced her. He had found her and would take her out of this hellish excuse for a life she'd been living. All of her defenses fell. Deedee was a young girl in love, and was waiting for her lover. Her beloved lover, she thought as she walked weakly toward the bar. Charley was staring at her in amazement. What, he asked himself, had happened to this ball-of-fire? Suddenly, she looked like one of the little college kids he was always eighty-sixing.

Angelo hit the bar just as Deedee sat down. He was possessed by his desire for her. He wanted to hurry her back to his office, hurry her through her undressing, hold her, shake her, pull her close to him, and then abandon himself to the physical beauty of her surrender. His slit-eyes disclosed none of his thoughts. He ordered a drink from Charley and dreamed about taking Deedee right there, on the bar, in front of the whole room full of customer. He tossed the drink down, glanced moodily about the almost empty room, and turned to Deedee.

"You look funny, tonight, kid. Got troubles, or somethin'?"

Deedee, still aware only of Pat's sketch, still unable to realize the beauty that would be once again, was far from ready to fight the never-ending battle. She should have been frightened at Angelo's words, the tone of his voice. She was too happy to be frightened, and too intrigued with her dreams to heed the warning in Charley's eyes.

"I asked-you got troubles, or somethin'?" Angelo reached for her arm as he repeated his question.

She continued to stare at the sketch on the mirror. She wore a feminine, almost virtuous air.

Angelo lost his temper. "I said, you got-forget what I said! Come into the office with me, baby. We got some things to talk about. I can't talk to you with all these characters listenin' in on the whole bit." He stood up, grabbed her arm, and pulled her bodily from the bar stool. "Come on, Red. We've got a few matters to dig into."

Deedee followed him without protest. Pat, she thought to herself. Pat is coming after me. Everything is going to be all right. We belong together. I'll be near him. He'll be near me. I'll never have to be cold again.

Angelo slammed the door behind them and, without turning on a light, jerked her around to face him. He didn't say a word, just stared down at her. She began to tremble. He pressed his thick lips against hers and, as she began to struggle-finally realizing where and with whom she was-he pushed her fiercely to the floor. In the heat of his desire he said nothing, asked nothing, but began tearing at Deedee's clothes, answering her first moaned protests with a vicious slap across her mouth. She began to utter obscenities he hadn't believed she would know, but as his fumbling fingers reached the womenly hooks and zippers, he told himself that women liked to fight this way. They were created to protest, and to love at the same time. He dug his lips into her soft flesh, ignoring every sound and movement she made.

As he felt his fingers touch the filmy lace of her most intimate apparel he became confident and possessive. It was the last emotion he had before the searing pain swept over him as Deedee's knee hit his groin. He fell back sweating, agony covering and subduing his passion completely. Through the bloody haze across his eyes he watched the furious-but still lovely-young girl pull back her curvaceous leg and kick him once again.

"I should have let you rape me, you bastard! I should have let you get started and then called the cops. You'd be put away for the rest of what other people call a natural life. You, and your big-time bar! Well, Angelo, for your future good-never hire yourself a gal that's as underaged as I am! And no matter how old they are, rape is still a dirty word. You're gonna' get up from that floor, Angelo! And you're going to give me a week's pay-plus my percentage of the take I've been bringing in. You're going to give me the cash out of the till. And you're going to do it right now!"

Angelo, still in an agonized heap of defeated manhood, began to shake his head in negation.

"Don't say no, Angelo. Not if you want to keep your license. I'll cry wolf, baby. And when my family-you did know I have a good family, didn't you?-joins me in howling, you'll have nothing left. Well?"

"Get dressed, Redhead," Angelo croaked. "I'll buzz Charley to give you the loot. But get dressed, and get out of here before I kill you! You might have a good family, baby, but they've got themselves a real bitch on their hands!"

Deedee left. She didn't argue the point. But she took the picture with her.