Chapter 8
Sally awoke and looked around at the monotonous print of the peeling paper on the walls, the ghastly, torn lampshade in some hideous, dull color, the blistered paint of the woodwork. Where was she? And how did she get here? She propped herself up on one elbow, peering at the entire depressing interior. She noticed the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the cigarette-scarred and burned bedside table-where did that come from?-and then decided a drink might help her straighten everything out.
She swung her feet around, off the bed, and on to the floor, and stood there, teetering for a minute. The glass beside the bottle of Scotch looked filthy; but there should be another, a clean one, in the bathroom she thought. She pattered across the frayed and tattered carpet to it, pushed the door open, and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She let out a little gasp of horror.
Her lovely blonde hair hung in limp, stringy strands around her shoulders, hunched forward a little now in shame. A pallor had settled over her usually glowing, cream-colored skin; beneath her eyes were bags that she thought-laughing a little at her own joke-she could pack.
That reminded her she'd brought her overnight case with her-at least she thought she had-and she trotted back into the bedroom to fetch it. Rummaging through it, she found creams and lotions and make-up, and it comforted her. Bad as things were-and Sally knew they were very, very bad-she could at least make herself presentable. That would raise her morale and help her to face the things that must be done. More important, it would help her to face what she had already done to herself with her own wickedly moving fingers.
The thought of her lewd, abandoned exploits of the night before, her shameless fingering of her own gratefully accepting vagina, sent little shudders of disgust through her. She felt dirty, that was it. The insides of her thighs were sticky from the fluids of excitement that had been released when she reached her climax, but in addition her entire body seemed to her soiled, caked with filth. Looking at her drawn, pallid face in the mirror, she wondered again what had possessed her, what had driven her to debase herself in such a way. Her self-contempt seemed to etch deep, indelible lines in her face, and she shuddered again, feeling trapped in this squalid room which was part of some nightmare from which she would never awaken, never escape.
She wanted to wash herself, to scrub away the guilt that clung to her, although she knew she never could. Still, a bath would at least cleanse her symbolically, and so she drew the water into the chipped enamel tub, and even found some perfumed bubble bath that she whipped up into a soothing, white foam.
She stepped into the bath and lay back, soaking herself in the luxurious warmth. Her spirits began to revive and she found herself able to think more clearly. Just as she had planned each step so logically the night before-or so it had seemed-getting into the car, driving away, finding a place to stay-she now plotted a way back.
There was nothing she could do about what happened-oh, she knew that. She knew, too, that she would never forget it. Still, she could brush it aside, sweep it under the rug, pretend most of the time it had never happened. It would only be in the middle of the night, when she awoke with a sick sense of shame that the horror would encircle her trembling body again.
But this was daylight, Sally told herself with forced cheerfulness. And now was the time to get dressed-fortunately, she even had a clean bra and a fresh pair of panties in her little overnight case-paint her mouth a brisk, defiant red and go out and face the world.
She stepped from her bath, drying herself with the threadbare towel provided by the Brooks Hotel, and pulled on stockings, panties, and her bra. She looked around for her shoes, and couldn't find them. That seemed ridiculous. Surely she had worn shoes! She pushed the bed away from the wall and looked under it, searched through her suitcase-it seemed absurd for her to have put them there, but still-and when she couldn't find the shoes, her stomach seemed to curl in panic. What had she done with them? Where were they?
She sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, going through the events of the night before, step-by-step. No, she thought. Not all the events. That was far too painful. But she would begin with the drive through the night.
The towns and villages flashed past again, as she had seen them through the darkness. She remembered now parking the car, coming into the hotel. Shoeless? Why yes, of course. Well, since she'd come in that way, she'd go out that way, too. And what name had she given at the desk, given to that repulsive little man there, with yellow teeth and shifty eyes that seemed to undress her? She wracked her brain, and then it came back to her. She'd called herself Mrs. A. Fox. She giggled a little, wondering what the "A" was for. Then she stood up. Time, she thought, for Mrs. Fox to quit the premises.
But was it? Where would she go? She'd have to buy shoes, of course, that was the first step. And she'd have to have something to eat. Good God! When had she last had a meal? And then?
And then she would see a lawyer, she decided. There was no going back to her own house, there was no going back to her husband, not after what she had seen the night before. The marriage was over, finished, kaput. She wept a little at the thought, for herself, her children, even for Mike. Then she picked up the telephone and gave the desk clerk-it seemed to be a new one this time, the day clerk, no doubt-Art Pitts' number, back in Woodland Hills.
The clerk seemed to have trouble getting the call through, but Sally had made it clear to him she wanted to speak to Art, and no one else. "Yes," she insisted. "It's a personal call. Yes, to Mr. Art Pitts. No, I don't know his business address ... " Oh, God! She couldn't even remember the name of the law firm he worked with. "No, I don't even know the name of his firm," she repeated to the clerk. "But you'll certainly find him listed in the Yellow Pages. Under what?" Sally sounded a little incredulous at the question. Well, she thought, she couldn't expect everyone to know Art Pitts. "Why, he'll be listed under the heading of 'Attorneys'," she finally explained.
She wondered vaguely if she was doing the right thing, calling Art and not some other lawyer she'd never even met. Wouldn't it make for complications, what with Art's being such a good friend to both her and Mike? She shook her head. No, it would be all right. And it would make things so much easier for her, not only because Art was just about the best lawyer in the county, but because he was so damned nice. Sally would be able to talk to him, spill out the whole sordid story to him, since he was a friend, and a sympathetic one at that, whereas she was sure she could never bring herself to reveal what had happened to a perfect stranger. Art would be okay, she decided, and patting herself on the back a little, she added to herself that for once she, Sally Hole, had done the right thing.
She heard the telephone ring in Art's office, then heard the receptionist answer with "Larson, Windell, Pitts and Murphy," remembered then the name of Art's firm, and heard the clerk from downstairs asking for Mr. Arthur Pitts.
"Who is calling, please?"
There was a pause as the clerk checked the hotel register. "Uh," he cleared his throat. "It's Mrs.
Fox."
"Who?"
"Mrs. A. Fox!"
There was a pause, and then the receptionist said, "I'm sorry. Mr. Pitts is in conference right now."
She was about to hang up when Sally broke in. "It's Sally Hole," she said, "That's right, Hole. Mrs. Mike Hole. Please, please, let me speak to Mr. Pitts. It's, well, it's a matter of life and death."
The receptionist hesitated, obviously trying to make up her mind as to whether or not this was some sort of joke, then with a sigh said, "One moment, please," while Sally held her breath. But an instant later she said, "Mr. Pitts is on the other line. Can you hold?"
"Yes," Sally said with a sigh of relief. And after what seemed forever, she heard Art Pitts' voice and she began to cry a little bit and she said, "Art, oh Art! This is Sally. Sally Hole. I'm in terrible trouble, Art ... " she sobbed audibly, now, " ... terrible trouble, and I've got to see you, I've got to see you right away."
"My God, Sally!" Art sounded shocked, but he sounded sympathetic, too, Sally thought gratefully. "Are you in jail or something?"
Sally shook her head. "No. No, it's nothing like that. I've just got to see you, Art."
"Are you home?"
"No," Sally said. "I'm over in Kernville. In a hotel. The Brooks hotel."
"My God! What the hell are you doing in a dump like that?" And when Sally began to cry again, Art's voice took on a note of concern. "Sally, it's not a drug charge or anything like that, is it? You haven't been picked up for possession...?"
"No. NO! Of course not, Art. There's nothing like that."
"What is it, then?"
"Oh, Art, I can't tell you on the phone. I've got to see you. Please ... " her voice trailed off in a little whimper. "Okay, Sally," Art's voice was friendly again, warm, understanding. "Can you be at my office at three this afternoon? I'll ask Miss Leland to cancel all other appointments."
"I'll be there," Sally promised. And she added, in a small, weak voice, "Thank you, Art."
Mike Hole stretched and yawned and opened his eyes, still rubbing the sleep from them. From downstairs he heard Kirst's cheerful little voice, singing a simple, childlike tune. Great kid, he thought. Jesus! Where had she learned to screw like that! Boy, she seemed to have had plenty of practice. But somehow, when they'd fucked the night before, she'd made him feel it was the first time for her, made him feel she'd never sucked cock before, that no man had ever licked that tight little pink pussy of hers. Well, Mike thought, other men might have done it before he got around to her, but he'd be damned if he'd let any other man do it from now on. God, no! He'd keep the kid so busy she wouldn't have time for anyone else. Besides, by the time he got through screwing her silly, she wouldn't even want another man. He looked at his watch. God damn, if it weren't so late, he'd slip her some right now, pull those little nylon panties of hers right off her, slide the big, bulbous head of his prick right between the hot little curl-fringed pussy lips of her cunt, worm and burrow and snake into that tight little passage until his cock hit the back of it, and then he would fuck in and out while her warm, wet belly juices gushed around his pistoning cock ... oh, Jesus!
He turned over, shook himself and passed his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. God damn! It was great to think about it. And even if there wasn't time for it now, there'd be plenty of time tonight. He rolled from the bed and moved lightly across the shaggy carpet to the bathroom.
As he soaped himself under the warm spray of the shower, he began to whistle, almost unconsciously, the tune Kirst had been singing downstairs. God! What a gorgeous little ass she had! He could almost see it now, those white, sensuous little half melons that wiggled provocatively. Well, tonight he'd see that luscious bottom, that was for sure. And he'd arrange things better, too. None of this going out for dinner, like the last two nights, wasting all that time when the two of them could have been doing a hell of a lot better things, right here at home. No, tonight he'd get back early, have a couple of drinks-yes, and let Kirst have a couple, too-then broil steaks out on the patio, maybe. And it wouldn't be long before he'd have the little au pair on the coral-colored couch downstairs in the living room, have her stripped of whatever sexy little outfit she was wearing ... ! God, what was she wearing! Well, he would soon find out.
He dried himself, rubbing the fluffy pink towel briskly across his strong, muscular shoulders, his chest, his trim, flat stomach-not for nothing did he exercise every day-his flanks, his sinewy thighs. Now he spread his legs, and stopped over slightly, began to massage his pubic area, patting the dangling little circles of his testicles, his huge, limp cock. Jesus, he thought, that little kid had taken the whole thing into her mouth last night, right up to the hilt. He patted his cock again, until the beginnings of an erection began to show. Hey, not now, he warned himself, thinking of Kirst. Wait until tonight.
He hurried back into the bedroom, glanced at his watch again-it was later that he'd thought-and pulled on his clothes. He was still knotting his tie as he went out down the hall.
Kirst's singing was louder, now, and the smell of frying bacon, of fresh coffee, wafted up the staircase, made his mouth water. Boy, so this was playing house or whatever she'd called it. Well, whatever she'd called it, it was great. His heart was singing as he started down the staircase.
Halfway down, he picked up a small alligator shoe, strewn casually on one step, a second pump on the next one. Kirst must have dropped it there last night, he thought. He'd have to speak to her about such carelessness. He might have tripped over the damn things! He shoved them under his arm and went into the kitchen.
"Hi, kid!" he said cheerfully.
"Hi, Mike!" Kirst grinned at him impishly. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," Mike said. "Except that you left your shoes on the stairs last night, and I nearly fell and broke my neck on them, coming down this morning." He grabbed the girl, pulling her close, and she ground her hot little cunt up against his crotch. He whirled her around and gave her a playful pat-a mock spank-on her jiggling little buttocks. Kirst squealed and clutched her ass-cheeks protectively. "Better not do it again," Mike warned, "or you'll get one that's for real."
"I won't do it again," Kirst promised. "Anyway," she said with a pout, "I didn't do it last time."
"Didn't do what last time?"
"Didn't leave my shoes on the stairs." She looked at Mike. Her eyes were serious; the game was over. "Those aren't my shoes," she said. "You ought to know that. I wouldn't wear alligator shoes. That's being cruel to animals. And besides," she said with a sigh of longing, "alligator shoes are so expensive."
"Then whose ... " Mike began. He stopped short, a sick feeling creeping over him, settling somewhere around his stomach, as the memory of an argument he'd had a short time ago with Sally came back to him, smashing into his consciousness with the full force of a hurricane.
"Sally," he had said, looking up from the bills he'd been paying, "what the hell is this thing from Newton's?"
"I guess it's a bill, Sally had said.
"Oh, for God's sake!" He had begun to lose his temper. "I know it's a bill! But eighty-seven dollars?"
"Maybe," Sally said, looking innocent.
"Sally! Eighty-seven dollars for one pair of shoes!"
"I guess so," Sally said contritely. "Of course, that included the tax."
Mike had moaned, half in anguish, half in disbelief. "You couldn't have. No one could have. 'Even with the tax'," he mimicked. "It just isn't possible."
"Oh, yes," Sally had said, disputing him. "They were eighty-seven dollars. I remember now."
"My God! What were they made of, for Christ's sake?"
"Alligator," Sally had said. "They're my new alligator shoes!"
So Sally had alligator shoes. And now Mike was standing here in the kitchen, facing the little kid he'd fucked silly the night before, holding his wife's alligator shoes in his hands. The alligator shoes he'd found on the stairs. Which meant that Sally had been in the house last night, Sally had been up those stairs-well, at least she'd been half-way up-and Sally had undoubtedly seen him with his face pressed up between the young Danish girl's open thighs, his tongue lapping hotly at her little pink pussy. Jesus!
He sat down heavily, knowing, even without Kirst's frightened look, that his face had gone dead white. She poured a cup of coffee for him, urged him to drink it ... "You'll feel better," she said ... but he pushed it from him, afraid to take it in his trembling hands. "Is ... is something wrong?" she asked at last.
Mike shook his head. Everything was wrong, he thought, but it sure wouldn't help to tell Kirst about it.
She still stared at him. "Are you sick, Mike?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm sick." He pulled himself to his feet, moved heavily across the kitchen, towards the door. "I guess I'd better be going," he said. He started to say "See you later," but thought better of it.
"When will you be back, Mike?"
"I don't know," he said. And when Kirst looked as if she might cry, he added, "I really don't know. But it will probably be late. So you just go ahead and fix yourself some dinner when you get hungry. Don't wait for me."
"Will you be very late?"
"I might be. You go to bed, too. Don't wait up.
"Will you come back sometime, Mike?" Kirst's eyes were wide now, serious, a little frightened.
"Yes," he said. "I'll come back sometime."
At his office, Mike put through a call to his attorneys, Larson, Windell, Pitts and Murphy. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, as he heard the phone ringing at the other end, felt the freezing fear-and disgust, too-creep through his very marrow, turning it to slush and snow. He asked for Art Pitts, when the phone was answered at last, and when wondered, in panic, what he would say to him. Well, he had to say something, he knew that, and he had to see him, too. Because he, Mike Hole, was in the middle of as nasty a little mess as you would care to see. And because Art Pitts was the only person who might-just might-be able to get him out of it.
"Hello, Art," he said at last, when the receptionist had finally said, "Mr. Pitts, sir."
"Hello, Art, this is ... " Art cut him off with a chuckle. "I know. A. Fox."
God! What a hell of a time for Art to kid around. "Can it, Art," Mike snarled. "That's not funny."
"Sorry," Art apologized.
"Look, Art," Mike hurried on, hardly hearing. "I've got to see you. Soon. It's serious. Damned serious."
"I know it is," Art said, sardonically.
"Well, then, can I see you this afternoon?"
"God, no, Mike. Not this afternoon. I just couldn't see you this afternoon. I've got a very, very important engagement."
Mike's voice rose impatiently. "Well, this evening, then. I've got to see you, Art. I've just got to."
That's for sure, Art thought. He struggled to keep his own voice level, struggled to sound thoughtful. "I know, Mike," he soothed him. "And I'm sorry. But this afternoon is out."
"Well, this evening, then. I could come to your office, you know. Or I could meet you at your apartment, if you'd like."
I wouldn't like that at all, Art thought. Aloud he said, "Afraid that's out, too, Mike. I've got plans for tonight, too."
"Well, when then?" Mike shouted angrily.
"Cool it, Mike. Cool it. Things can't be as bad as all that."
"No?"
"No. And I'll see you tomorrow morning. Here, in my office. Okay?" He heard Mike's mumbled assent, and put the telephone down. He really did have big plans for the evening, he thought to himself. He sure as hell did.