Chapter 2
Francie spent Sunday thinking about all that money. Thousands of dollars! Hundreds of thousands of dollars! These were staggering sums to a girl who came from a six-thousand-dollar-a-year family and neighborhood. She'd had a typical lower-middle-class background. There'd always been enough money for the family to dress nicely and eat well. There was a new car every few years. The Jordans had possessed the same "unnecessary" luxuries as all their neighbors. And they had the same confusing and continuous conglomeration of time payments.
So much a month went to pay for the car; and by the time the last payment was made the car was worn out and they were ready for a new one. There were mortgage payments on the little house, installments to pay on the washing machine and the television set. Occasionally a windfall would come their way that they could drop into the small savings account and that was cause for celebration.
And always there were the insurance payments. like so many of his peers, Francie's father lived in abject fear of dying. He didn't think of it that way, though. He told himself, and everyone else, that he was just making sure his widow and children were provided for. This was not quite the truth. In some mysterious way, unconsciously, the regular payments were a superstitious offering to the Angel of Death.
The car was insured six ways from Sunday. The only thing it wasn't insured against was destruction from a nuclear explosion and then only if the explosion was an act of war. Everything else they owned was also covered. Even the household appliances on which they were still making payments were insured against any conceivable damage. To top the whole thing off, all the installment plus carried additional insurance which would pay off the balance due in the event of Mr. Jordan's untimely demise.
Then, of course, there was life insurance; of which there was never too much. There was health insurance, hospitalization, unemployment insurance, mortgage insurance.
Insurance was a god to which the Jordans regularly tithed a minimum of ten per cent of their income!
So, they were never really poor. They lived comfortably, if modestly. It was the kind of life wherein there was never quite the surplus of funds to be indulgently extravagant for the sheer luxury of it.
When Francie got old enough to pick up money baby-sitting or working at the soda fountain after school her allowance stopped. From that day on her parents provided her with only the absolute essentials food, clothing, and shelter. Any frills, she bought herself. And there were damned few of them. Francie denied herself because that was the way she's been brought up.
At sixteen she began to smoke on the sly, snitching the cigarettes from her mother's pack. When this was discovered the Jordans gave Francie permission to smoke if she wished, but they demanded that she support her own habit. She stopped then and didn't smoke again except for an occasional cigarette offered by a date until she was almost eighteen.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars!
It was like a dream which she had never allowed herself to recognize. By the time Sunday evening rolled around Francie was ready to quit her job at the five-and-dime. She didn't need that lousy sixty-five dollars a week when she could make a hundred just for a couple of hours' work tomorrow afternoon.
She occupied her Sunday evening alone at a movie. And even while she watched the picture the thought of all that money was bubbling intoxicatingly in the back of her mind. When she thought of it consciously it made her dizzy. In her mind's eye she could see stacks and stacks of money, just like at the federal mint that time the high school class had gone on that trip to Washington, D.C. Stacks of bills were piled as high as the ceiling and in another part of the room there were equally large stacks of coins.
She could only think of the money as cash, not in terms of the things it could buy. In the light of those riches what did it matter who saw her pictures? What did she care if the people back home found out?
After all, the pictures weren't really dirty, were they? What was the real difference between those photographs and the great paintings in the museums, or the famous statues? Why, some of those paintings showed more than the pictures, especially the ones of the men. Right here in this city there were statues and pictures of men and women fully revealed and nobody thought twice about that.
And secretly, slyly, just below the surface of her conscious thought, was the memory of the strange and wonderful effect posing in the nude had had for her. Since that moment her body had operated on a level of greater sensitivity and awareness. Excitement constantly bubbled inside her. It wasn't strictly a physical excitement. Her body was not constantly aroused. Rather it was a kind of joyous anticipation; a child-like thing. It was almost the same kind of thing a child felt the day before Christmas.
Francie had come into the theater just before the feature of the double bill. That picture ended and she decided to stay and see the grade A mystery thriller that was also being shown. She was sitting in the loge. having decided to splurge the extra forty cents for the additional comfort of more leg room between the seats.
About halfway through the second picture she was disturbed by the usher lighting the way for another customer. The theater employee shined the light almost directly in her eyes to get her attention. She'd been slumped down low in the aisle seat and no one could pass to the inside seats.
She mumbled an, "I'm sorry" as she straightened and swung her legs to one side. A figure slipped past her and sat down beside her and the usher went away. On the screen the scene changed from a night scene in a dark alley to a daylight scene on a sunny street and there was more reflected light in the theater.
Out of the corner of her eye Francie could see that the person beside her was a man. Her surreptitious glances told her the man was concentrating on the movie. He didn't glance at her once.
She turned back to the screen, too, for a few minutes, then looked beside her again. There was still plenty of light and she saw that the man was young and not bad looking. He was about six feet tall, slim, and clean-shaven. He wore slacks, a sport shirt, and a long-sleeved, V-necked. pull-over sweater. His hair was brush cut in the collegiate style.
She wondered if he were going to try and pick her up.
And she wondered what her reaction would be. She turned back to the screen, firmly resolved not to initiate anything between them. If he wanted to pick her up, let him start the whole thing off. Up until then the man had been very still. Now he fumbled in his pockets and twisted and turned in the seat. Francie could see him out of the corner of her eye but would not look over at him.
She knew he was going to speak to her even before he did so.
He leaned close and tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned slowly toward him and saw the unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth.
"Light?" he asked in a whisper.
"I think so," she answered in the same tone as she reached for her purse.
She took out a pack of cigarettes, placed one in her mouth, then found her matches. She opened the match book and tore out one of the sulphur-tipped paper strips. Before she could strike the light the man was taking the match book and match out of her hands.
He struck a light, cupping the flame between his hands and lighting his own cigarette first. Then he held the cupped match out to her and she leaned close to thrust the tip of the cigarette into the glowing shelter of his hands. For a moment she was puzzled at what appeared to be rather rude behavior. Then she remembered the item in the etiquette column of the daily paper. It was more proper, when using a match, for the gentleman to light his own cigarette first. In this way there would be none of the sulphur taste when the flame was applied to the lady's cigarette.
"Thank you," she said, taking back her matches.
"My pleasure. It was stupid of me to come up here without a light."
The interchange seemed completed and there was nothing for either of them to say. They turned back to face the screen, each now more aware of the other.
Francie was conscious of his physicality. Speaking to him seemed to have reinforced his reality. She could smell the sharp aroma of his after-shave lotion and the scented hair preparation which he used. Even the wool smell of his sweater came to her nostrils.
She became very fidgety, shifting and turning in her seat. Finally the young man turned back to her.
"This picture's a real dog. How's the feature?"
"Not too much better," she told him. "It's not as good as they say in the ads."
"It would be a crime to waste my time after wasting my money. Do you want to stay and see the end of this dog?"
"No. I've had enough."
"Can I offer you a drink?"
"Why not!" she said.
His teeth flashed in the darkness. "Good. Let's go then."
She rose from her seat and stepped into the aisle. He came after her, took her arm, and escorted her from the theater.
It was only ten o'clock in the evening when they reached the street. Francie had planned to get to bed fairly early in order to get to the five-and-dime to quit and pick up her pay. But the plans weren't important enough to forego an evening's pleasure.
Besides, she thought quickly, there were five sick days coming to her. It might be better to call in sick in the morning and stay out for the week. That way she'd have seven days in which to get herself settled in her new job. If things looked like they might not work out she could always go back to work again a week from tomorrow. She didn't need the pay envelope. There was enough cash in the apartment to take care of her needs for one week.
They stood beneath the brightly-lit marquee and took full measure of one another for the first time. Francie could see the appreciation in his eyes as he slowly looked her up and down. And for her part, she could find nothing disappointing. He was about six feet tall and handsome. His face was smooth and lean and, combined with the crew cut, surprisingly young looking. His eyes were pale gray, the pupils almost melting into the whites; and somehow they didn't seem to fit in his face. They were the eyes of an old man, or a sick one; a man who'd seen too much or lived too long.
And when she looked closely she could see the beginning of grizzled gray at his temples. It wasn't much, no more than a few short silver strands. But they were there and she knew he was older than he looked.
"Do you have any place you'd like specially to go?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I don't care. And we're limited anyway the way we're dressed."
She was referring to the fact that he was dressed so casually, without jacket and tie, while she was wearing a black silk suit with enough jewelry to make her attire admissible at all but the most fashionable places. He was not dressed properly for any of the places on the Upper East Side and she was overdressed for the more casual places.
"Maybe we'd just better make it a cup of coffee and settle for that," she said.
"Nonsense! I know a few places where they don't care what you wear."
She smiled brightly. "Let's go then."
He whistled up a cab and gave an address way downtown. Once they were settled back in the seats with the driver skillfully threading his way through the evening traffic she turned to him and said, "That's in the Village, isn't it?"
He nodded.
"The Village is a funny place," she told him. "I've been down there once or twice to look at all the weirdoes walking the streets but it all seemed so phony."
"Most of it is. There are only a few good places left. And a stranger can't get into them. That is, he can get in, but he doesn't stay long. He gets lousy service, exorbitant prices, and hostile stares."
"Were you born here in New York?"
He grinned and shook his head. "I don't think anybody was. People born here don't stay here unless they've got an awful lot of money. The rest of the natural citizens get out of this town as soon as they can.
They go out to Queens, or Brooklyn, or the suburbs. I don't think anyone who spent a childhood here can really appreciate the city. They're too close to it. They've lived with it too long. They see only the bad things after a while."
She nodded, agreeing. "Me too."
"You too, what?"
"I wasn't born here either. I come from a small town upstate. How about you?"
"I'm from even farther away. I've lived just about everywhere in this country. This is the second time around for me in New York." He gave a snort of laughter then.
"What's so funny?"
"We're already starting on autobiographies and we don't even know each other's names. I'm Jim Collitch."
"I'm Francie Jordan."
"What do you do Francie?"
She hesitated for a moment, then said proudly. "I'm a model. How about you?"
"I'm a writer," he told her vaguely.
"What do you write?"
"Words."
"No, that's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant. I write words. I write whatever people are willing to pay me for."
"Who do you work for."
"No one. I'm free lance."
"Oh, you mean like stories and things."
"Yes, something like that."
"Well, I thought maybe you worked for a magazine or an advertising agency."
The conversation carried them all the way downtown. The words stopped once the taxi was weaving through the narrow, garish streets of the commercial sector of the Village. All the shops were open, the ones that sold the handmade jewelry and sandals and the incomprehensible paintings and sculpture. The sidewalks were filled with strolling people.
There were fat sweating tourists. There were lean, long-haired young people who wore skin-tight slacks, sweat shirts, and no socks. Some of them carried guitars and there were beards and sun glasses everywhere.
But the taxi didn't stop here. It continued on through this sector, past the strip-tease parlors and coffee houses, stopping finally on the fringe of the Village. One block further on and they would have been in the warehouse district. One block to the left was a residential area where apartments in old brownstones brought fantastic rentals. One block to the right was the edge of a business district. Actually, this place wasn't too far from Schiller's studio.
It was one of those cellar clubs that might have been a speak in the twenties; half a story below street level in a four-story brownstone. There was an awning protecting the six descending steps. Before they went down Francie saw that the upper portion of the building was given over to offices. There were signs denoting the presences of a dressmaker, a hypnotist, a fortune teller, and a telephone answering service.
There was no name for the bar either on the awning or on the door into the place. They entered a surprisingly large room; warmly but not too brightly lit. There was a long bar running from front to back on the left as you entered. On the rear wall were three doors and a phone booth. One door led back to the kitchen and the other two were entrances for the bathrooms, which were segregated by masculine and feminine silhouettes.
There were no stools at the bar and a four-foot open space was left between the front of the bar and the tables and booths opposite. Almost everything about the place was surprising, from the quiet, low-pitched background music to the dress of the waiters and bartenders.
The two men working behind the bar wore clean shirts, black bow ties, and short red jackets. The waiters wore dress suits and seemed to move quietly and efficiently. The place was more than half full and the murmur of conversation overrode the music.
There was a kind of catch in the breath of the room when Jim and Francie entered. It lasted no more than a quarter of a second. Francie could see the dart of inquisitive eyes for that moment. Then it was over. Evidently Jim was not a stranger. They accepted him and turned back to their own conversations.
Jim led her to a small round table with two chairs. Immediately there was a waiter there to pull back her chair for her.
He greeted them with a quiet "Good evening" and waited for an order once they were seated. "You hungry?" Jim asked. She shook her head.
"Make mine Beam on the rocks," Jim said, then looked at Francie.
"Gin and tonic," she said.
The waiter nodded and disappeared. He was back before they could begin a conversation. He set the drinks down and waited. Jim raised his thick-bottomed, stubby glass to his nose and sniffed lightly, then he swirled the ice around and took a tiny sip.
He nodded, then smiled at the waiter's disappointed look.
Francie was puzzled. When the waiter was gone she asked Jim, "What was that all about?"
"It's a kind of game," he explained. "I once got into an argument with the owner here over whether or not it was really possible to identify a particular brand of liquor by only the aroma and taste. He said it couldn't be done and I said it could."
"But what about the game?"
"I'm just getting to that. Whenever I come in I order liquor by brand name. Sometimes the bartender will use the brand I requested and other times he'll use another brand. I have to tell if it's the stuff I ordered, or not. If I'm right there's no check that night. If I'm wrong I pay double for every drink."
Francie laughed. "That's the silliest thing I ever heard of."
"Silly? Why?"
She shrugged, the movement of her shoulders drawing his attention to her breasts for a moment. "I don't know. It's like something out of a very old novel. I guess, from the waiter's face, that you were right tonight."
Jim nodded. "I guess it is a curious custom. And everyone takes it so seriously, too. That waiter, for instance; he'll get a bigger tip now than if I'd had to pay double for the drinks but he was disappointed because he couldn't trip me up."
"Do you know everyone here?" she asked.
"Most of them. Only a few by name, but almost everyone else I've seen here before."
"And all the waiters and bartenders know you?"
"Yes. I come here quite often. I have an apartment not too far away."
Francie picked up her drink and leaned back in her chair to look around the room. It was as Jim had told her. There were people in evening clothes and there were people dressed quite casually. It seemed quite a mixed group. There were middle-aged people and young people. There were a couple of beards, though the men sporting them were not otherwise in the uniform of the beatnik. And several of the younger females wore tight slacks and rice powder make-up, but they also had clean necks and ankles.
After the fourth drink Francie was in love with the place. The service here was better than in most good restaurants. But more important, there was an aura here of quiet comfort. There was never any hostility or challenge when her eyes locked with someone else's. Instead there was a friendly smile and a nod, then the locked gazes slid past one another.
The drinks were good, potent, and she was feeling their cumulative effect. Francie knew she'd reached her limit and was wondering how to avoid taking another drink. One more and the side effects dizziness and nausea would outweigh the main effect.
They'd talked as they drank. Or, rather, Francie had talked. Jim was amazingly good at listening and she found herself telling him much about her first year here in New York. And always, in the back of her mind, was the question of what would happen later in the evening. Already it was past midnight and he hadn't even told her one dirty joke. He'd made not the slightest effort to steer the conversation to matters of love.
She began to wonder if he had any intentions at all
He settled the problem of the fifth drink when he said, "It's getting quite late. I guess I'd better take you home now. I've got to work this evening."
She agreed quietly. Jim dropped a five dollar bill on the table and helped her up. He returned a few nods and waves as they left the place.
Francie didn't want him to just take her home and leave her at her door. She wanted him to make love to her and she seriously considered making the first move. But she didn't do that. He was too different from any of the other men she'd known. She sensed in him a steely inner strength. If he wanted to sleep with her he would make the move. And if he didn't want to sleep with her there wasn't a thing in the world she could do about that.
She tried a subtle tack. "I live all the way back uptown," she told him as they waited for a cab on the corner. "You don't have to take me home. I don't mirud, really. It seems a shame for you to have to go all the way uptown and then all the way back."
"I don't work that way," he said, ending the thing.
A cab came along, finally, and they settled back for the ride. There was no conversation now and they sat quite close together, touching at knee, hip, and shoulder. At the traffic light at Thirty-fourth Street he changed position slightly and she thought, eagerly, he was going to put his arm around her shoulder.
He surprised her by taking her hand instead. Her hand felt peculiar with her slim fingers entwined with his. His wrist was narrow and his palm long. His fingers were extremely long and square-tipped. And his whole hand was very strong and smooth. There wasn't the slightest callus or roughness on the pads of his fingertips or his palms.
By the time they reached her apartment building she was almost certain there would be nothing but a good night kiss. Yet, when they got out of the taxi, Jim paid the driver and waved him away. If he didn't intend to stay a while he should have asked the driver to wait.
She used her key to unlock the inner door of the vestibule. Jim followed her in and up the three flights of stairs to her apartment door. Here she used the key again and turned back to face him once the door was unlocked.
He grinned at her but said nothing. "Would you like to come in for a minute?" she asked softly.
"You got coffee in there?"
She nodded quickly and pushed the door open. He followed her inside, standing in the doorway while she fumbled for the light switch. The big overhead light was much too bright and she left it on only long enough to get him inside and to get two of the lamps switched on.
With only the lamps it was much better. The one large room was illuminated by two soft pools of light while the rest was all cozy shadow.
"Sit down," she told him, waving a hand at the sofa. "I'll get the coffee started."
He dropped onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. She was conscious of his eyes upon her as she moved to the louvered doors which hid the small stove, sink, and refrigerator. She filled the percolator with cold water and put four spoonfuls of fresh coffee into the basket.
Now there was nothing to do but wait for the stuff to brew. She set out two cups and saucers, poured milk from the container into a creamer, and brought out a box of cookies.
She was surprised to discover that she was nervous as they sat down at the small wooden table close to the kitchen area. He tasted his coffee and nodded his approval.
But he didn't say anything. And the silence seemed to become more and more awkward. Finally she could stand it no longer.
"You're a funny guy," she said softly.
"How's that?"'
"Most men would have been all over me the moment we came inside. Most men would have been making passes from the moment they asked for a light. But everything you do is unexpected."
"Would you rather I'd spent the evening mauling you?"
"No, not really, I guess. In an odd way I had a very good time tonight. It was ... I don't know ... more fun, I guess. Most of the time isn't fun at all. Do you understand what I mean?"
"I think so. But you seem disappointed that I don't do what all the others do."
She turned her eyes down. "I am, in a way," she said huskily, hoping he couldn't see her blush. "Or, at least, I was. Now I don't know what I want. I mean, I don't want you to think I'm a tramp. Yet, I don't ... Oh, forget it."
He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. "It's all right. I do understand."
"Well, I don't. Why should I care what you think? It never mattered before. I'm not little Miss Innocent. When you sat down next to me in that theater I hoped you'd pick me up. I wanted you to and I wanted us to finish here."
He stood up, took her hand, and pulled her over to the couch. When they sat down she was tucked into the comer and he was quite close to her. There was a light in his eyes. Her hands were folded in her lap and he took them both in his. She could feel the knuckles of his hands pressing against the tops of her legs through the tight fabric of her skirt and had to fight to keep from moving.
"I have an hour or two before I really have to go to work," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "Do you want me to stay?"
She hesitated, afraid that if she gave in to herself this would be only a one-night stand. Somehow she wanted there to be more than that. There were depths to this man she wanted to explore.
"Forget about what you think I'll think. We're two people together in a city of eight million people who are alone. Here, wait ... "
He let go of her hands and took his wallet out of his trouser pocket. From it he produced a scrap of paper and looked around for a pencil.
"In the drawer there," she told him.
He found the pencil and scribbled his name, address and phone number on it, saying, "I want you to keep this. I want to take you out again."
She took the paper from him and put it aside, smiling as she opened her arms to him.
They embraced and his lips set fire to her mouth. One of his hands found the aching swell of her breast and soothed the pain with gentle caresses. She tightened her arms around him and twisted sensuously in his embrace.
The kiss ended and she pushed him away.
"Wait," she whispered, rising from the couch.
She moved away a few steps and shrugged out of the jacket of her suit. Beneath the jacket she wore only the heavy harness of her bra. Her hands quickly opened the fastening of her skirt and let that garment drop to the floor. She stepped out of the circle of cloth and kicked off her shoes.
His eyes burned her flesh as she bared more and more of her luscious body. Now she wore only bra, panties, garter belt and stockings. The panties went next, out of proper sequence and more exciting because of that.
She knew there was enough light for him to see everything. The black lace of the garter belt, with the elastic garters stretched down to the tops of her stockings, was in breath-taking contrast to the milky whiteness of her skin.
The tightly-stretched garters running down the lengths of her upper legs, and the black slash of the main part of the garment across the width of her body, emphasized her desirability.
She reached slowly for a garter, aware that his eyes were drinking her in.
"No! Leave them on!"
She did as he asked, his tone making her pulse pound. Her hands bent up behind her and unhooked the bra but she held the cups against the front of her breasts.
His chest was rising and falling rapidly with shallow breathing and his eyes were wide and staring. There was a flame of desire in his gaze and she knew he was excited.
She turned her back to him, wanting to cry out at the flick of his eyes against the smoothly sculptured spheres of her buttocks, dimpled, imperfect. Keeping her back toward him, she shrugged out of the bra, cast that aside, and covered her breasts again with her hands.
When she turned around again he was already half out of his own clothing. The sweater and shirt were gone, tossed carelessly away. His shoes were off and he was just kicking out of his clothes. He wore now only his shorts and socks. Her heart began to thud in her chest at the sight of him.
He stood and she walked to him. He wrapped his arms around her, causing her breasts to flatten against his smooth, hairless chest. Her nipples scraped against his muscles in the most delightful agony.
He kissed her lips and the line of her jaw and the column of her throat as his great strong hands smoothed downward from her shoulders, across the planes of her back, down over the strip of the garter belt, to fill with her naked globes.
"Yes," she hissed, twisting and turning eagerly against him, her nails digging into his heavy shoulder muscles for a moment before her hands moved down his back and slipped beneath the elastic of the waistband of his shorts.
There, again, her nails pierced his muscled flesh.
She'd intended to open the sleeper sofa but now a great urgency filled them both. There wasn't time. His hands, holding her, lifted her off the floor. She tightened her arms around the back of his neck. He teetered for a moment, adjusting to their combined weight, then steadied.
She slid one hand away from his neck to adjust her weight properly. At the first contact her teeth sank into the lobe of his ear and she could taste the trickle of warm, thick blood in her mouth. He turned around to face the sofa and they were both falling.
A short, sharp scream escaped her lips.
They landed heavily on the couch, the fall sending the breath rushing from her lungs. Her flesh was on fire. The pathways of her nerves shrieked in protest at the intensity of the signal they transmitted to her brain. Her eyeballs rolled back in her skull and fireworks went off behind her closed eyelids.
He moved quickly, then slowly, then quickly again. The change of tempo seemed to prolong the inevitable. Each eager moment was like the last second before the end of the world.
That was as though her heart were swelling in the cavity of her chest. Her heart grew larger and larger stretching the tissues and membranes, squeezing tighter each time her blood leaped. Any second now her heart would burst and she would die.
But she didn't care.
That didn't matter at all.
All that mattered was the loving. Her hands once again clasped him to pull him close and hold him there. For a long moment then neither of them moved. The flame of passion burned her skin to wispy ash.
His hand reaching across the tops of her breasts, enfolding the smooth, warm spheres, squeezing them, lifting them so the nipples were offered to his lips.
He kissed first one then the other and her body responded eagerly. He took one nipple firmly to his lips and shifted his weight slightly. His hands left her breasts, slid down along her sides to the globes of her buttocks as he began once again to work.
The finish sneaked up on her. One moment she was only riding a moderately high wave of passion. The next moment she was being torn apart by a wrenching, frantic convulsion.
She screamed and kicked and bit and her nails tore strips of skin from his back. She sank into a temporary state of semi-consciousness from which she arose to realize he was still with her.
Now, her own pleasure completed, she worked to give him joy. She cradled him with her arms and whispered and cooed at his ear. Her hands stroked lightly, searching his body for the most sensitive places.
She sensed the approach of his release and gloried in the reflection of his ecstasy.
When that was over neither of them moved. They remained locked in the embrace of love while the wonderful languor washed over them.