Chapter 3
Tames Collitch whistled softly between his teeth as he skipped down the three flights of stairs and stepped out into the night. It was late enough now so that a group of five teen-agers stood out as they strolled nonchalantly toward the corner.
There was something about the way they walked that arrested Jim's attention and he stopped to watch them from the top of the stoop. The street seemed different than it had been an hour ago when he and Francie had gotten out of the cab and gone upstairs.
The kids turned the corner and disappeared. Jim looked up and down the street, noticing, finally, that the difference was that it was much darker now. The two street lights nearest the building were no longer lighted. Where the globes had been, high above the street, were now only sharp fragments of glass.
Collitch relaxed and grinned.
That was all it had been. The kids had knocked out the two street lights, with slingshots probably. That accounted for the way they'd been walking. He could have read something" into five kids wandering around the city and smashing street lights at one o'clock in the morning, but there was such a thing as being overly cautious. The odds were against the incident's having anything to do with him.
Collitch hitched up the belt of his trousers and started down the steps. The touch of his fingers against his belt assured him the money was still safe. That leather belt he wore through the loops of his trousers served double duty. It prevented his pants from falling down and it served as his own personal First National Bank. Between the inner and outer layers of leather, and accessible through a zipper on the inside, was a space which contained fifteen carefully folded thousand dollar bills.
In his wallet, in smaller denominations, there was another one thousand dollars in American currency. And in the front right pocket of his trousers there was a roll of perhaps several hundred. If he wanted to take the time, Collitc could calculate to the exact penny how much money there was in his pockets at that moment. If called upon, he could tell exactly how much cash he'd been carrying yesterday, or last week, or six months ago.
It was a function of his business to be able to do so and he was good at it. Collitch had a mind like an electronic computer. He could add or subtract five-place numbers in a flash. He could multiply and divide four-digit numbers into one another at the same rapid speed. Five and six-place numbers took only a little longer.
It was because of the sum of money he carried that Jim Collitch was so cautious. Of course, no one in the world knew exactly how much he was carrying, but there were several people who knew he had a large sum and were not above trying to take it away from him on a dark street.
At the corner of the wider, brightly-lit avenue he waited for a cab. He leaned against a lamp post, lit a cigarette, and checked his watch. He was going to be a little late, he knew. But he'd probably be better off that way. Having those four drinks had been a foolish thing to do. In fact, picking up the girl had been pretty stupid when he knew he was going to work that night.
So, he'd used the coffee and the love-making mi more than the obvious reasons. He'd needed the time to become perfectly sober. In his business the competition was cutthroat and a man required all his faculties to be successful.
A group of people burst noisily out of an all-night beanery across the street and he turned at the sound of their raucous voices. A second look told him they were a group of couples, who kidded and laughed with each other as they made their way up the street, their voices loud as though they had been drinking.
When they turned the corner onto the next side street Collitch was alone again. The avenue was one-way heading downtown and he looked anxiously up the street for the telltale dome light of a cruising cab. He hadn't counted on the lightness of the traffic at this hour. It would make him even later.
He could, of course, go directly to the place in which business was being conducted that night, but it wasn't a good idea. It would mean he would have to present himself dressed as he was-which was definitely the wrong appearance for him to make.
No. He had to go back to his apartment; shower, shave, and change his clothes. For a moment he kicked himself for letting his stupidity make him this late. Then it occurred to him that he might turn the lateness into an asset. This depended in large measure on chance. For him to be able to do so, he would have to arrive calm, icy-cold, and suave at a feverish moment in the activities. Also, he would have to arrive while there was still an opening for him.
A couple of private cars came by and he had to fight down a growing sense of urgency. Impatience was making him nervous, he realized. Employing a mental trick he'd developed for himself he turned off ninety per cent of his mind and concentrated the remaining ten per cent on adding an imaginary column of figures.
A downtown bus came along before a cab and he boarded it to ride down close to midtown where there were more taxis. He got into one of the cabs and gave the driver his address.
At that hour there was no traffic to slow them down and only a few short minutes later the cab was pulling to a stop in front of his apartment house. Jim peeled a twenty dollar bill off the roll in his pocket and handed it to the driver.
"Jeez, Mack," the driver complained. "Ain't you got nothin' smaller? It's hell to get change at this hour. The meter's only a buck eighty."
"Keep the twenty and wait for me. I'll be inside about fifteen minutes. Let the meter run."
"I got a better idea," the cabby said. "If you'll be gone fifteen minutes I'll run around the corner and grab a quick cup of coffee."
"All right. But be here when I come out. I'm in a big hurry."
"I'll be here. I won't even move the cab."
The two men got out of the vehicle at the same time. The driver headed across the street and up toward the corner while Jim ran up the front stoop two steps at a time.
Once in his apartment he stopped rushing. With no wasted motion he stripped out of his clothes and jumped into the shower. While he soaped and rinsed he wondered if the cabby would be waiting for him. Eighty per cent of the cab drivers in New York would still be out there in less than fifteen minutes from now. But there was that twenty per cent who would run with the money and pocket the difference between the meter reading and the twenty dollar bill. That made the odds about four to one that the cabby would be waiting; good odds in any man's book.
Jim scrubbed himself dry with a towel, wet his face again, and coated it with a thick layer of shaving cream. He put a new blade into the razor and shaved quickly and expertly. Then he applied after-shave lotion and talcum and went back into the bedroom of the four-room apartment.
The soiled under things he'd been wearing were tossed into a corner. He hated to leave them there like that but he didn't have time to straighten the place up. From a drawer in the dresser he pulled out a pair of silk shorts and an undershirt of the same material.
He slipped into the fresh and expensive under things and walked to the closet to take out one of the three-hundred-dollar suits the dark one with the light striping. He removed the belt from the other trousers and threaded it into the trousers of the suit, then slipped them on. From another drawer he removed a fresh white-on-white shirt with tab collar and French cuffs.
The cuff links were of platinum with large square-cut emeralds set in them. He added a dazzling white tie, held in place by an emerald tie tack, and fastened the tabs of the collar. Then it was a pair of black silk socks before he slipped his feet into the forty-dollar handmade Spanish dress boots.
Now he was almost ready. He transferred the things from his other pockets to the pockets of his suit, putting the wallet in the inside breast pocket of the jacket. From the top drawer of the dresser he took out the silver cigarette case and matching lighter, opening the case to see that it was full. He patted the pockets, running through a mental check list as he did so, turned out the lights in the bedroom, and walked quickly toward the front door of the apartment.
Just before he left he took from the hall closet a Borselino hat and adjusted it carefully on his head. Then he locked the front door and hurried out to the street.
The cab was still there and the driver was sitting behind the wheel, the dome light on to give enough light for him to read the newspaper. There was a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth.
The cabby whistled softly when he saw Jim. "Man, are you dolled up."
Jim slid into the back seat and slammed the door. He gave the driver the address and caught the surprised look in the rear view mirror.
"The twenty's yours," Jim said as they pulled away from the curb. "And there'll be another ten if you get me there in less than ten minutes."
The cab spurted ahead and screamed around the corner on two wheels like a jack rabbit evading a pursuing wolf. The cabby stayed off the wide main streets and Jim had to hold on to keep from being thrown from one side of the back seat to the other as they sped down narrow streets, wove around double-parked cars, took two-wheel corners and ran red lights.
Eight and one-half minutes later the cab was screeching to a stop. Jim gave the driver the promised ten dollars and waved him away. He stood in the middle of a block of darkened store fronts. Down close to the corner a little candy store was still open.
Between every third store front was a doorway which opened onto a staircase leading up to the second floor of these two-story buildings. Jim leaned back and saw the lights behind the large, plate glass windows on the second floor. The lower half of the window had been painted black. Above, in the unpainted area, was lettering which read, "AMALGAMATED FURNITURE WORKERS LOCAL 193."
Jim started for the door, then stopped. Take a minute, he said to himself. Make sure everything's perfect. Calm it down.
He took several slow deep breaths and lit a cigarette, making a production out of opening the silver cigarette case, selecting a cigarette, and striking the matching silver lighter.
Tonight he knew, if things worked out well, he would be using the money from the wallet. He was out of the small change, front pocket class. He reminded himself one final time that he was going to work and suppressed a grin at the idea.
If this was his business, and it was, then the product in which he dealt was money. Nothing was bought, or sold. And the element of risk was surprisingly small. He didn't even remember the lie he'd told Francie about his occupation. It was the standard one he used with any stranger he met. It was a perfect cover. It easily accounted for the odd hours he kept and for the large sums of money he occasionally and inadvertently flashed.
Now, in perfect control of himself, he went inside and up the stairs to the union hall. The room was big, and dirty, and crowded. It was filled to the ceiling with a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke. Near the back wall was a delicatessen style showcase and behind that a big walk-in refrigerator.
Along the two walls of the room were rows of small, square, four-place tables. Then there were two aisles, and in the center of the room was a double row of the same kind of tables. Four men sat at each of the tables with circles of men gathered around them. Back next to the showcase was a larger, round table over which had been securely fastened a white tablecloth. There were ten chairs at the round table and all of them were occupied, too.
All the seated men were playing cards!
At the big table there was poker, with the house supplying chips and a dealer, and cutting five per cent of every pot. At the smaller tables other card games were being played-rummy, pinochle. At these tables the house charged by the hour for the seats.
There was surprisingly little noise for a gathering of more than a hundred men. All conversation between non-players was in whispers and the players themselves were too busy concentrating on the games to do any talking.
A short, bulldog of a man looked up when Jim came in the door. Jim nodded to him. The man nodded back and turned away again. If Jim had been a stranger there would have been several quick questions asked. If the answers to those questions were not the right ones the stranger would suddenly find himself, battered and bruised, back at the bottom of the stairs. If he were lucky he might never find himself again. Nor would anyone else ever find him.
Jim threaded his way past the small tables toward the showcase at the back. The man in the apron nodded a greeting and jerked his head in the direction of a small door close by.
"How's the action?" Jim asked.
"The deck's still cold," the aproned man answered.
"Seat open?"
"One left. They were expecting you earlier."
"Ah, too slow to bother with then," Jim said nonchalantly.
The aproned man shrugged and Jim walked past him. He went through the door and found himself in a smaller room. Here there was just enough room for two crap tables. Jim walked quickly through the room to the one beyond, this one smaller still.
Several heads turned when he entered, but no one spoke. In the center of the room, beneath a low-hanging light with a metal reflector, was a round table at which there were nine chairs. This table too had a white cloth fastened down over its top. Between the wooden table top and the white cloth were several thicknesses of blanket for padding.
Seven of the nine chairs were occupied by men dressed in suits. The eighth chair was held by a man in shirt sleeves who wore an eye shade. The cuffs of his shirt were buttoned at the wrists and the sleeves were pulled taut by a pair of rubber bands around the man's upper arms.
Jim walked to the ninth chair and sat down.
The man in shirt sleeves was snapping cards out to the players with practiced and graceful motions of his wrist. Each player had before him one card face down, and two cards face up. The third upcard was being dealt. In the center of the table was a large pile of chips of various colors.
Jim had taken the seat immediately to the dealer's I left hand, making him the first player. The fourth player had before him, besides cards and chips and a glass of water, a shiny penny. After each hand was completed the penny would be moved on to the next player. The player who had the penny before him was the first man to receive cards from the dealer and the man to his right was the last one to get cards. This practice prevented the man sitting immediately to the right of the dealer from having the permanent advantage of being last.
The last card was dealt and the hand ended. The dealer quickly and expertly counted the pot, took the five per cent house cut, and gave the rest of the money to the winner.
This was only the third time Jim had played here in the back room. He'd played out at the table in the front room for more than six months before having been invited back here. Out front there was a two dollar betting limit. Back here the limit was ten dollars.
Jim removed his wallet, counted off some of the money, and shoved it across the table to the dealer.
"Five hundred," he said flatly.
The dealer riffled through the bills and echoed, "Five hundred." He handed the money to a skinny old man behind him and counted out five hundred dollars' worth of chips. The old man added the five hundred dollars to the fistful he already had and started out of the room. At the door he stopped and turned back.
"Any orders?" he asked in a cracked voice.
After a moment of silence he left the room.
Jim counted the chips as he received them and nodded that the count was right. The dealer began to shuffle the cards. Jim stopped him.
"New deck," he said softly.
There were several sighs and murmurs from the other players but no one actually protested It was the unwritten right of any player to demand and receive a fresh deck of playing cards at any time during the game.
The dealer ritually tore the old deck in half with the one twist of his powerful wrists. He brought out a fresh deck of cards, still sealed in cellophane, and handed them to Jim. Jim inspected the package closely, found nothing wrong, and handed back the deck.
"Anyone else?" The dealer looked from man to man.
When there was no reply the dealer tore open the cellophane, slit the stamp across the flap of the box with his thumbnail, and took out the fresh deck. He removed the jokers and spread the cards across the padded table-top in a perfect fan. He did this once with the backs of the cards up, and then once again with the faces showing.
The eyes of all the players never left that deck.
The dealer gathered the cards again, shuffled them several times, and offered them for a cut. After the cut the dealer re-formed the pack and dealt.
With the penny having been moved to the next man Jim was the third player to get his first card. Cupping his hands, he lifted one corner of the card and saw the king of hearts. Then he took his hands away and looked up just as the first round of upcards was being dealt. His second card was a ten, also of hearts. There was one other ten on the board, no kings, and no hearts.
The highest card on the board was a jack. The player in whose hand the jack was made the first bet. He bet five dollars. At the end of the first round of betting only five players remained.
The third card was dealt the second upcard and Jim received a trey of hearts. No kinds had shown. There were no pairs. And the jack was still high. The jack bet eight dollars this time and there were no raises. Neither were there any folds.
Jim counted three hearts in the other hands and gave up any idea of a flush as he waited for his fourth card. This was the ace of hearts. Two other aces were dealt out that round, but no kings and no more hearts. Jim's hand was ace-ten-trey of hearts. The high hand was the ace-jack.
The ace-jack made a limit bet of ten dollars. There were two calls and a fold and it was Jim's turn to bet. He considered for a moment. With three aces showing there was a good chance the ace-jack was trying to look like a pair of aces.
Jim raised ten dollars and the pace of the game seemed to quicken. There were only four players left now. The ace-jack came back with a ten dollar re-raise. Jim hit him with another limit raise and one more player folded, leaving only three remaining. The ace-jack only called this time.
The last card was dealt. Jim's trey was paired and the pair made him high man. He bet ten dollars and waited. One player hesitated for a moment, then folded his cards in disgust, leaving only Jim and the ace-jack still in the hand.
Ace-jack picked up ten dollars in chips, then another ten. But he didn't throw them into the center of the table. When he hesitated Jim knew he was holding a pair and was trying to decide whether Jim's raises and bets indicated two pair, three of a kind, or a bluff.
The ace-jack had an eight and a six also showing. Any of his cards, if paired by his hole card, could beat Jim's hand. Though it didn't make any difference Jim thought quickly while the man was making his decision.
The aces were doubtful, three of them having shown. The eights were impossible, the three remaining have shown in hands that were already folded. One other six had appeared and no other jacks had shown at all. So it was sixes or jacks. If it was sixes there was a very good chance the man would not call with so low a pair.
The other player shot Jim a look of pure hatred as he folded his cards and Jim only smiled. The dealer cut the pot and gave Jim his winnings, then shuffled for the next hand.
Jim settled down to the play of the hands. He played cautiously, bluffed only once more in the next two hours, and won steadily. The game settled into a rhythm and Jim let one small part of his mind wander. This did not interfere with his concentration.
James Collitch had come to New York a little more than two years before. He came from the Midwest and had spent the five years before that playing poker for .a living. In those five years he'd sharpened his skills and talents and at the end of that time had considered himself ready for the big-time.
He came to New York with three thousand dollars in cash and a name on a slip of paper. The name belonged to a man who could make the right contacts for Jim. It sounded like the easiest thing in the world. All he'd had to do was come to New York, contact the man, and start playing big-stakes poker.
It didn't work out quite that way at all. Gambling is illegal in New York. And, like every other illegal activity, it is very tightly controlled by a branch of a nationwide criminal organization. This organization, called the Cosa Nostra by its members and the Mafia by the uninitiate, took a slice off the top of every imaginable operation.
Of course, Jim had been aware of these people. Their presence was felt even in the Midwest. But out there the operation was much looser. Here in the city they ruled everything. The only good the contact had been able to do for Jim was to show him where the games were being played and to get him admitted.
The rest had been up to Jim. And it had been a long hard struggle. He was new to this area and was allowed to play in only the smallest games at the start. Even at that it had almost proven too much. Jim had dropped most of his three-thousand-dollar stake in the first week. He'd paid very dearly for some post-graduate lessons in the art and science of poker playing.
It had taken quite some time to work himself up again. He'd been reduced to nickel and dime games in neighborhood barbershops and construction shacks until he'd built up a stake again. Even there the organization took its cut of every pot.
One of the most frustrating things about the two years was that Jim was aware that it was a sucker's game to sit m where the house took a cut of the pot In such a game, over the long haul and strictly according to mathematical principles and the laws of chance, the only winner was the house.
Oh, a guy could make some money in one of those games but he had to buck something more than the luck and skill of the other players. He had to buck the strictly immutable laws of chance which said that in the long haul any player received the same number of good and bad hands, the same number of winning and losing hands.
The idea was to play hard when the cards were running with you and to back off when they were running cold for you.
Well, he'd done the impossible. In the two years he'd managed to increase his original stake by five times. And in that same time he'd increased his skill in equal measure. The bigger players had finally noticed him and had invited him to play with them.
But even this wasn't the major league by any stretch of the imagination. Ten-dollar-limit was a pretty good game by the standards of the average man. But Jim was shooting for the games in which there was no limit at all the games in which the pots ran upward of a thousand dollars each.
Only the top poker players in the country played in those games. And there was no house cut. The games were held in hotel rooms with each of the players contributing a flat sum toward the costs including a team of dealers, food and drinks, cards, everything. Some of those games went on for thirty and forty hours without more than ten or fifteen minute breaks along the way.
But a man had to be invited into a game like that. And he would only be invited when his reputation grew large enough, when his skill was sufficient to command respect from other players. In the gambling fraternity there were no more than fifteen men in this major league. They earned most of their money from playing rich, foolish amateurs.
When a man became known in the big leagues he was sought out by non-professionals who took some sort of curious delight in playing against the reputation. Some of the amateurs were pretty good players, but none of them could be as good as a top-flight pro.
The big men existed in a kind of limbo between the everyday, legal, nine-to-five world, and the shadowy world of the criminal organization. They weren't criminals themselves. They didn't cheat. But they weren't squares, either. They were respected by the highest echelon of the Cosa Nostra and were allowed to exist on the fringes of the organization.
At four in the morning Jim's luck changed. He had about eight hundred dollars in winnings stacked before him at the time. An hour and a half later, against an incredible run of bad luck, the eight hundred was gone and so was his starting stake of five hundred.
He had to go into his wallet for the other five hundred dollars and about half of that disappeared in the next twenty minutes. All the same players were still in the game and Jim was sure he had them all pegged by then. All he needed was a fair hand each time and he'd be able to come out with a profit. Providing, of course, the game didn't end before he got his chance.
He tightened up his play so much it hurt and rode out the run of bad cards. The game lasted until two in the afternoon, which made it a little less than twelve hours of playing for Jim. By then he'd recouped his original thousand dollars and was winning an additional fourteen hundred.
By then there were only four active players remaining, the others having busted out, and Jim was the only winner. As such, he was almost obligated to continue playing until the remaining losers decided they'd had enough. During one hand in which he folded his cards early Jim calculated that some six or seven thousand dollars had come into the game. The difference between that sum and his winnings had disappeared into the voracious maw of the house percentage.
It was an old, old story. It seemed stupid to play in that kind of game. But there was no choice for most of the men. Unless they played in private, small stakes, neighborhood type games, this was the only card game in town; this one or fifty others just like it in other locations.
The game ended at two-thirty in the afternoon. Jim cashed in his chips, pocketed his winnings, and left. It was the curious nature of the game that there were no parting salutations. Throughout the game no one player had addressed another by name, yet each one knew the names of all the others.
Jim didn't relax until he stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. In outward appearance he was exactly the same as he'd been when he'd walked into the building. His collar was still buttoned and his tie knotted perfectly. There wasn't a strand of hair out of place or an untoward crease in his suit.
But inside his head there was the chaos of fatigue. His mouth was so dry hk tongue stuck to the roof.
Down the back of his neck and across the width of his shoulder blades there was a fiery band of pain. His legs were stiff and the muscles in the backs of his legs were knotted.
He hailed a passing cab. gave the driver an address, and settled back against the soft seat. Sleep was impossible just then. It would take time to ease the tension from his mind and body.
The cab took him to a narrow, three-story building on the Upper West Side on the fringe of the Harlem ghetto. Except that this building seemed a little cleaner than the others in the area, there was nothing to distinguish it.
Jim stepped into the vestibule and rang the bell. After a moment a tall, hawk-faced Spaniard opened the door. The Spaniard would have been a handsome man except for the scar. It had been made by the sharp edge of a broken beer bottle in a barroom fight a long time ago and it was a miracle the man hadn't been blinded.
The scar began on the right cheek just in front of the ear. It ran out across the cheek for an inch and a half, angling upward toward the eye. There it divided into two branches. The upper branch increased in angle, sliced through the outer edge of the eyebrow narrowly missing the corner of the eye and ran straight across the forehead. The lower branch of the scar flattened in direction, ripped through the pouch beneath the right eye, streaked across the hump of the nose, and ended just beneath the center of the left eye.
The disfigured Spaniard recognized Jim immediately, smiled a greeting, and opened the door wide. Jim stepped into the building, hearing the door close and lock securely behind him.
He was in a wide, well-lit, sumptuously furnished corridor. There was carpeting from wall to wall. There were mirrors and paintings and leather sofas and chairs. Three were stacks of magazines and newspapers and against one wall was an ornate antique desk. It looked like the waiting room of a wealthy physician's office.
The Spaniard walked past Jim to the desk, sat down, and motioned him to a soft chair nearby.
"You won," he said in an unaccented voice. It was a statement rather than a question.
Jim nodded tiredly. "How can you always tell?"
The Spaniard smiled. "Very few come after a losing night. What is it you wish?"
"Better make it the full treatment," Jim said. "I feel like I'm going to fall apart."
"Do you want anyone special?"
"Who's available?"
"At this hour there is very little business. Only two of the girls are working."
It seemed too much of an effort to make the decision. "I don't really care," Jim said. "Just as long as she's good."
"Here all the girls are good," the Spaniard said softly. "Take room seventeen and I'll surprise you. We have a new girl you haven't seen before. She is excellent."
Jim stood up again, dropped a hundred dollar bill on the desk, and started up the stairs. The Spaniard reached for the telephone and dialed a two digit number.
On the second floor Jim found the door numbered seventeen. He went in and found himself in an exquisitely furnished bedroom. The double bed was covered with a satin spread. He walked to it, kicked out of his boots, and stretched out on the bed without bothering with the rest of his clothes. He rolled onto his back and threw one arm across his eyes.
It was quiet and comfortable in the room; soothing. But as soon as his eyes closed he saw on the screen of his imagination the innumberable poker hands which had been played. The cards flashed dizzily and he fought to shut his mind off.
When the door of the room opened he looked up. Standing in the doorway was an Oriental girl Japanese or Chinese, he couldn't tell which. She was tall. For an American girl she was tall. For an Oriental she was a giantess. And for any woman of any race she was beautiful. She wore a white silk robe belted tightly around her lean, small-breasted body, and she waited until Jim smiled and nodded his approval before she came all the way into the room.
She was followed by a Puerto Rican woman of indeterminate age in a maid's uniform. The maid closed the door and waited as the Oriental girl walked slowly toward the bed. As she walked Jim was aware of the whisper of the silk wrapper against the nude body beneath. Her breasts moved only slightly as she walked.
She stopped beside the bed and smiled down at Jim. "They call me Lotus."
Jim.
"Hernandez said you want the whole routine. He said you're a special customer."
"I guess I am."
"Let's get started then."
"Go right ahead." She did.
Lotus helped him to a sitting position and eased him out of the jacket of his suit. She handed the jacket to the woman in the maid's uniform. The woman emptied the things out of the pockets of the jacket and placed them on a nearby table.
Lotus quickly and expertly stripped Jim to the waist, handing each article of clothing to the maid. Then Jim stretched out again and the Oriental girl removed his trousers, shorts, and socks. When he was naked the maid took all his clothing and left the room. Lotus locked the door after her and came back to the side of the bed.
Her eyes traveled slowly over Jim's naked body but he felt no embarrassment, just as he'd felt none in the presence of the maid. The first time he'd been here, more than a year ago, there had been some embarrassment at being stripped naked in the presence of two clothed females but that feeling was long gone.
"Roll over," Lotus said.
Jim rolled over onto his stomach, felt the bed dip as she put one knee on the edge of the mattress, and then felt her hands touch lightly against the muscles of his back. Her fingertips prodded against the knotted masses of muscle at his shoulder blades, then traveled all the way down to the base of his spine.
"You do need the works," he heard the girl say. "Those muscles are like overdrawn springs about to pop."
Her hands left his body and she stepped back from the bed. "You can turn over now."
He turned over.
"I'll be right back."
He watched her walk to another door in the room and open it. Through the opened doorway Jim could see the tiled walls of a bathroom. He heard her moving around in there for a minute and then she was back. She helped him up from the bed and led him into the tiled room.
It was a large room, almost as big as the bedroom itself, and completely tiled, walls floor, ceiling. On one side of the room there was a sunken tub at least eight feet long, four feet wide, and three feet deep. Opposite the tub there was a long flat table with a padded top. Against another wall there was a steam cabinet, and beside that, one of those Finnish sauna things.
"How do you want that, dry or wet?" she asked, pointing at the two cabinets.
"I've never tried the sauna. Which is best?"
"For you, I think the steam."
"Okay."
She opened the top and front of the steam cabinet, seared him inside, and closed everything up again. Only his head stuck out through a round hole in the top. She adjusted the controls and put a towel around his neck.
The heat came fast and sweat began to run down his face. Inside the cabinet he could feel sweat running off him in rivers and being absorbed by the towels on the seat and floor of the cabinet.
She wiped his face with a cold washcloth and gave him a sip of cold water. "Let me know if you get too hot," she said.
He nodded, feeling some of the muscles beginning to relax. She left him in the cabinet and walked across the room to the sunken tub to start it filling, then came back to wipe his face and give him another sip of water.
He stayed in the cabinet twenty minutes. She let him out when the tub was filled. There were wisps of steam rising from the surface of the water. She led him to a low wooden bench near the edge of the tub and seated him there.
He watched her dip a bucket into the tub and pour the scalding water down over his head. His body was already heated from the steam cabinet and the water felt only hot. After she poured the water over him she put the bucket to one side and picked up a bar of soap and a washcloth.
Lotus soaped him from head to toe, missing nothing and spending the same amount of time in every area. She dipped up two more buckets of water to rinse him off, then helped him into the tub itself.
The water temperature, he knew: was around one hundred and forty degrees and he could feel the heat seeping deep into his body, loosening the knots, relaxing him. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tab and closed his eyes and that was wonderful
Lotus let him soak for fifteen minutes more and his body absorbed the heat of the water. Sweat beads broke out on his face again and she sat beside him and wiped them away every couple of minutes. The flashing cards were gone now, along with most of the aching fatigue; but he was still too tense to fall asleep.
She tested the state of his body by reaching down into the water and kneading his leg and back muscles for a moment. Then she said, "All right, you're cooked enough. Everybody out of the pool."
She helped him up and led him to the padded table. He stretched out there and she patted him dry with a thick, soft towel. When he was dry she said, "Which do you want, alcohol or oil?"
"Make it oil," he said in a deep, relaxed tone. "The alcohol's too cold after all that hot v er and steam."
She laughed as she reached for a bottle. "What's the matter, can't you take it?"
He shook his head slowly, rolling it from one side to the other. "Not today, I can't."
She poured a bit of oil into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and began with the massage. Her skillful fingers probed and kneaded every individual muscle, only moving on when she was sure the last knot had been untied.
Jim closed his eyes, enjoying her skillful manipulations. Her touch was like magic and he drifted lazily on the edge of sleep.
"Mmmmm," he murmured contentedly. "Hernandez was right. He said you were good."
"Good, hell! I'm the best this overrated clip joint has ever seen."
He smiled without opening his eyes. "Where'd you learn that? You sound like you were born right here in this country."
"I was," she told him as she continued with the massage. "But I learned over in Japan. I went there with a show troupe and got stranded. Then I got hungry. I didn't speak the language so there wasn't much I could do about a job. I tried hustling but the competition was too keen. Those gals over there work for next to nothing. I ran into a gal who told me about the private baths they have there and who fixed me up with a job.
"That was a hell of a lot better than hustling. Once I learned what to do I became very popular with the customers. Those little runts were intrigued with my height and were willing to pay double for my services. I'll tell you, over there they've got private baths that make this place look sick. Some of the gals are so small they hop right up on the table and walk up and down a guy's back as part of the massage. I'm too big for that, though."
While she was talking she massaged his arms and chest and shoulders, then moved down to his upper legs and calves. She even did each individual finger and toe, as well as the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet.
Next she moved around behind his head and worked on the muscles in the sides of his neck, in his face, and in his temples. The top of his skull pressed back against the softness of her beneath the silken robe and for the first time he became aware of her as a female. Up until that moment she'd been only a person performing a service for him. He'd been too strung out to think of her in any other terms.
When she finished with his face and neck he rolled over onto his stomach. Now came the difficult part. All down his back from the tops of his shoulders to the hollows behind his knees the muscles were still bunched and tensed, though not so severely as before. He felt actual physical pain as she kneaded away the tenseness.
She worked down from his shoulders to the small of his back. Her hands were surprisingly strong and he grunted and groaned as she squeezed and prodded. She gripped his flat, hard buttocks in her two hands and squeezed and he was surprised that even those muscles were tense. When she finished with his rump and moved on down to the backs of his legs there was a pleasant warmth spreading through his body.
Finally she was finished with the massage. She rubbed the excess oil off his skin with another towel and he sat up, his legs dangling from the edge of the table.
It was miraculous. He felt wonderful, as though he'd been rebuilt from top to bottom with all new parts replacing the worn out ones. She looked him over critically, then nodded with satisfaction. Her hand went to his cheek for a moment and rubbed against the stubble of his beard. It was only little more than half a day since he'd shaved.
"You want a shave?" she asked. "Or are you too tired for that?"
He tested his beard. "I feel pretty good now. Give me the shave, too."
He hopped down from the table and followed her back into the bedroom. She spread towels over an easy chair, seated him, and covered him to the throat with a sheet. From a large closet she took out a wheeled cart and pushed it into the bathroom. A few moments later she was back.
Set into depressions in the top of the cart were two bowls of steaming water. Also there was a washcloth, a shaving mug and brush, a straight razor, and a strop. She worked up a thick lather in the mug and spread it over his face.
Just then there was a knock at the door. Lotus opened it to admit the maid. The girl was carrying his suit, freshly pressed. His underwear and shirt had been washed and ironed. The maid hung the suit away, put the other things on top of the dresser along with the stuff from his pockets, and left. Lotus locked the door again after her, and came back to finish the shave. She was as skillful with the dangerous straight razor as she'd been with the massage.
Despite the fact that there had been more than seventeen thousand dollars in his clothes when he'd come in Jim wasn't worried about the money. He had learned, after his first time here, that his personal possessions were perfectly safe. If so much as one dollar was missing there would be hell to pay. Hernandez couldn't run his business without the complete trust of his customers.
Only the men of the night world of which Jim was a part were customers here. This place was a kind of sanctuary which was recognized even by the Organization itself. No business was transacted here. No narcotics, no gambling, no meetings of rival groups. So complete was the sanctuary that a man marked for death was safe here. Of course he couldn't hide out here, but while he was here he wouldn't be touched.
Lotus finished with the shave, wiped away the excess lather, and wrapped his face in a hot towel. "Are you going to stay?" she asked.
He knew what she meant. He'd paid for the room and had the option of sleeping there for a while. Most men, after the steam and massage routine, were too relaxed to want to dress and leave.
"I think I will stay," he mumbled through the hot towel.
He heard her moving around the room, closing the blinds, drawing the drapes, turning down the bed. After she had removed the hot towel and the sheet he climbed into bed and pulled the light blanket up to his chest. He was propped up on two pillows and he watched her clean the razor and put away the towels and shaving gear. The room was only dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through the drawn blinds and drapes.
Lotus finished in the bedroom and went back into the bathroom. He heard the water gurgling from the tub. She came out several minutes later carrying a cloth bag filled with the towels and cloths and sheets she'd used. She unlocked the door, set the bag in the corridor, and locked the door again.
He watched the sinuous sway of her lithe body beneath the robe as she walked slowly back to the bed. She sat down on the edge and smiled at him.
"You want to go right to sleep?" she asked in a low, husky voice.
"No," he answered with a grin. "I think I'll stay awake for a while. Get me a cigarette, will you?"
She found his pack of cigarettes, put one between her lips, lit it, and gave it to him. Then she moved over to the bench before the mirrored dressing table and sat down with her back to him. He could see her reflection in the mirror.
What was happening now was an extra, added attraction; something not included in the price he'd paid. The girls who worked here were, of course, available. But that particular part of the transaction was left to the customer and the girl. Hernandez took only twenty per cent of that fee.
She took the pins out of her hair and shook it loose down her back in a shimmering ebony cascade. Her hair was so long it reached all the way to her seat. She combed it first, then brushed it, and he watched the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the front of the robe in the reflection.
Next she removed all her make-up; lipstick, eye shadow, everything. Then she opened the front of her robe and he saw her pear-shaped breasts in the mirror. They were the same olive-golden color as the rest of her, with small, dark circles of pebbled flesh at the ends. She put a dab of perfume between them, and another behind each ear. Then she did something that surprised and excited him.
She took a tube of lipstick in one hand, and held a breast with the other to apply the lipstick liberally to the tip. She did the same to the other breast. The attentions made her nipples start to come alive. They thrust out from the ends of her breasts like the buds of flowers seen in time-lapse photography.
When she finished she stood up, turned around, and shrugged out of the robe. She stood proud and still, posing her beauty for him. Her long, lean legs were well padded with muscle. Her breasts were like giant teardrops. Her flawless skin was stretched taut over her ribs and flat across her narrow waist and hips.
Now he could see the reflection of her back in the mirror. Her buttocks were tiny, no more than two tightly clenched fists and tucked under her hips to make an almost flat plane all the way down from her shoulders.
She was breath-taking!
She waited and there was no need for words between them. He moved over close to the farthest side of the bed and kicked the light blanket away. She walked slowly to the bed and stretched out beside him, their bodies so close he could feel the warmth of her flesh against his own.
He reached out and put his hand flat on the middle of her chest just below her breasts. Flames leaped in the depths of her dark eyes.
He slid the hand up beneath one breast and hefted its weight as he leaned over her for the caress of his lips.
She laced her fingers behind his neck as the bud of her nipple slipped to his kiss. He bit lightly, annoyed at the lipstick.
She pulled his head against her firm bosom and soon his face was smeared with the lipstick she'd applied. Back and forth his attention traveled from the tip of one breast, down the slope, across the deep valley, to make the climb to the twin peak.
While his kiss was busy there his hands were busy elsewhere, stroking, caressing, searching for the secrets of her body. And finding them.
She was passive in the beginning but became more and more aggressive. Her hands left the back of his neck and did a little searching of their own. That wasn't much of a search. She found him quickly and her expert hands made him wild with desire.
He moved his mouth from her breasts to her lips and their kiss became the age-old battle of lust. But when he tried to throw himself at her she twisted out of the way and pushed him onto his back again.
Now she was kneeling beside him. One hand held him gentle prisoner and the other was pressed against the middle of his chest to keep him flat on his back. Her head darted down and he gasped at the sensation when her lips flicked against his bare chest. Her teeth scraped against his skin and her warm mouth made the blood pound in his veins. She covered his chest with loose kisses and he gasped and panted with helpless desire.
Then she raised her head from his body and stared into his eyes for a long moment during which neither of them breathed. In the depths of her eyes he could read the excitement of the core of her being.
Her hands left his body and her head shook violently from side to side. The shimmering cascade of her hair dropped down onto his fevered nakedness. She grasped great handfuls of hair and rubbed them against him. The strands of her hair were like tiny whips stinging his body.
From shoulders to shins she rubbed him with her hair, exciting him beyond belief. When he could stand that no longer he threw her down. She fought like a wildcat; scratching, biting, even kicking, though she was quite careful where she kicked.
His greater weight and strength was an advantage she could not overcome. He held her shoulders pinned to the mattress and forced her slowly.
She fought him every step of the way. She turned him into a brutal, lustful animal. His hands gripped her breasts and squeezed so hard they almost crushed the delicate ripeness of the fruit. Her legs and hips were bruised unmercifully.
They struggled, panting and silent, until the last ounce of resistance was gone. She went limp for a brief second, then became as voraciously eager as she'd been fiercely resistant a moment before.
Her arms locked around him and pulled him tight against her. A shrill scream, like the whinnying of a frightened mare, erupted from her throat at that moment of pleasure.
From then till the end that was quick. They were both fantastically excited. She moved with the sinuous strength of a golden panther as he brutally smashed again and again.
They attained the peak of ecstasy together and he heard her scream once again as the blood-red haze in his brain exploded with the brightness of a thousand suns.
Afterward, when they'd drifted slowly back to earth and were glorying in the soft lassitude, he kissed her gently at the corner of her mouth and fell asleep with their bodies still entwined.