Chapter 10

THERE WERE POLICEMEN IN THE LOBBY.

Also in the lobby were Mr. Fisk, Walt, and several other members of the staff, including a few of the night-maids. The hotel personnel clustered around the check-in desk, the policemen stood opposite them.

In between those two groups stood George.

He was raving drunk. "I tell you, officers this here hotel's been selling women all night. It's a god-damn disgrace, that's what it is, and I demand that you guys put a stop to it. Arrest these people all of them!"

"Ridiculous," said Mr. Fisk. His voice was calm, his face a mask of iron. "Surely you officers must know the reputation of this hotel. Such a thing could not possibly happen at the Oakwood."

"Horse-wind," shouted George. "It happened, all right. That young guy there the one behind the desk he's the mastermind."

Mr. Fisk shook his head. "Nonsense. Walt Evans has worked for this establishment several years now. He's a trusted employee. I think I know my staff well enough to say with certainty that-"

"All right now just hold on a minute. The policeman glared everybody into silence. "We got a call at the station house saying there were prostitutes for sale in this hotel. Anybody know who made that call?"

"I did," said George, drawing himself up with drunken pride. "I'm the one who called you."

"Fine. Now you say there's prostitutes here. What makes you think that?"

George blinked his eyes several times. "What makes me why, I seen them, officers. They been all over the place tonight."

"Did you have anything to do with them?" asked the policeman mildly.

"Me? Well well, no. I wouldn't-"

"Are you one of the people here for this convention, mister?"

"Yes, that's right, officer."

"What is it? Your boys trying to buy a good time around here? That the kind of convention you're having?"

George licked his lips. "I never said we were trying to buy nothing-I said these here hotel people were selling."

"That's very interesting," said the policeman. "But if we can't find anybody who bought, there doesn't seem to be much of a case."

"Certainly not," chimed in Mr. Fisk. "The man's out of his head. He's drunk."

George whirled on him. "Sure I'm drunk, he yelled. "I got a right to be drunk if I want to. But that don't change what I saw, and what I heard."

"What did you see?" asked the policeman.

"Prostitutes," said George.

"Did you see any of them doing anything? Did you see them sell themselves to anybody?"

"Well-no."

"All right-how about this? Do you know if any of the people from your company were buying? Did any of your business associates entertain a prostitute-or the other way around?"

George started to open his mouth, but a voice interrupted him. A group of men had come from the elevators across the lobby to join the crowd at the desk.

"Might I ask what seems to be the trouble here, officer?"

The policeman turned. "Now who the hell are you?"

"My name is Quincy, officer. I'm the home-office representative of Precision Tool and Die-I'm more or less in charge of this convention. If there's any difficulty here involving one of our men, I'm sure I can help straighten it out."

Mr. Fisk said, "This man here-this drunken individual-has told the police there were-" He paused and twisted his mouth sourly. "Prostitutes. For sale. In this hotel."

Quincy looked at him. "Are there?"

"Of course not. Why, in the whole history of this establishment, there's never been-"

The cop interrupted him and turned to Quincy. "Seems to me if there were any girls for sale around here, they'd be working the convention trade. What about that?"

"That's utter foolishness," said Quincy. "Precision Tool and Die is an established and respected firm.

When we hold our annual convention, it is for business purposes, not for the gratification of such base whims. For heaven's sake, officer-we're all family men here."

"Family men can be the worst kind," said the cop.

"Be that as it may," said Quincy. "You're free to question any Precision employee staying here tonight. You'll find that we have all been behaving ourselves, in accordance with the tradition of our firm."

The cop nodded at George. "What about him?"

"Well-" Quincy scratched his nose. "Some of us have a greater weakness for drink than some others-as well as more active imaginations. Allow me to apologize for the trouble our man has caused."

"Now, wait just a goddamm minute," George shouted.

"No, you wait a minute." Quincy's voice was edged with ice. "This crazy story of yours has gone far enough. It isn't funny any more. If you have any consideration for your firm, mister-or if you want your firm to have any consideration for you-I suggest you shut up."

George's face went slack in defeat. After a moment, he said, "Yes, Mr. Quincy."

"Well," said Quincy. "I imagine that settles it. I'm sure it was nothing but a drunken prank."

"Are you?" asked the policeman.

Mr. Fisk said, "It couldn't be anything else, officer. It's just one of those unfortunate things-a bit of alcoholic high-spirits."

Quincy smiled at Mr. Fisk. "My most humble apologies, sir, for the trouble our employee has caused. He'll be admonished, I assure you-as soon as he's sobered up."

"Think nothing of it," said Mr. Fisk. "I know full well that-"

The elevator doors opened again and a group of policemen emerged. "Find anything?" asked the officer in charge.

"Nothing, sir. Place is quiet as a tomb. We woke up a few people, checked with the hops and the maid staff-looks clean to me, sir."

"Well," said Mr. Fisk. "At the Oakwood Arms, one could hardly expect less."

The officer in charge looked around the group of faces slowly. His eyes were shrewd. "I suppose so." His gaze alighted finally on Walt. "How about you, son? You have anything to say?"

"Me? Why-no, sir. Except to echo what Mr. Fisk told you. The whole idea is ridiculous."

"According to this fellow here," said the officer, nodding at George, "you were the man behind all this. Can you think of any reason for him to say a thing like that?"

"No, sir." Walt's smile was forced. "I can't imagine."

"I can," said a voice. Everybody turned.

Madge elbowed her way to the center of the group. Walt stared at her numbly as she turned to face the policeman.

"Who are you?" asked the officer.

"Madge Cross. I work on the night-maid staff."

"You know something about this?"

"Yes," she said. "I was in on it."

"Un-huh." The officer's voice was deceptively calm and matter-of-fact. "What's the story?"

"This gentleman here," she said, inclining her head to indicate George, "was mistaken. There wasn't any organization of prostitutes at the hotel tonight. And if the men of the convention bought any female company, they didn't do it on the premises.

"How do you know that?"

"I'm on the staff, officer. We girls know everything that goes on in this hotel."

I see.

"But there was prostitution going on here," said Madge.

Mr. Fisk gasped. Walt didn't make a sound. "In what way?" asked the officer gently.

"There was a girl working here tonight-and there was a man working with her. He was arranging deals with people from the street, just passers-by, and he was sending them up to a vacant room in the hotel where the girl was waiting. That's what really happened."

"Who is this fellow you're talking about, Miss?"

Madge turned and looked at Walt. "Him," she said.

"And the girl?"

"Me," she said.

Quincy and his associates got George up to his room, locked the door, and proceeded to give him the threshing of his life.

"Not too hard, boys," said Quincy. "We don't want to be gangsters about this thing. Just make sure he remembers it, that's all."

Charlie and Clyde had awakened, and were sitting up in bed together like frightened children. "Why, Mr. Quincy," said Clyde. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"Your crap-head friend George here blew the whistle on us, that's the trouble. He called the cops and told them about the girls."

Charlie's jaw fell. "George did that? What the hell ever made George do a thing like that?"

"Who knows?" said Quincy. "I'll tell you this, though-he won't do it again."

"My God," said Clyde. "The cops are coming! Listen, Charlie-we better-"

"Relax, you two," Quincy said. "The law has been and gone. The convention's clean."

"It is?"

"Funniest thing," Quincy went on. "I got a call-just in time, too. Some old guy, wouldn't say who he was, told me there was trouble coming. Matter of fact, I had a gal with me at the time. He told me to get rid of her, and spread the word fast, before the police arrived."

"Was he one of us?" asked Charlie.

"No, I don't think so. He was just this old man. Whoever he was, I'm sure glad he called when he did. We just barely made it."

Charlie cleared his throat. "I guess we all better watch our step for the rest of the convention, huh, Mr. Quincy?"

Quincy nodded. "We have a new rule for conventions, men. Don't lay any girls who work for the hotel. That can get entirely too goddamm complicated."

Charlie and Clyde agreed.

Pop had done all he could. It hadn't been much, but it helped a little. If it hadn't been for that girl "Madge cross, probably nobody would have been hurt.

Pop cracked a fresh bottle of wine and resumed his station by the furnace. As he drank, he wondered what on earth had ever made Madge tell the police such a thing. It was stupid for a variety of reasons.

For one thing, it wasn't true. Pop was certain Madge had been in on the deal with Walt from the start, and she certainly must have known the score. And yet, she had gone out of her way to implicate Walt and herself at the same time she was letting everyone else off the hook. Why?

It bothered Pop. After all the trouble he'd gone to-first, calling up that company fellow and warning him of trouble ahead, then calling the staff floor and telling the girls to stop taking orders and return to their regular work why, he'd even gone up to see Walt, and explained to the young idiot what he had done.

Pop's judgment had been borne-out completely. One of the conventioneers had gotten mad at Walt, and had been calling the cops around the same time Pop was warning the staff. As it was, the scramble to straighten things out and erase the evidence had been completed only moments before the police arrived.

To have Madge spoil it like that it really cut

Pop deeply. Oh, well maybe she had some kind of personal grudge against Walt. Pop thought back to earlier that evening when he had listened outside the locker room door as Madge explained the setup to Hester and Kit. Hadn't she said something about Walt being her man? And hadn't Kit asked her what she was getting from him in return for her favors?

Yes Pop remembered now. And he also remembered what Kit had said to her: "Honey, baby what the hell kind of way is that to act with a man? You in love with the bastard, or what?"

It was a good question, but Madge hadn't answered it.

Or had she?

Young men do stupid things sometimes, especially in regard to young women. Young men are egoists, and occasionally their ego blinds them to the fact that their girl friends are not just playthings, sex-toys designed for their amusement, but human beings much like themselves. Quite often a young man will make the mistake of thinking he owns a girl, thinking of himself as the master and her as the dutiful slave. Sometimes a young man could push a girl too far, and lose her.

Of course, if that girl was more to him than just a friend if, for instance, she thought he loved her then the moment of disillusionment was going to come as a deadly blow.

Maybe Madge had loved him. If so, her love couldn't have lasted very long after he started selling her body to other men. And maybe it was the destruction of that dream which had prompted her to drag them both down together.

Well, Madge had done what she wanted, and that was the end of it. She had her revenge, and she was probably finding just how empty revenge could be. And she was also receiving her punishment for being a fool, which was probably something she desired even more than revenge. Young girls were like that. People in general were like that. Pop hoped sincerely she was satisfied.

People, he thought. Damn people anyway. All the lousy burdens endured by the human race could be traced back directly to that same human race, and the crazy mental flaw everybody seemed to share:

Saying one thing, doing another.

Men wanted women, and vice-versa, but they were all afraid to admit it. Even though they knew almost everybody in the world shared the same basic wants and needs, they tried to pretend it wasn't so. They enacted laws proclaiming sexual pleasure illegal outside of marriage. They made it a crime for a woman to sell herself to a man, even if she was what the man needed. They made it against the law for people to follow their instincts, instincts the law-makers shared themselves.

People could be so goddamm stupid.

Those conventioneers hadn't wanted anything so of new Opportunities for fun. If they wanted to bag a woman or two, it wasn't going to hurt anybody, except maybe their wives. For that matter, if their wives were treating them right, the men wouldn't terrible. This weekend had been their annual break from the routine; a new city, some new faces, a lot have any need of other women.

It was just a thing a man had to decide for himself.

And the same held true for the girls involved. Selling female companionship to a hungry male was a profession almost as old as sex itself. A lot of civilizations had tried to wipe it out, and failed. Here and there through history it had been temporarily legalized, and people had been surprised to discover how easy it was to live with.

People never seemed to learn the basic lesson. The harder you make it for a person to get what he wants, the more trouble he's going to cause trying to get it. And when the thing he wants is a thing everybody else also wants. . .

The law, Pop thought. The law was people trying to convince themselves they weren't human. The law was a mask of righteousness for ugly humanity to hide behind. Of course, humanity in the raw wasn't really ugly at all. But it thought it was, and that made all the difference.

The law could define and punish crime, sure but people had to decide their sins for themselves.

Now that he thought back, Pop realized that was the reason he had quit the police force. It was all right to be a guardian of legality but no man could take charge of anybody's morality except his own.

Oh, well it had been none of his business while he was in uniform, and it was none of his business now. Best thing to do was drink the wine, fall asleep, and forget about it. The older you became, the more years were piled on your shoulders, and eventually that became a burden you'd be happy to get rid of.

Pretty soon, Pop thought. I can't last much longer.

The idea pleased him.

"Hester you was there in the lobby when it happened. Can you figure out why she did it?" Patsy's voice was bright with fascination.

Hester shrugged. "I don't know. She was mad at Walt, I guess. God, you should have seen the expression on her face like she was dead, or something. like everything had been taken out of her. It gave me the shivers."

"Poor gal," said Kit. "I told her she was on the wrong foot with that man. She was giving without getting, and that the worst thing a gal can do."

"Anyway, she got us off the hook. I guess we should be happy about that."

"Oh, sure, Hes she did us all a good turn. But still I just hate to see a nice little gal like that go down the drain for no reason."

"Walt too," said Hester. "Remember, Kit, none of us ever did get any from him."

"Yeah. It's a real shame."

Liz cleared her throat. "We got to go to work soon, don't we?"

Hester looked at her watch. "Yeah about a half hour. We got time for a shower, anyway."

"A shower?" said Patsy.

'Sure. I tell you what why don't we all go and take that shower together?"

Kit grinned. "Why don't we? That there's a pretty good idea, Hes."

Patsy looked at them. "The four of us? Are you sure. . . "

"Sure, honey," said Kit. "All four of us, all bare and soapy. Wouldn't that be nice? Why, I think that would be a right fine way for us to get a little better acquainted."

Patsy smiled hesitantly.

"Maybe," said Hester, "you and Liz could show us a little of that horsing around you told us about You think?"

Patsv and Liz exchanged glances.

"You know," said Patsy, smiling, "I think maybe that'd work out just fine."

He said goodbye to her on the station platform

All the other men of his company already were aboard the train, and now there were just the two of them, standing on the platform, holding hands, looking silently at each other.

Libby tried to smile. "Well so long now."

"So long," said Roger.

"I don't guess I'll see you again."

"Who knows? I live pretty far away from here, but well, who knows?"

"I won't forget what you did for me, though. I won't never forget you."

Roger smiled. "Yes, you will. You'll forget all about me in no time, Libby. There's nothing special about me."

"Nothing special? Why-"

"No, Libby. I'm just a man, that's all. And a man was all you needed. A man is all any woman really needs. There are plenty of men in the world you'll see."

"Maybe," she said. "You been right about everything else, so maybe you're right about that, too. But I still ain't going to forget you. Not ever, not as long as I live."

Roger squeezed her arm. "It was the first time, Libby. People always remember the first time."

"I wish I could come with you," she said.

He shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Look, Libby you've only just learned what it's like to be a woman. You're going to have to work at it for a while before you know which way you're going. Don't commit the mistake of making a snap judgment, not about something as important as that. Go out mix around meet people find out just what it is you want. And when you know beyond any shadow of a doubt what your goal is then go there. Do you understand?"

"Sure," she said. "I'll do just what you tell me."

The train whistle blew a long mournful note. "That's for me," said Roger. "I have to go now."

For just an instant, they stood facing each other without moving. Then Libby's mouth came up, Roger's head lowered, and they kissed passionately. She molded her body up against his, leaving the impression of her young flesh stamped against his own.

He stepped back out of the embrace quickly, took an envelope from his inside pocket and pressed it into her hand. "Maybe this'll help you," he said.

Before she could answer, he turned, crossed the platform, and climbed into the train. A moment later, the doors slammed down the length of the train, and it wheezed slowly out of the station.

Libby watched as it picked up speed, then squealed around a curve out of sight. Only when it was gone did she open the envelope.

There was money in it quite a bit of it. And a note.

Libby, it said. This should help you find what you're looking for. It's not in payment for anything, because I couldn't pay you for what you gave me. I performed a man's duty by making you into a woman, and I don't want to leave you without knowing you're equipped to carry on by yourself.

It was signed, Roger.

Underneath the signature was a post-script:

When you know what you want to do, and when things work out for you, I'd like to hear about it. You can always get a letter to me through the company. Or maybe some day you might want to drop around and say hello.

A smile spread slowly across Libby's face.

Maybe, she thought. Maybe I would. We'll just have to see about that.

She looked up. Across the tracks, the skyline of the city reared up against a calm blue morning. The sun was warm, the breeze was fresh, and during the night the world had been made new again. It was going to be a fine day.