Chapter 2

FRIDAY. IT HAD BEEN FRIDAY for over five hours, but the new day didn't really seem official until the sun lifted its edge over the horizon. The sky brightened slowly, from a cool pearl to a warming orange, washing the blackness out of the city's streets and making the tired buildings look as delicate as egg-shells in the morning light.

A pencil-thin beam of light pierced through a dusty window into the basement of the Oakwood. It lanced the dark air and came to rest on a spot the size of a silver dollar right at the old man's feet. He didn't notice it. He was sound asleep.

The little coin of dawn waited patiently for him to open his eyes, waited beside the empty bottle of cheap wine which lay near it on the floor.

The man was called Pop. Just Pop; never anything else. If he had any other name, no one had ever heard it. Nor did anyone care. The name Pop fitted him precisely, like a well-worn shoe might fit a knobbed and bony foot.

Pop's breath blew moistly through his lips, stirring his white moustache. The bouquet of that breath left no doubt as to what had become of the contents of the wine bottle. But fortunately for Pop, there was no one around to smell it.

Pop was alone in his chair by the furnace, with only the little disc of sunlight to keep him company.

In a while, he would wake up. He would feel terrible at first his back stiff, his mouth tasting of cellar murk and soot, his head pounding with the throb of stale wine.

Then he would see the bit of dawn-shine on the floor and that would blow the staleness and discomfort away. Looking at it, he would begin to feel just fine.

No Pop wasn't a poet. He wasn't the kind to go into rhapsodies over sunbeams. In fact, it could be said his appreciation of nature was limited to the wonderful things men could do with grapes.

But the sunlight would please him anyway. It will tell him his all-night vigil was ended, that only one last check-out of the furnace was required before he could ride the elevator up to his room in the second floor staff area, lay his tired body onto a real bed, crack a fresh bottle of wine, and rest the way a man should.

Most important of all, it would tell him there was a new day at hand and he had survived to see it.

For Pop, that tiny sunny coin could buy a lot.

On the other side of town, a train pulled into

Civic Center Station. It eased on screeching wheels along the last few yards of track, bumped gently against the spring-loaded cushion at the track's end, then subsided in a hissing of air brakes.

The doors slid open, red-capped porters lowered the steps to the platform, and one by one the passengers began disembarking. In no time at all, the quiet of the station platform gave way to a clatter of baggage and a humming of voices.

The train, a noisy beast, had spawned a litter of the same species.

Roger Linden came down the steps stiffly, his knee joints protesting with a grating of bones. He picked his footing carefully the circulation was only beginning to return to his legs, and the pins-and-needles reawakening of his muscles made balance a bit chancy.

He reached the platform and crossed to a pillar. He turned and watched the other passengers leaving the train. He lit a cigarette, and drew a harsh mouthful of smoke into his lungs. It tasted terrible, but it helped to wake him.

It was a relief to stand again. Roger had been sitting for the past thirty-six hours on that damned train and his rump muscles were gripped by a fatigue that was unlike any other. He felt every clattering, lurching mile of the trip imprinted on his buttocks and the backs of his legs. He sensed his feet were swollen from disuse; the insteps of his shoes pinched uncomfortably. Well, the trip was over now, and there was no point in lingering on it. The next few days will make the trip worth while, make all the discomforts a small price to pay for the pleasures awaiting him.

He was a man of medium build. His suit was of good quality, although wrinkled at the moment. Looking at him, one would assume him to be a man of some affluence not rich, necessarily, but certainly well-off. He seemed to be the sort who would hold a semi-executive position, live in the suburbs, be married to a woman cast from the same mold conservative, self-contained, just a cut above normal.

That's what Roger looked like.

In actuality, only some of these impressions were true. Roger did work for the sort of firm you'd expect The Precision Tool and Die Company. And while his position was not particularly exalted, he was far enough up the ladder to rub shoulders with the executive element. His home was indeed in the suburbs, and just as cozy, pretty and normal as any middle-class home could be.

Roger's wife fitted this picture as precisely as all the other elements. She was a tall woman, somewhat regal of feature and bearing. Although she was forty-one, four years younger than Roger himself, she had a youthful figure. Her body was slim and tight without being dried out; her breasts were small, but rode high and well-separated on her slender torso, and the only trace of wrinkles to be found in them was in the berry-colored puckers of the nipples; her legs were smooth and shapely, tapering from thigh to calf to ankle with the grace of a teenager's limbs; her rump was round and neat, like her breasts.

In all respects, she was a perfect wife. Even her name Louise was altogether suitable. In some respects from the standpoint of physical grace and symmetry, for example she was a bit more wife than a man like Roger deserved.

When you came right down to it, there was only one thing wrong with Louise as Roger Linden's wife.

She wasn't his wife. Not any more.

He puffed clouds of cigarette smoke, as if smoking were the most important thing in the world, but his eyes were not on the present. They were unfocusing, turning inward to look at his personal memories. He was conscious of the process, and a bit annoyed it was happening. Going over things as they used to be could only bring pain and annoyance; it would have been far better if he could have just forgotten the whole thing.

But his mind refused to let the memories die. Whenever Roger wasn't completely occupied with something or other, his treacherous brain would fling those images up behind his eyes, and when that had happened the only way to rid himself of them was through the long, irritating process of examining them in detail, one by one.

He remembered marrying Louise. That was picture number one; yellowed by time, but not at all faded. He remembered deciding he loved her, deciding he wanted her by his side all the years of his life.

He remembered their wedding night. They'd practiced an elaborate ritual of decency all during their courtship, limiting their caresses to innocent stroking of the face and arms, and when they kissed their tongues never met.

But all that changed with a vengeance on their wedding night. He recalled vividly the shock of lust which grabbed at him when he saw her undress, watched her reveal her limber and lovely body to him. He remembered the passion which clouded his vision when he cupped his hand over her breast, when he felt her fingers on his body, when he felt the tensed buttons of her nipples spread and rise against his lips.

He remembered the feeling of her vibrant body under his, the clenching of her thighs as her virginity gave way to womanhood, the way her face clouded with the stab of pain, then suddenly filled with the sunlight of pleasure. He remembered her nails digging into his back, her saying wonderful obscene bedroom endearments, her firm body rising to meet his.

It had been a wonderful wedding night, and a wonderful beginning.

More pictures. Other times he and Louise had shared sexual pleasure-other nights and other beds; a parade of them, seemingly endless. After all, a man and woman in love can spend a lot of time in bed together over a period of twenty years.

And he recalled smaller, less memorable things: Louise in a bathing suit, in a negligee, standing in front of her dresser mirror wearing only a bra and high heels, lounging in a bathtub with blobs of suds clinging to the curves of her breasts. Things like that-unimportant, but vivid-crowded across his mind.

He remembered too the sorrow he'd experienced when Louise told him they could never have a child. He remembered how they made love that same night, and how he'd thrown himself into it, discarding any ideas of his own pleasure, and giving her every shuddering delight he could devise in a long, delicious sexual session. He remembered hoping at the time that she would be reassured, that she would realize he loved her, barren or fertile, sick or well, every moment of his life.

He really did love her, and just that way.

But something happened.

Roger still didn't understand it. The incident was too recent for perspective. Perhaps, after a few years, he might get a glimmer of understanding, but now all he felt was pain.

Home early one afternoon from Precision Tool, his throat a little sore, his temperature up slightly. Into the house through the kitchen door; no sign of Louise. His throat too sore to yell, he climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

And there she was.

Nude. Hair unbound and spread on the pillow. Arms flat at her sides with curled fingers digging into the sheets. Knees raised and spread tensely, and the thrashing hips of a stranger.

He remembered the man holding the erected points of her nipples, pulling and twisting at the tender flesh as she rolled her head on the pillow in utter delight. That was something she never allowed him to do, because she said her flesh was too sensitive there for such a caress.

Seeing the stranger above her, teasing her breasts that way and giving her pleasure, Roger suddenly realized that his wife too was a stranger.

That had ended it. The memory pictures stopped there. Beyond that point, beyond that moment of revelation, there was nothing but a blur: The arguments, the tears, the wrenching sorrow-and the divorce.

Now it was all over, all part of the dead past.

He lifted his eyes back to the present and scanned the station platform. This was a new city, one he'd never before visited, but that didn't make much difference. The annual convention, which he always attended, had been held in many cities over the years, but they all might have been the same. Even now, standing on the platform and looking past the train at the city skyline, Roger wouldn't bet he hadn't been here before, though reason told him differently.

The hotel too would be the same as the others. It would be old, faded, once-luxurious, but now out of style and silly looking. The service would be adequate, the accommodations comfortable enough, the room decorated to look homey, and failing.

As for the convention itself-well, that had never varied. It was always the same sort of idiot's holiday, and there was no reason to expect it would break any new ground this time.

Everything was exactly as it had always been, except for Roger himself. He wasn't a married man any more. He no longer owed allegiance to the wife of his home and hearth, because that wife had ceased to exist.

Suddenly, at age forty-five, Roger was a bachelor again.

It would make a difference.

The train had emptied almost completely now, and the platform was filled with stiff, sleepy people, who, like Roger, had spent the night trying to rest in the hard reclining seats. People bustled about, claiming luggage, asking red-caps for directions, in general going about their business. Last to leave the train was a group of men-twenty of them, all looking enough like Roger to be members of his family.

The Eastern contingent of Precision Tool had arrived.

Nat Barth, whose position as vice-president made him more or less leader of the group, craned his neck around and counted noses. He came up one short, and pivoted his head until he caught sight of Roger off to one side.

"There you are," he yelled. His voice was as thick as his square head. "We been looking for you, Linden."

Roger smiled shallowly as Nat crossed the platform toward him. "Just taking the air, Nat. Too much sitting in one spot-you know. A man gets stiff."

"Sure, sure," said Nat. "None of use getting any younger, Linden."

"Yes," Roger said.

"Well-" Nat looked around once more. "That takes care of everybody. I guess we better be moving."

"Nat? What's the name of this hotel we're going to?"

"Huh?" Nat stroked his chin. "Something with oak in it. Oakville-Oakmere-some name like that. Why'd you ask?"

"Just wondered," said Roger. "You know anything about the place?"

"Nope. Never laid eyes on it in my life. Far's I know, none of us have."

Roger nodded. "I see."

"It's probably the same sort of place as always," Nat said. He lit a cigarette and watched Roger with calculating eyes. "Old-quiet-you know. The only kind of action'll be the action we make ourselves."

"Action?" Roger said.

"That's what you're asking about, isn't it."

"Perhaps."

"Look, Rog." Nat put his arm chummily around Roger's shoulders. It was the first time in Roger's recollection that Nat had called him by his first name. "I know how it is. You don't have to beat around the bush with me. You want to join the club, you're welcome to. We'll all see you have a good time."

"I don't follow you, Nat."

"Well-you know. All the other conventions aways worked out the same way. There'd be this one crowd of guys who came to talk business, and then there'd be the other mob who showed up just to have some fun. Now at all the past conventions you always stuck with the business mob. Am I right?"

"You're right," said Roger.

"Of course, there's nothing wrong with that-if that's what you want."

"Nat-what makes you think I'd want anything different this time?"

"Well-" He paused and mouthed his cigarette. He looked momentarily embarrassed, then hid behind a smile. "I figured-since you don't have responsibility any more-you might have changed your mind about getting in on some convention fun."

"Responsibility," said Roger. "You mean the responsibility of being married?"

"Yeah. Look, Rog-I don't want to remind you about it, because I figure you probably feel bad enough as it is. But you're a bachelor now. You got to realize, you're free to do any damn thing you want."

"You're married, aren't you, Nat?"

"Sure. Twenty-two years married."

"Are you free to do anything you want?"

Nat laughed and patted Roger heavily on the back. "Damn right I am, pal. Having a wife doesn't hold me down one little bit. Oh, sure-I have a lot of feeling for the little woman-but raising some hell at convention time doesn't change that. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, or me either."

"Don't you love your wife, Nat?"

"Of course I love her. God's sake, I been married to her long enough, haven't I? I love her just the way she-likes it-maybe not as much as you loved..."

Nat ground to a sudden halt, and bit his lip.

"That's all right, Nat."

"Listen, Rog-I'm really sorry. That was a crap-head thing to say."

"No, really-I don't mind at all, Nat. In fact, you're absolutely right. I loved Louise more than you love your woman. That's where I made my mistake. I loved her too much. I loved her more than she loved me."

"I think you're entided to enjoy yourself a little, Rog. It's time for you to have a fling. Make it good, and it'll wash the bad taste out of your mouth."

"I'm forty-five, Nat."

"So what? I'm fifty. A man's only as old as what he's feeling." Nat burst into laughter.

"We'll see," Roger said smiling.

"Put yourself in my hands. Will you do that, Rog? You let me take care of things, let me line up your fun, you just sit back and enjoy it. I'll bring it to you. Will you do that, pal?"

"It's damned nice of you to care that much about me, Nat."

"Horse-wind, Rog. It's not charity. Me and the boys-well, we just like plenty of company. The more the merrier, as the saying goes."

"Okay, Nat. Thanks."

"You with us?"

"As far as I can go."

"I think maybe you're going to be surprised just how far that is, Rog." He dropped his hand from Roger's shoulders and inhaled the morning air deeply. "Pal-we're going to have a goddamm orgy in this here town."

Roger followed his gaze toward the dawn-lit skyline.

"I hope so," he said.

Madge Cross turned the corner and hurried down the block toward the Oakwood. She was a little late, and it worried her. Mr. Fisk would yell if he caught her, and Miss Beamer, the bull-necked matron in charge of the day-maid staff, would be sure to bellow like a bison.

The displeasure of her superiors didn't really worry her that much, however. They could yell and threaten and make noise, but when you came right down to it, they couldn't do anything worse than fire her.

Madge was worried because she was afraid she'd miss Walt.

Of course, he was responsible for her being late in the first place. When her shift ended last night, she should have gone right home, like all the day-girls had. Everyone was working extra shifts this weekend because of the convention, and Madge had been unlucky enough to draw one which began at six A.M. Friday morning. She knew last night that even if she left the hotel and went straight home at the end of her shift, she would have only about five hours' sleep before reporting for work again.

The way things had worked out, she'd gotten only three hours' sleep.

That was because of Walt.

That was because he'd met her in the hall as her shift was ending and his was starting, because he had that look in his eyes, that look which turned her mind to jelly, her head to mush, her insides to hot liquid.

Walt wanted her. And when he wanted her, nothing else mattered. Sleep, rest, being on time for her job-the hell with things like that.

When Walt wanted her, Walt got her.

And, oh-had it ever been worth it!

As she approached the marquee of the Oakwood, she could still feel the tingle of his love-making deep in her loins. She could almost feel the touch of his hands on her dancing breasts. She definitely felt the sweet ache where his strong lingers had gripped her buttocks.

It happened at midnight last night, almost six hours ago, but her senses were still feeling it. That's how good it had been.

He was just about due to go off-shift, and she wanted very much to see him. Just look at him, let her thoughts show in her eyes so he'd know how she felt, so he'd realize she was still conscious of the pleasure he'd given her. If they didn't have a chance to speak, or touch hands, or even come close to each other, she wouldn't care; just so long as she could see him, and let him see her.

She turned into the lobby and pushed through the revolving doors. Her eyes went quickly to the check-in desk, but there was no one behind it. For a moment, she felt a bitter disappointment.

Then, she saw him and the disappointment gave way to pleasure. He had been in the small room behind the check-in desk, and when he came out, he saw her and smiled. His smile did things to her, even across the distance between them.

"Hi, sugar," he said as she came up to the desk. He glanced around, noted that the lobby was empty, then leaned over the counter and kissed her firmly on the lips. Their tongues snaked out to greet each other.

"How's my honey this morning?" Walt asked. "You look a little beat."

"Who wouldn't be?" said Madge. "After the time you gave me last night, tiger-I'll be a week getting over that one."

"I hope not," said Walt.

"Huh?"

"Get over it quicker than that, and we can have another one."

She laughed and crossed her arms, squeezing her breasts high and round against her blouse. "If we got to wait till I'm over it before we can have more fun, then I'm over it right now."

He looked at her sensuous figure frankly. "I guess maybe you are."

"I got to go to work now, Walt. Old Beamer will be wetting her pants if I don't get upstairs quick."

"Sure, run along. Listen-what time do you break for lunch?"

"Lunch? I don't know. This overtime shift is nutty. Eleven o'clock, probably. Why."

"I want to see you."

Her face melted in a smile of pure slavery. She felt it happening, but she couldn't do a thing about it. No matter how much time she spent with Walt, no matter how often she shared the delights of bed with him, no matter how many times she looked into her mirror at home and saw she was a lush-bodied and beautiful girl, she could never get used to the idea that Walt Evans was her man; that, out of all the women in the world, he had picked her.

"All right, Walt," she said, feeling a little tingle of anticipation along her spine. "Second-floor room again, like last time?"

He laughed and reached out to cup her chin. "Uh-uh, sugar. No sex this time. I just want to talk to you."

"Oh. Okay. Can we have lunch together?"

"Sure. That'll give us plenty of time to talk."

"Walt?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

He smiled. "I'll tell you when we have some time, sugar. It's a surprise."

She found it difficult to keep her voice even. "A surprise? What kind of surprise?"

"Something big," he said. "Something really great. It's an idea I have."

"Won't you even give me a hint?"

"Lunch-time, baby. I'll tell you at lunch-time."

She lifted her face again to be kissed, and he obliged.. Then she went quickly across the lobby to the service stairs. She didn't look back. She didn't trust herself to look back.

A surprise. Something really great. A big idea.

What could it be?

As she mounted the stairs to the second floor, she was aware of her left hand sliding along the banister.

How would that hand feel with a ring on its third finger?