Chapter 3
PRECISION TOOL AND DIE was a large company.
In addition to their central plant in Akron, Ohio, the firm had branches scattered about the country; in Louisiana, Washington State, Colorado, and North Dakota. These were the factory subsidiaries, equipped to turn out the same sort of merchandise as the Ohio plant.
In addition, Precision Tool maintained sales offices in over twenty cities, through which local customers could purchase without the necessity of dealing directly with the factories. The arrangement made for speedy service, large profits, and a reputation for courtesy and reliability.
But the arrangement also made for a personnel roster as big as a small-town telephone directory. When you added all the people working in the five plants, plus those who maintained the local sales offices, you got a list running into thousands of names.
Many of these individuals, of course, were merely workmen-skilled machinists and metal-workers who didn't care a damn who they worked for as long as they got paid. Men like that would no more think of attending a company convention than they would a literary tea.
But Precision Tool was a firm that gloried in a huge executive staff-at last count, there had been an executive or semi-executive for every five common workmen. So, even after eliminating all sub-official personnel, you still had a list that could choke a horse.
Or a hotel.
The convention hit the Oakwood just before noon that Friday. The first group to arrive was the delegation from the Western district-large, red-faced men for the most part, who talked with equal enthusiasm about tools and Texas, dies and Dallas. They poured into the lobby with stamping feet and banging luggage, and Mr. Fisk, who had taken over the check-in desk for this special occasion, was hard-put to straighten out their reservations and aim them at their rooms. Before the lobby emptied, Mr. Fisk's smile became somewhat more artificial than usual.
But that was only the beginning. Within five minutes, another assault struck, this time from the South. The accents were different, the faces and builds not as overbearing, but the noise and confusion were the same.
In quick succession, the delegations from the North and East arrived, bringing more racket, more banging luggage, and more headaches for Mr. Fisk. The gray little manager began losing track of how many guests were arriving, how many reservations were still unclaimed, how long this madness would continue before things settled down to normal. Indeed, Mr. Fisk started having trouble remembering the name of his hotel. None of the arrivals seemed sure of it, and kept asking him if it was the Oakland, Oakville, Oakie, or what the hell is the name of this place anyway?
After a while, Mr. Fisk had to glance at a piece of hotel letterhead before he could tell them.
It was a mess. But then, company conventions usually are. When the members of a particular firm set aside a time each year for getting together, you can't expect sanity and order. After all, they're in a strange city, miles from their wives, homes, and responsibilities, and the effect that has on a man is well-known. Then too they're mixing and meeting with strangers, people employed by the same firm, people with whom they have things in common, but never met before. In a situation like that, a man tends to be loud, to laugh a lot, shake hands, slap backs and in general be a regular fellow. In addition, there are regional rivalries-with a firm as large and diverse as Precision Tool, it's natural for widely-separated branches to compete with each other, and that makes for friction.
Noise, laughter, artificial camarderie, barely-concealed tempers, not-quite-friendly arguments over unimportant things-these are elements that make up a company convention.
Plus one other.
You take a crowd of men-and every individual attending Precision Tool's convention was a maleyou drop them into strange surroundings, put them in competition with strangers in a race to see who can have the biggest time, drink the most booze, prove himself the most regular fellow-stir all these elements together, and you get another:
Sex.
If you want a good time, sex is obviously the best there is. If you want to impress somebody you've just met, there's no better way to prove your masculinity than with a display of sexual prowess. If you're trying to really celebrate the fact that wife and children and hearth are so far away they don't exist, you couldn't find a more satisfying method than a quick fling with some brass-bottomed little chippie.
Sex, under circumstances like that, enables a man to revive old dreams, to air his mind of reality and take up old pretenses of adolescence. It's easy to pretend when you're on top of a tart-imagine you're a lumberjack, a longshoreman, a jet ace, or whatever pleases you. Trollops don't know or care who you are as long as you have money, and they're willing to go along with any gags. A really good hooker will believe every word you say, and if you're stupid or drunk enough to believe every word she says, you'll find your masculinity and self-respect inflated as they haven't been since your first time out.
All this is part of the male intellect. Men go through life armed with a sword, a weapon which could only be worn by a warrior. So naturally they have to use it. At home with their wives, that weapon is beaten into a plowshare and used for peace-but give a man a chance to go into battle, to compete with other men, to pillage a maiden of her imagined chastity just like the knights of old ...
Give a man that sort of opportunity, and he's going to take it.
He has to.
He wouldn't be a man if he passed it up.
Libby's feet were killing her.
like Madge, she drew an extra shift which followed her normal one almost immediately. She had only an hour's sleep, and her feet, which had been sore to start with, were now protesting almost loud enough to be heard.
If it wasn't a lousy enough deal working two shifts in a row, Libby just realized this second shift was going to be equivalent to at least five normal ones. The convention had filled the hotel to the rafters, and where Libby would ordinarily work a floor with as many unoccupied rooms as occupied, she now was faced with her entire area at capacity. There wasn't a room that didn't have at least one man, and more often two or three. They were all new arrivals, noisy bastards, and every last one of them the sort of man who thinks there is nothing quite so amusing as pinching a maid's behind.
Slowly but surely, Libby's buttocks were becoming as sore as her feet.
She hurried down the seventh floor hall, balancing a pile of fresh bedding on her aching arms. The door to 701 stood open, so she turned in there. For all she knew, she had already serviced that room, but her mind was in such a whirl that the only way she could tell was by looking.
There were three men in 701, looking like all other men on the seventh floor. And they looked at her exactly the same way.
Libby tried to minimize the roundness of her rump as she entered the room. She managed a smile.
"Fresh sheets, gentlemen."
"Won't be fresh long," said one.
"Har, har, George-now you really said something. Won't be fresh long-that's rich."
Libby's smile was rigid as she whipped the sheets onto the bed. She had to bend over as she worked, and tried to angle her body so she wouldn't present the curve of her rump to their clutching fingers.
"Yes, sir," said one. "New town, new convention, new year-we're going to be having us some new fun. Them there sheets aren't going to stay fresh any longer than tonight."
"Any longer than tonight," said another. "George, you are a real card."
"Hey, little lady." The one named George eased across the room toward her. Libby casually swung her backside out of range.
"May I help you, sir?" she asked.
"If we get any lipstick on these here sheets, you won't tell on us, will you?"
The other two men laughed raucously.
Libby's smile was painful to maintain. "I don't pay any attention to things like that, sir. It's none of my concern."
"Don't pay attention, huh? I guess maybe you're a pretty broad-minded little gal."
"Yes, sir. More or less."
"That's great. Listen, little lady, you and me and Clyde and Charlie here-we're all going to get along just fine."
"I'm sure we are, sir." Libby yanked the last wrinkle out of the spread, and smoothed down the sides.
"And you know why? I'll tell you why. Because you're a broad-minded gal, and us three are broad-minded gentlemen. Am I right, men?"
"Sure, George. Right as rain."
"There-see that? Real broad-minded. I tell you, little lady-that's just about all we think of."
Libby glanced up, puzzled. "What?"
"Broads."
Their explosive laughter had a zoo-like quality.
Libby straightened up and looked from one to the other. "Yes, sir-I see what you mean. That's very amusing."
"Har, har," said George. "The little lady thinks it's amusing."
"Yes," Libby said. "But I think you and I have different ideas about what broad-minded means."
"Oh, now-little lady, I was just making a poke. Don't get huffy-I didn't mean no harm."
"Oh, I'm not mad about anything, sir. I just wanted to tell you-I'm not broad-minded the way you say. I don't think about broads all the time. Don't you see what a silly idea that is?"
Clyde laughed. "She's got you there, George."
George seemed annoyed for some reason. "Well-it was only a joke, you know."
"Sure," said Libby. "But it don't make any sense-the way you said it. I mean, shouldn't jokes make sense?"
George fished in his pocket and came up with a coin. "Here-you just take this for your trouble and go do your work, little lady."
"Why, thank you, sir." Libby took the coin. As she did, she made the mistake of coming within range of George. A sharp bite of pain lanced into the flesh of one buttock.
It took all her control to keep from opening his cheek with her nails.
"You care to stop around later on this evening, little lady, maybe we all can find out just how broad-minded you are."
Libby turned quickly, picked up the pile of sheets, and left the room.
As she hurried down the hall, she wondered why she'd bothered to get into conversation with them at all. There had been no need to speak, no need to answer their questions. There was a lot of work to be done, and she had only wasted her time in 701.
She remembered the conversation she'd had last night with Hester and Kit about those two kooks, Liz and Patsy. She recalled Kit making some remark about whether she'd ever shown herself nude to a man, or even had a man. She also recalled the odd tone of Kit's and Hester's remarks concerning the two girls in the shower, the fact that they were nude together, and how it wasn't supposed to make any difference when one female appeared naked in front of another.
Libby was too damned tired to think straight. When this shift was over, if it ever ended, she would sit down and thrash this thing out.
All right-so she didn't like to show her body to another girl.
So she had never slept with a man in her life.
So she was a virgin, and a little shy about nudity and the sexual implications of being unclothed before someone.
Was there anything so terrible about that? Her life was her own, and she was entitled to live it as she damn well pleased.
But she couldn't help wondering why Kit and Hester had questioned her so closely about her feelings regarding nudity, and other girls, and the strange way Liz and Patsy stayed in the shower together tor long periods of time.
And she couldn't help wondering why she had reacted so strongly to that man's statement about her being broad-minded.
Libby wasn't broad-minded. Libby didn't spend her time thinking about girls. Only men did that. And Libby wasn't a man.
The whole idea was very silly, and she couldn't understand why she was unable to stop thinking about it.
In his room, Pop woke bleary-eyed.
Despite his sti:ness and fatigue, in spite of the new wine he poured into himself on top of the old, in spite of his age and the general fogging of his brain and senses, the noise finally got through to him.
And what a noise it was.
It seemed to be coming from everywhere-a commotion which had taken over the entire hotel. He couldn't recall the Oakwood ever having sounded like that, not even on big holiday weekends, not even during the wars when the place had been filled with soldiers and their wives and their hookers.
The racket reminded Pop of something, but it took quite a bit of effort to make the memory emerge from the wine-soaked mass of his brain. The '39 World's Fair--was that it? No-farther back than that-1933 in Chicago-that's what it was.
A Century of Progress they called that Fair, but the name hadn't fooled anybody. It was hard to talk convincingly of progress when the country was smack dab in the middle of the worst depression in its history. It was hard to imagine the meaning of such a concept when the only progress some people could make was to move up a few places on the bread-line.
Pop had worked at that fair. He could remember it well. He could remember the sleek whiteness of the buildings and the colored lights that turned the place into a fairyland at night. He could recall the crowds swirling along the sidewalks, gaping at the promise of the future, the shape of this thing called progress, and wondering if any of it would ever come to pass.
Most of all, Pop remembered the sound of the fair-or rather, the sound of the people who visited it. The fair grounds weren't part of reality, and that helped. Walking along those paths, staring at those wild modernistic buildings, one could almost imagine things were really going to be all right-maybe even convince himself that they already were straightened out, that the magic hand which had raised this fairyland was also at work outside it in the real world, performing the same tricks on the sour face of reality.
Those people had really wanted to believe-they wanted to know progress was not a myth, they wanted to know their lives were worth something, held some promise, held the joy and contentment they needed so badly.
They really tried. They laughed and shouted and spent what little money they had on foolishness and fun. While the money held out, they could live in the magic world of the fair, and pretend there were no sorrow and reality awaiting them beyond its gates.
Pop remembered the sound of that. Thousands and thousands of people, all pretending the same thing at the same time-it made this noise, which was more than just the noise of a crowd.
It was the noise of people hoping, pretending, wanting. It was the sound of a million flights of imagine beating their wings simultaneously. It was the saddest thing Pop had ever heard.
He was hearing it again now.
Pop's contact with reality was tenuous these days, and he searched his mind through long patches of emptiness before he figured out where the noise was coming from. A convention-some sort of company get-together-hadn't Dino the elevator operator told him something about that a few nights ago? Sure-now Pop was remembering more clearly. A convention was to be held over the weekend; the first one in the history of the Oakwood Arms.
That had to be what he was hearing now.
But why did it sound the way it did? Why was he hearing that same desperate multiple attempt to deny reality? Why should a group of businessmen make such a noise? If Pop remembered correctly, times were pretty good; there was no reason to moan over a lack of money or opportunity these days. And progress, that unbelievable aspiration which had motivated the '33 fair, had been working full tilt since the end of the war.
He couldn't quite understand the reason behind the noise, but he knew its nature as surely as he knew his own name. And gradually, an idea came to him.
Progress isn't really an idea all to itself-progress is part of a larger concept.
The concept of time.
For those at the Chicago fair, time hadn't been passing quickly enough. The future seemed always out of reach, too far away to be anything but a dream.
But these convention men had a different idea about time and the progress of the years. The longer Pop listened, the more convinced he became he was right.
They were afraid of time.
For them, the years were passing too fast, the future was roaring up on them before they could prepare for it. They were frightened of time, frightened of the way each day subtracted from the future and added to the past.
Unlike the people in Chicago, these men weren't trying to pretend the present didn't exist. They were seeking to convince themselves that the present-right now-was everything. They were pretending there was no future, because the future held decay; they were pretending there was no past, because the years gone by only reminded them of how few there were left.
Pop lifted himself painfully from the bed and crossed to a bureau. There was a cracked mirror above it, and he leaned forward, hands on the bureau-top, taking a long look at himself.
His face was old, seamed, dried and used-up; his moustache, once the black-haired pride of his youth, was now dirty white and bristly. His eyes were dim inside pouchy lids, his lips cracked and dry as scabs.
He gazed at himself for several minutes, examining every line of his decaying visage.
That's what they're afraid of, he thought. That's why they're pretending so hard. They're businessmen, they're not kids any longer. But they're not old men, either. Not yet. Not quite.
But soon. The years are catching up to them, and they're beginning to feel it. Every time they look into the future, they see a face like mine-only it's their own face they see.
They're on their way right to where I am, and they're trying to pretend they won't ever get here.
Pop shivered. His reflection told of age and of death, but this was not what disturbed him. Pop discovered years ago how easy it was to grow old. For a young man, old age seemed as incomprehensible as adulthood seemed to a grammar school child, but the years passed whether you wanted them to or not, and eventually you were old. And eventually, you died. It happened. You had no control over it. And once you became old enough, once you dropped the proud youthful pretense of controlling your own destiny and realized that time owned you-once you saw things as they truly were; well, that was the point where your life became a progression of peaceful and contented days.
There came a time when you no longer had to prove anything to anybody, not even to yourself, and that in its way was the best time in a man's entire life.
Pop went to the table beside his bed, uncorked his latest bottle of wine, and tipped it back. His adam's apple bobbed rhythmically under the chicken-skin of his wrinkled throat.
He wiped his hand across his mouth, and looked longingly at the bed. It would be nice to just crawl back into the sack and sleep some more, sleep until it was time to return to his duties at the furnace. But that was out of the question.
He listened again to the sound. .
They were pretending too hard out there. They were trying too vigorously. When men started rejecting reality on that scale, there always was trouble. If enough of them did it simultaneously, the trouble could get big enough to swallow them all.
Pop felt it in the air. Trouble was on the way.
And that meant he had work to do.
There was a coffee shop just off the lobby of the Oakwood, but only guests were foolish enough to patronize it. The food was terrible, the prices ridiculous, the seats uncomfortable, the service slow and incompetent. It was a lousy restaurant.
A far better one could be found only three doors east of the hotel-a cozy little place with soft-cushioned booths, clean formica counters and tables, and prices that bore some relation to the value of the food served.
The staff of the Oakwood used the place constantly.
At the moment, Walt and Madge were using it.
They sat across each other in a booth near the back. The remains of cheeseburgers were on plates in front of them, and the ashtray already was half-filled with their cigarettes. Their coffee had grown cold and developed a skin on its surface, as coffee will when no attention is given to it.
They were talking. That is, Walt was talking, and Madge was listening. It had been like that for over a half-hour, and Walt had yet to come to the point.
"So you understand what I mean about conventions, sugar? Take it from me, I know how men think, and I have a feeling this crowd of guys isn't going to act any different."
"Sure, Walt. I understand."
"Do you, sugar? Do you really? When a big bunch of men get together in a hotel and start looking for a good time-and remember what I told you about those rumors, about how the convention got booted out of the last hotel-can you see what that adds up to?"
"I guess."
Walt smiled. "You don't have to guess. I'll tell you. Sex."
"Sex?"
"Sure. That's what a man wants when he's looking for a good time. Guys at conventions are always on the make for women. If this mob doesn't think the same way, I'll eat my hat."
"You mean, they'll be looking for girls?"
"They sure as hell will, sugar. Only not actually girls-what they'll be looking for is prostitutes. After all, when you're in a strange city for only a weekend, you don't have time to pick up just any old female and try to make out. You might connect, and you might not. When time is short, a man who wants a fling goes where he's sure he can get it. Those Precision Toolers are going to be out on the town tonight, asking cab drivers where the action is, dragging every hooker within reach back to their rooms."
Madge smiled. "Well, I hope they enjoy themselves. They're entitled to it, I guess."
"Sure, they are. Why not? They're men-they're entitled to whatever they want. But listen to this, sugar, and try to picture it: You have a whole hotel filled with men who are going to be looking for lady-friends-professional lady-friends. Gals like that cost money, and those guys know it. So they must be willing to pay for it. Am I right?"
Madge leaned her chin into a cupped palm, and stared at him adoringly. "Makes sense, Walt."
"Right. So here's these guys, and here's all this money. They're staying at the Oakwood, they're paying their money for rooms, and food-they're paying to have liquor and ice sent up-they're paying for room service, and getting just about everything they want. In other words, the Oakwood is supplying these characters with all the comforts and pleasures their little hearts desire-except for one."
"Sex," said Madge.
"Right, honey. Sex. They can pick up the phone, call down to the desk, and get almost anything in the world sent right up to their rooms. Except sex."
"I follow you, Walt. What about it?"
"Suppose they could?"
"Huh?"
"Suppose any one of those men could just pick up the house phone and have a gal sent up to his room. Suppose they knew they didn't have to go searching for it, didn't have to tip any hackies for giving them a lead, didn't have to spend any time in the cheap sections of town. Suppose they knew they could simply sit in their rooms and have it come to them. Baby-just think what they'd be willing to pay for room service like that."
Madge scowled thoughtfully. "A lot, I guess. That would really be something."
"You're telling me," said Walt. "They're in town prepared to spend money anyway, and with a thing like that-with a service like that-you could really gouge them out of a wad."
Madge blinked. "Who could?"
Walt smiled and leaned back. He lit a fresh cigarette, blew a long stream of smoke, and paused for several seconds before answering.
"We could," he said.
"We? You mean-you and me?"
"Yes, honey. That's just what I mean."
"Walt I don't understand what you're saying. You're way ahead of me again. What do you and I have to do with prostitutes, or-or anything?"
"I didn't say anything about prostitutes. All I said was those conventioneers would be looking for female company-guaranteed sociable female company-but that doesn't mean they necessarily want prostitutes. They just want girls."
"I still don't get it, Walt."
"Girls," he said slowly. "Like you, for instance."
Madge didn't say a word. Her face seemed to freeze, and her eyes went blank. She stared at Walt without really seeing him.
"Look, sweetie," he said, leaning forward again, sliding his hands across the table and holding hers. "What I'm saying is that it would be a chance to make some money-some big money-some quick money. A deal like that could only work at night anyway, because that's when those guys will really have the urge, so that means they'd be calling the desk during my shift. We wouldn't have any worries about Fisk or any of the big-wigs tipping to the scheme because I'd be there to take all the calls. Right?"
Madge only nodded. Her expression didn't change. "I take the order, I make a note of the room number, and then all you have to do is..."
"Me?" said Madge quietly.
He squeezed her hands. "Why not, sugar? Oh, we'll get the other night-staff girls in on it too, if we can-but none of them could make the loot you could. Did I ever tell you what a beautiful broad you are?"
"Yes, Walt."
"That's what I mean. And it would only be a couple of times-you know, just for the weekend, just until the convention was over. I swear, if we really got this thing going, you and I could make a real pile. We could make a stake."
"A stake?"
He smiled. "Sure. Money enough to take us somewhere. You don't want to be a hotel maid all your lite, do you? Of course not, no more than I want to spend the rest of my days behind that cruddy desk. Look-with a pile of money like that scheme'll make us, you and I could really go places together."
"Together?"
"Together, baby." He squeezed her hands again. "How else would it be?"
'Walt-" She wet her lips. "I don't want-I don't like the idea of some guy-some stranger...."
"Just for the weekend, sweetheart. I know it's asking a lot, but it'll be over before you know it. And think of the good it would do us."
"Us?"
"Us, honey. You and I. A team."
"Walt-"
"Would you do it for us, baby? Would you do it for me?"
Madge heard herself answering him, and a corner of her mind marveled at the words she uttered. "I'd do anything for you, Walt. Anything."
CHAPTER FOUR rpHE SUN INCHED ACROSS ITS ZENITH and headed westward. It was a calm afternoon, but clouds lay on the sunset horizon, and when the sun dipped among them the rim of the world suddenly lit up in a fantastic display of color and light.
Friday was turning into Friday night, and the western horizon was doing its damnedest to make sure everybody knew it.
The Oakwood was jumping. Downstairs, in a series of large rooms off the lobby-rooms that had never really been used for anything much before-Precision Tool's convention was in full swing. The halls had been converted into lecture rooms, and company representatives had been busy all afternoon setting up sales-charts, profit-graphs, samples of new company lines, and various other gung-ho paraphernalia designed to gladden the heart of the true company man. Speeches, at about the same level of interest, also were in progress in several of the halls.
Oddly enough, the halls were mostly filled. There was much laughter and talking, and few paid any attention to the words of the speakers, but they at least were there, available to applaud on signal, and what more could a speaker at a stag company convention ask?
There was a good deal of bottle-passing; quite a bit of expensive liquor slopped into the Oakwood's floor as the bottles were handed back and forth under the seats, but much more was slopping into the appreciative mouths of laughing men.
All things considered, Precision Tool's get-together was taking on a healthy glow. The speeches were scheduled to last until about eight-thirty, and there seemed little doubt that by that time, the men of the convention would be thoroughly oiled and ready to go.
The evening showed all the earmarks of a four-star rouser.
On the second floor, the room with the bed was in use again.
Just last night it had been groaning under the weight of Walt and Madge, and their wild session had certainly entitled the poor bed to a little rest. But a bed in a room which doesn't belong to anybody and known to be available just about any time of day or night, which is simply there, comfortable, secluded, waiting to be used-such a piece of furniture can't expect much rest.
At least, not as long as there are men and women within range of it.
Or sometimes just women.
Patsy and Liz were horsing around. That was the term they had agreed upon for their mutual pleasure. There were other words for it, of course-some fairly polite, and some not at all polite-but the girls didn't care to use any of them. The way they saw it the relationship they shared could be best described as horsing around.
When one girl squeezes another girl's breast-when one girl kisses another girl-when one girl removes her blouse and her bra so that the lips of the other girl can taste her nipple-when one girl fondles the thighs of the other girl-When two girls strip bone-naked and lie down together on the same bed and come into each other's arms and kiss and stroke and feel and squeeze-That was horsing around. What else could you call it?
Liz was a short girl. She had a round pert-nosed face and a small mouth, which gave her the look of a young child. Her hair-black, cut in shaggy bangs-only added to this effect.
But the childish look was confined strictly to her face. By no stretch of the imagination could her body have ever been considered childish. Small as her frame was, the fruity masses of plump curves told the world Liz was a mature female, in no uncertain terms. Her breasts were enormous; almost as big as her face; and they were capped with large pink nipples the size of glass coasters. From the centers of these rosy circles lifted a pair of soft tips as thick through as lead pencils.
Liz' hips and buttocks were molded the same way; her hips flowed out massively from her small waist and rounded into a sweetly-curved frame for her pillowy belly. Behind, her buttocks jutted, ripe and taut, blending smoothly into heavy thighs and solid little calves.
Liz looked like a tall well-developed woman who had somehow undergone a compression which had squeezed a set of full-scale assets into a space barely large enough to hold them. She was soft, cuddly, fleshy without being fat, and every inch a female.
Patsy couldn't have contrasted with her more. Her hair was brown, and she wore it in a single long pigtail down her back when she was standing clear to the cleft of her buttocks. Her face was long, a little too thin-nosed for real beauty, but her mouth helped make up for it, being generously wide and soft.
Patsy was tall. Her figure presented a sleek lithe appearance, almost like a ballet dancer. Her breasts were round and hard, set so wide apart there was no cleavage. At the tips of these firm hemispheres were ripe-strawberry nipples, no wider across than bottle caps. Her torso was coltish and a bit adolescent; the framework of her pelvis could be seen at her loins, and the neat cheeks of her buttocks were as smooth and resilient as rubber balls. Patsy had long, slender legs, beautifully formed. Her skin was pale and flawless. The patch of brown beneath her abdomen formed a perfect arrowhead pointing in crisp invitation to the meeting-place of her thighs.
like Liz, Patsy was every inch a woman.
Physically.
Mentally-well, that was another story. "Liz-I want to ask you something."
"Hmmm?" Liz' mouth brushed Patsy's left breast. "You know that gal named Libby? One of the daygirls? You know her?"
"Hmmm." Liz nodded slightly. Patsy's breast shifted against her lips.
"I got an idea about her."
"Hm?"
"Yeah. Maybe I'm crazy-but I got this idea."
Liz lifted her face. "What idea?"
"Hey-you stopped. Listen-I'll tell you. You don't have to say anything. Don't stop. Come on-do it some more while I tell you."
Liz smiled. "All right." Her mouth made an O.
"I think maybe-oh, that's nice, Liz."
"Hmmm!"
"Yeah-all right; I'll get to the point. That Libby-I think she's the kind who'd like to do some horsing around."
"Hmmm?"
"Yeah. I don't know why I think that-after all, she hangs out with them two bitches all the time-that Hester and Kit-but I still think Libby's the horsing around type."
"Mmmmmm."
"The thing is, I have the idea she ain't never had a fella."
"Hmmm?"
"She looks that way to me. She walks like a virgin, she talks like a virgin, she swings it around like she ain't really sure it's hers. You know what I mean?"
"Mmmmmm."
"Oh, nice. Go just like that-oh, that's real nice."
"Mmmmmm."
"So anyway-even if she does spend so much time with them two cruds, I still think she's fresh. I don't think no man's ever got to her."
"Hmmmm?"
"So what? That what you mean, Liz."
"Mm."
"Well-listen, here's so what. She's a pretty little piece, right? And she ain't exactly a kid, or anything, right? She's got the. build and the face-so if she ain't ever had any, then it must be she don't have the inclination. Right?"
"Mmmmmm."
"And if she don't have the inclination to get it from a man, then where would she want to get it from?"
"Mmmmm."
"Yeah. That's the way I see it. I think maybe you and me ought to start getting friendly with that Libby."
"Hmm?"
"Well, because she's a nice little gal, that's why. I don't know about you, but I can see myself having a real good time with that. I think once she got the idea, once she stopped being scared-she'd start horsing around real nice. Wouldn't you like some of that, Liz?"
"Mm."
"Sure, you would. I know you. You'd like that real fine, just the same as me."
"Mmmmmm."
"Oh, boy-you're really going to town tonight, ain't you, Liz."
"M-m-m-mm."
"Hah-that feels funny."
"M-m-m-M."
"Listen-don't you think that's a good idea? I mean, about asking Libby? I think it would be lots of fun, don't you? I think maybe we ought to invite that Libby into the club."
"Mmmmmm."
"Okay, then. Long's I know you're with me on it. I wouldn't do it if you wasn't with me, you know. You and me-we stick together."
"Mmmmm."
"Liz?"
"Hm?"
"Lift up a second. I want to look at you."
"What for, Patsy?" 'Your lipstick's all smeared."
"Smeared all over you, Patsy."
"I like that. I like to see that-when you get lipstick on me." Liz smiled.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she said.
Walt was spending more time around the hotel than usual this Friday evening. Normally, when his job didn't require his presence, Walt wouldn't have set foot into the Oakwood. like any sensible person on his time off, Walt preferred to enjoy himself either resting in his small apartment or out on the town with some willing female, such as Madge. For Walt to be at the hotel hours before his shift-and on a Friday night at that-was as unheard of as a union electrician working free overtime.
Yet, there he was.
Dino saw him coming across the lobby, looking from side to side and smiling happily about something. A person who didn't know Walt worked for the Oakwood might have suspected he was one of the conventioneers; his face was that lit up with pleasure.
"Hey, Walt-buddy," Dino called, leaning out of his elevator and waving a hand.
Walt pivoted, saw him, and changed course towards the elevator. "What say, Dino? How they treating you?"
"I can't complain," Dino said smiling. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Me? I work here, pal. Remember?" ' "No, you don't. Not until midnight. I never seen you around here before unless it was working hours. What's with you, Walt-buddy? Going gung-ho on us?"
"Relax, for Pete's sake. I haven't turned traitor yet. I have some business here tonight."
"Hotel business?"
"Nope. Business of my own."
"Oh, well-that's different. For a second there, I thought maybe Fisk had brainwashed you, or something. What kind business you got going, Walt-buddy?"
Walt looked at him for a moment, and Dino could swear he was being sized-up. It was the same look Dino received from the men of the tenth floor crap game when he occasionally tried to barge in.
"It's pretty big, Dino," said Walt. "I don't know as I should let anybody in on it yet."
"Oh, hell-what kind of way is that to talk? Ain't
I your pal, Walt-buddy? Don't we scratch each other when we itch? You don't want to hold out on me--God's sake, I'm your buddy, Walt-buddy."
"I don't know, Dino. Too many cooks-you know the saying."
"Crap on sayings. You got something working for you-I can smell it. Come on, now; tell me what gives."
Walt glanced around, then stepped into the car. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Before I say anything, let me ask you a question, Dino."
"Shoot."
"You had any rumbles from this convention mob yet-hooker rumbles?"
Dino shook his head, puzzled. "Hell, no. They only been here a few hours. They ain't looking for that yet."
"How about the bellhops? You'd hear from them if anybody was asking around, wouldn't you?"
"Eventually, I guess. Walt-buddy, what're you leading up to? What's all this tart-talk. You sound like a man with a connection."
"That's me," said Walt.
Dino's eyebrows went up. "You got some?"
"Uh-huh."
"For these guys? You going to peddle it to the Tool people."
"That's the idea."
"Walt-buddy-you flipped, or something. You're the goddamm night-clerk. You can't sell no prostitutes around here."
"Why not? Is there anybody who'd mind, except maybe Fisk? Why not sell it here, right from the desk?"
"From the desk?"
"Sure. Once the word gets around, any guy in this place who wants a gal can just call me at the desk and have one sent right up to his room."
"That's crazy."
"Is it?"
Dino smiled slowly. "No. Maybe it ain't so crazy after all." He chewed his lip for a moment. "Walt-buddy, you mean to tell mo you got enough lined up to take care of all these Tool people?"
"Well, not all at once, no-but spread out through the night, I think I can handle the trade."
Dino whistled softly. "That sounds like loot."
"It does indeed," said Walt.
"You want me to spread the word-that it, Walt-buddy?"
"Yes. Spread it around-don't spread it too thin, but spread it. We don't want any hungry customers looking for it outside just because they don't know they can get it from room service."
"Room service," Dino repeated. "That's rich. What a cockeyed idea."
"It's a money idea, pal, and you know it."
Dino shook his head. "I still ain't really following this. Where the hell'd you get all these hookers? How'd you organize this thing so fast? You sure you ain't dreaming, Walt-buddy?"
"I'm not dreaming, Dino. I'm on the level, and I can deliver. As for the rest-well, where I got the girls is my business, don't you think?"
"Oh, sure, sure," Dino said. His tone was vague, as if he were in deep thought. "I wasn't trying to horn in, or nothing. I just wondered."
"It's all set and ready to go, Dino. All we need now is some advertising." Walt leaned a little closer. "Now you know most of the hops on the night-staff, right?"
"Sure, Walt-buddy. So do you."
"No-you'd know them better than I would. There isn't a hop in the world who'd level with a desk-man, and you know it. But they'd talk to an elevator pilot-and they'd listen to him, too."
Dino nodded again. "That's so."
"So you spread it around among the hops. Tell them it's ready starting midnight, when I come on shift. All the mark has to do is pick up the house phone."
"What's in it for them, Walt-buddy?" Dino's eyes were shrewd.
Walt laughed. "Two skins per turn, pal, straight down the line."
"Two bucks? Son-of-a-bitch, that's going to kill your profit."
"I'll worry about that."
"Walt-buddy-how about old Dino here? I get a spoonful of any of this gravy?"
"That depends, pal. If you can really mastermind this end of it-spread it where it counts-make sure the word reaches every potential customer in this place-well, that just about makes you a full partner, doesn't it?"
"You might say that."
"How does five per strike you? Nickel on a dollar?"
"That gross, Walt-buddy, or after the bellhop cut?"
Walt threw back his head and laughed. "Gouge, gouge. What a bastard!"
Dino laughed with him. "Us executives are all like that. How about it?"
"Gross. Straight off the top, Dino. Aim the business the right way, and you can skim off the cream."-
Dino smiled broadly. "Walt-buddy-that is a deal."
Walt glanced at his watch. "I have to run-there's plenty to do yet. Start broadcasting the first chance you get. And remember-no orders to the desk until after midnight. I don't want anybody calling Fisk and asking room service to send up a woman."
"I got it," Dino said. "Leave it to me. God, Walt-buddy-we could clean up on this thing."
"We will." He patted Dino on the arm, then turned to leave.
"Oh, listen-one thing. How you going to get these girls in and out of here?"
Walt stopped and looked back at him. "What do you mean?"
"You just going to have them walking across the lobby, or coming in through the basement, or what? How you going to keep Fisk and his mob from seeing what's going on?"
Walt smiled what Dino considered a peculiar smile. "That's another secret of the trade, pal. Sorry."
Dino watched him cross the lobby and blend into the crowd surrounding the meeting halls. Slowly, Dino's smile gave way to a perplexed expression.
There was something odd-ball about this whole bit, he thought-not just the basic idea, but the way it was being handled. The more he pondered it, the more impossible it sounded; and yet, Walt wasn't the kind of guy who would pull such a thing without being sure it would work.
A guest entered the car, and Dino filed away his observations for further study.
On the sixth floor, in Room 634, Roger Linden was getting quietly drunk.
He knew he should be downstairs with the rest, listening to the speeches and following the company's bright predictions for the future. But he also knew he couldn't stand more than five minutes of that. Let Nat Barth and the rest of them handle that end of it; Roger had no stomach for business-talk this time. All Roger wanted was a good time.
When Nat finished downstairs and came up to the room, Roger would be drunk enough to be ready for anything. That was the reason for his solitary drinking. He knew the kind of evening Nat planned; he knew just the sort of places Nat intended to take him to and the sort of women Nat intended him to meet. And while he was looking forward to it, he knew just the sort of places Nat intended to take he was a bit gassed.
Well, there was nothing so shameful about that. After all, hadn't he spent the last twenty years being a faithful husband to Louise? It was inevitable that his social apparatus should grow a little rusty from disuse, especially where women were concerned.
Funny about that. Now that he thought of it, he remembered that the first woman he had ever had was a professional. Back home, that was-on Quincy Street, where the bars served rot-gut and the movie houses showed bump-and-grind strip films.
He could still remember what she had looked like. She was a blonde-pure peroxide, which seemed even more phony after she stripped and revealed her true hair color. But Roger didn't mind that. In a way, he got a kick out of it.
He remembered the sensation of awakening manhood when he saw her naked; saw her pert, dancing breasts, her sweet-fleshed thighs, the lustful jut of her bottom and the round hill of her belly, all bared for his eyes.
And he recalled the feel of her, too-the wonderful springy way her breasts responded to his hands, the clenching of her thighs around his young hips, the flick of her wet tongue in his ear.
Most vivid of all, he remembered the moment he finally found his manhood-that moment when the bottled-up pleasure inside him had burst, taking him over the brink into the adult world. That had been a blast which remained unsurpassed until his wedding night with Louise...
No, goddammit-forget about Louise. She was probably off somewhere right now with her lover, the bastard, and they were no doubt having all the fun Roger was dreaming about.
Forget Louise and concentrate on the present. Concentrate on chippies. Yes-that was the ticket. Remember that hard-bottomed little slut who'd been the first. Keep her image strong, and try to reconstruct that youthful frame of mind which made her seem the most beautiful woman in the world.
Concentrate on youth. You're not dead yet, Roger. There's still enough push in you to take care of a peroxide-blonde chippie. Drink up and work on building the mood.
He lifted his glass in a toast to thin air, and smiled foolishly.
We're going to bag a blonde hooker tonight, Roger. Just like the old days.
Hester and Kit sat with their mouths open, their bodies limp with shock. Madge got the feeling that a feather's push would topple both off the bench into the metal lockers.
Ordinarily, their reaction would have amused her. But she didn't feel in a humorous mood tonight, for some reason.
"You got to be kidding," Kit said at last. "Tell me you're kidding, Madge."
"I'm not," she said.
Hester too snapped out of her reverie and looked at Madge unbelievably. "Who's idea is this? Walt's."
"Yes." said Madge.
Kit nodded. "That figures, Hes. If there was ever a wheeler-and-dealer kind of man anywhere, it's that Walt fella."
"He wants us to play hooker right here in the hotel? He must be off his goddamm nut. We couldn't get away with a thing like that."
Madge sighed. She felt very tired; the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her. "He's got it all worked out, girls. It's perfectly safe-and there's money in it for everybody. I think you'd be silly to pass up a chance like this."
Hester's eyes narrowed. "What gave you the idea we'd go for it, Madge?"
"Yeah," said Kit. "How about that? You got some notion Hes and me are hookers?"
"Stop screwing around," Madge said loudly. "If you're going to start with this prima-donna crap. . . " She stopped and passed a hand over her eyes. "Look, girls-there's no insult intended. There's no reason for you to get your backs up; for God's sake, I'm in on this thing myself."
"You are?" Hester's eyes went wide. "You're going to sell it around the hotel tonight?"
"Yes," Madge said. "We're going to try to get as many of the staff girls as we can in on this deal. The more girls there are, the more money in the till. Come on-make up your minds. Yes or no-which it it?"
Kit smiled. "You keep saying we, honey. Who's this we you're talking about? You mean you and Walt."
"That's right," said Madge.
"Whooo-you must really have it bad for your man to go this far out. He must really be worth something to you if he can just up and tell you to , . . "
"That's none of your goddamm business," Madge shouted. "I don't have time to stand here playing around with you all night. Give me a straight answer-you gals want a slice of the pie or not?"
"What you think, Hes?"
"It sounds like easy loot," Hester said. "What the hell, I've sold it before."
"Oh, me too," Kit said. "But I don't know ... " She looked up again at Madge. "Honey, are you real sure this here deal is safe? Nobody ain't going to catch us at it?"
"Safe as houses," said Madge. "Stop worrying about it."
"Well-if it ain't chancy-what about it, Hes? Are we in?"
Hester smiled. "Why the hell not?"
"Good." Madge relaxed a little. She reached that stage of fatigue where her muscles pulled achingly against each other, and she longed to sit down. But she knew if she ever let herself go, she'd never make it to her feet again. "I'm going to line up some of the others-the ones on duty upstairs. If you see any of them before I do, pass the word."
"Hey, Madge," Hester said. "You ain't talked money yet. What's our cut out of this big deal?" , "Fifty percent of what the traffic will bear. The price will depend on the customer, and what he wants." Madge smiled shallowly. "You girls aren't going to balk if any of them want something unusual, are you?"
Kit chuckled richly. "Honey-if there's a man in this here hotel who can ask me for anything I ain't never heard of or done before-I swear, I'll let him have it free."
Hester brayed with laughter.
"All right," said Madge. "Then it's all settled. Walt's working on spreading the word around with the convention people. The calls should start coming in just after midnight. Make sure you stay in touch with the desk. If I hear anything else, I'll pass it along."
"Okay, Madge." Hester smiled and shook her head. "Still sounds crazy to me-but who am I to out-think a big deal like that Walt?"
"Yeah," said Kit. "He's a big deal, all right. I wouldn't mind selling some to a big deal like that myself."
"He's not buying," said Madge quickly. 'He ain't, huh? Why not."
"He can have it from me anytime."
"Honey-don't you ask for nothing back."
"No," Madge said.
"Oh, honey-baby-what the hell kind of way is that to act with a man? You in love with the bastard, or what?"
"I have to go now," said Madge. "Keep in touch with the desk."
She crossed the locker room quickly and pushed through the door, leaving Kit and Hester staring at each other. The second-floor service hall was dark, but Madge knew her way to the stairs well enough without any light.
If she'd turned her head, she might have caught a glimpse of a small patch of white moving in the shadows. But she didn't look in that direction, so she didn't see Pop's bristly moustache, or the slow rhythmic shaking of his head.
But Pop saw her.
And now Pop knew where the trouble was coming from.