Chapter 7
THE ROOM NUMBER WAS 517.
Madge stood in front of the door, staring at the number. It was the number Walt gave her when she'd called the desk; this was the room from which the order had come. Madge searched her mind for some reason not to knock at the door and get started; but she couldn't think of any.
So she knocked.
It opened immediately.
"Hello, there," he said.
He was of average height and medium build. He was good-looking, but not remarkable. His hair was black, but the scalp-line receded, which meant he was neither young nor old, but in between.
He looked like all other conventioneers-average, prosperous, and horny.
"Are you my gal?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes, sir." She stepped past him without waiting for an invitation and entered the room. "You'd better close the door, sir. Someone might see us."
"Oh, sure." He shut the door and locked it carefully. "How about the shades? Should I pull the shades?"
"No-this is the west side of the hotel. There aren't any buildings near this side."
"Okay. If you say so." He came away from the door and walked toward Madge. She stood facing him silently. Something about her stance seemed to disturb him. He veered and walked past her.
She turned and saw he was at the bureau, pouring himself a drink.
"Like a snort, honey?" he asked with false casualness.
"No, thank you."
"Don't mind if I have one, do you."
"Go right ahead."
He poured himself about four fingers of rye, and threw it off in one gulp. He pouted his lips, then blew out a long alcoholic breath. "That's good stuff," he said.
"Sir?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't you think it's time we got started?"
His face underwent a series of remarkable changes. The first expression was one of mild shock; it was followed immediately by a hungry look in his eyes; then, the hunger transmitted itself to his mouth, and his eyes became calculating.
Madge had seen that look before. Just like the men who hung around the diner where she once worked-they were truck drivers mostly, and construction men, and ditch diggers. Uneducated men, not at all like this fellow here.
But the look was the same. From garbage-picker to Wall Street executive, that look never changed.
"Youer-you sure you wouldn't like a little drink before we-beforehand?"
"No, thank you. I think we should begin now."
"Yeah-sure. All right. That's all right with me, honey."
He was drunk. Madge knew the signs. He probably had been drinking quite a while before getting enough nerve to place the order, and he'd been drinking continuously since.
Madge took a deep breath, and started to undress.
That was the trouble with men, she thought-or most men, anyway. The drinking, the coarse leers, silly jokes, dirty words-they made sex seem filthy, made the act seem like relief of some bodily waste, rather than for finding and sharing pleasure. They could never take a woman simply for what she was-a human female, a creature of flesh and blood, a mortal like themselves. Maybe that was because they didn't want to think of themselves as mortals. That could be it. Maybe as long as they pretended to act out a page from a dirty book, as long as they could hold off the reality of having sex and turn it into something of myth-like importance-maybe that kind of pretending was more important to them than sex itself.
Madge had her dress off and began on her under-things. She wasn't looking at the man, but she could sense his eyes on her. She felt he was watching her so intendy, he forgot how to speak.
That was another thing-the way these men clammed up in front of a stripping woman, as if she was an image on a movie screen or a photo in a deck of French playing cards; as if she wasn't even in the room with them; as if she had been put on earth just for their pleasure, and nothing else.
With a man like this, Madge had trouble retaining her identity. If only he would look at her-not just at her body, but at her-if only he would give some sign that he recognized her as a real person...
But he didn't. He wouldn't. None of them ever would. Except Walt. And, perhaps most of all, that was what made Walt so precious to her.
I'm doing this for you Walt, she thought. I wouldn't do it for anybody else.
Her bra came off.
She felt the weight of her breasts spill away from her, heard the man's gasp of pleasure as he saw them. The room was cool, and the chill touch of the air made her nipples rise. She felt it, and knew the man would think she was excited. It wouldn't occur to him that a girl found nothing exciting about just taking off her clothes. He'd never think a girl might have to be teased and coaxed into excitement.
She was his hooker, his fantasy, bought and paid for. She was born excited; she had been created expressly to serve him, and so the lustful look of his eye or the fumbling '.ouch of his hand was all she could expect in the way of tribute.
She reached inside her panties and unhooked the garter belt. Then she opened the snaps which held her stockings and stripped the nylons from her shapely legs. As she bent to do this, her breasts hung gourd-like from her torso, swaying and knocking softly together with every motion.
The nylons gone, she pulled the garter belt up out of her panties, then, slipping her thumbs into the elastic band, she drew them down, baring her hips, her belly, her vulnerable loins.
The man's eyes popped. His breath wheezed between his moistened lips.
She smiled, put her hands on her hips and cocked her body at him, angling her pelvis one way, her shoulders another, displaying every naked inch of herself to his bug-eyed gaze.
He just stood there, didn't do a thing. He was excited-one glance at him told her that-but he wasn't excited enough to move.
She slid her hands on her belly, then slipped them up until she was cupping her breasts. She squeezed the luscious spheres, aiming the roughened tips at him. Slowly, suggestively, she moved her legs, rubbing her thighs together cricket-fashion.
"How about it?" she said. The conversational tone of the truck drivers came back to her. "What do you say. big boy? You like these? You man enough? Let's see, big boy-let's get this show on the road."
His hands went slowly to his waist and undid the belt buckle. Madge watched him impatiently. At the rate he was going, she would be in this room an hour before he finally got ready for action, and that would never do. The hotel was filled with customers, and the more she could accommodate, the more money she and Walt could make.
She closed her eyes a moment. She tried to do what he asked her; tried to hang out the mental picture of the two of them together-she and Walt, with money, with time to spend it, time to relax and be with each other, time to give and get pleasure and affection-maybe even time to become man and wife ... Maybe.
She snapped her eyes open. The two ends of the man's belt hung free, but that was all he'd managed to accomplish.
Madge moved quickly, breasts dancing, and knelt before him. Her fingers found the zipper tab, and before the man knew what was happening, his trousers slid down his legs to the floor.
His shorts followed.
"Let's go, sport," Madge said, chanting the words in an erotic sing-song. "Let's get together-let's peel it off and come on the way we both want it-we got us some loving to do, big boy, and the sooner we get started, the more honey we're going to get-you with me, big boy?"
She lifted her eyes to his face. He was looking at her, at the position of her head. She saw the direction of his gaze, and the direction of his thoughts.
"That'll cost you five extra, honey," she said, surprised at her calmness and competence. You on?"
He nodded.
She smiled her hottest smile, settled back comfortably on her haunches.
Madge really told Walt the truth earlier-she had never sold her body or her skills for money. But now that she thought about it, she realized she had been selling herself-not for cash, perhaps, but for other things: clothing, liquor, good times. Madge always considered herself a cut above the common prostitute; when she gave herself to a man, it was always for some consideration, some gift, some bit of thoughtfulness.
Never money.
But did she have an edge on the professional prostitute? Was there much difference between herself and a street-walker? Did the reward for the act change the nature of the act itself?
Boiled down, wasn't her willingness to give herself to Walt any time he desired her, also founded on payment for services rendered? Of course it was. She would never have gotten so totally involved with Walt if it weren't for his skill in summoning the ultimate pleasure for her. If he were any less a man, if his technique hadn't hit the deepest pleasure-point inside her when they shared each other-if it hadn't been that way, would she have any more affection for Walt than she had for this groaning, twitching, foolish stranger?
Probably not, and the idea chilled her. It seemed to point up a vast flaw in her thinking and the pattern of her life-but this was no time to think it out.
Now was the time to take care of her customer, to give him what he wanted, bring him to the edge of his delight with moving lips and finger-tip caresses, make herself a vessel of pleasure, and draw from him that last howling throb of delight.
That's what she did.
And she did it, to her own surprise and the man's delight, with uncommon skill. She gave herself to him just the way he wanted her to-she played the role of sex machine, and did nothing to remind him of the cold breath of reality.
And while they thrashed on the bed and while he sobbed and slobbered all over her breasts, she wondered:
Is it really any different with Walt?
Is his way of paying me the only difference?
Am I a whore after all?
Nat was a little worried about Roger. It wasn't good that old Rog got himself bombed. Nat knew Rog didn't have much capacity for the stuff, and a man not used to drinking can make a troublesome drunk.
Not that Rog was making any trouble, or showing any signs of it. At the moment, he seemed closer to passing out than anything else.
But, damn it-that wasn't good either. Nat made a promise to him that morning, and intended to keep it whether Roger wanted him to or not.
Nat Barth wasn't what you would call a charitable man. He had a hard business head, and his success was founded on a simple axiom "Horray for me, and screw you." Nat contributed to a worldly cause, it was for tax purposes; if he helped a palsied old lady across the street, it was to display his gallantry to a ripe young lady across the street. Nat worshipped the idea of never doing anything without purpose, never giving unless he could receive."
But Nat had a soft spot. In his carefully-armored character, it was the only flaw.
Sex.
As Nat saw it, sex was something every man should have. In Nat's mind, marriage didn't necessarily guarantee a man sex-marriage and sex were different things. A man with a wife might not have the smoking drives of a bachelor, since there was a woman available to him for fun and games, but Nat felt a man was entitled to more than a single woman in his lifetime. As long as his vigor lasted, a man should have as many women as he could lay hands on. It was his right.
Nat spent most of his life living up to this image, and did pretty well. If his wife suspected his true nature, she never let on; Nat kept her satisfied, and used her to satisfy his own urgent pressures.
When the opportunity presented itself, however, Nat was ready to hop into bed with some female other than his wife-for that matter, any female, as long as she was fairly good-looking and didn't represent an undue risk or expense. That was the only way for a man to live, and he felt so strongly about it that he was sometimes willing to break his basic rule, by doing something for nothing to help a fellow male connect with what he wanted.
To Nat, Roger Linden was a sad case. The poor bastard had thrown away twenty precious years being faithful to a solitary female-and if that wasn't bad enough, the bitch turned out unfaithful herself. All those misspent years, and what did he have to show for it? Not a thing. Not a goddamm thing.
The thought brought a lump into Nat's throat.
Well, the time had come to do something about it.
Old Rog had babbled all evening about some blondie he'd had during his flaming youth; Nat got the impression the gal had been the first. However it was, Rog couldn't stop talking about tiiat gal-about the size and heft of her breasts, about the swivel-hipped sleigh ride she'd given him. He just sat there, swilling the booze, and talking about that blondie in such glowing terms you'd think she'd been the only woman in the world.
Nat was determined. If a gal like that-a gal who reminded him of that other gal-was what old Rog wanted, he would see to it that Rog got her. The description was clear in his mind, and it wouldn't be hard to find a gal who'd fit it. And when he tagged her, he'd bring her back her to Rog and give him his taste of the good old days, just the way he asked for it.
Or the good young days.
Nat smiled over that one. Drunks said the damndest things. Usually, they made no sense; but when they did, they often made better sense than the considered words of a sober man.
Nat left Roger still drinking, still tottering on the edge of passing out. There was a chance Roger might be completely shot when Nat brought back the hooker. If so-well, he and the gal would just have to wake the poor bastard up. Roger was going to have his fling tonight if it killed him.
Nat punched the elevator button. "Lobby," he said, stepping inside.
Nat was a man of experience. He had connected with female companionship in hotels many times, and he could spot people in the know just by looking at their faces. Nat took a chance asking bellhops about available girls more times than he could count, and he had yet to draw a blank.
He looked at the elevator operator. The man looked back.
And right off the bat, Nat knew he connected.
"Whereabouts can a man find a woman in this place, pal?" he asked.
Charlie was the only man in Room 701 at the moment.
Clyde was downstairs waiting at the bar for his turn. George was off somewhere, but Charlie didn't know where. George sure was acting peculiar. He kept talking about some maid he wanted, some little blonde he was aching to bag. It wasn't like him to go ape over one particular girl-after all, the hotel was filled with girls.
But if that was the way George wanted to play it, Charlie was content to let him be.
He was the only man in Room 701, but he wasn't alone.
"My name's Hester," she said, as she pulled up her skirt. "What's yours?" 'Charlie, ma'am."
"Oh, now-what the hell you want to be so formal about? I ain't no ma'am. I'm a miss. Anyhow, call me Hester."
"Okay, Hester." Charlie grinned. "You're quite a hunk, Hester-you know that?"
"I've heard." Her dress slithered to the floor. Her slip went after it. She drew her bra straps down, popped her breasts free, then skinned off her panties in a single swift motion.
"And you are fast," said Charlie appreciatively. "I never seen a gal who could get out of her clothes as quick as that."
"That's nothing," Hester said. She snapped her fingers at him. "Come on, sweetie-get them clothes off, and I'll really show you something."
Charlie set somewhat of a record himself. When the last of his clothing was gone, he slid across the bed and patted the space beside him. "Come over here when I can get you, Hester."
She smiled and sidled over with a voluptuous roll of her hips.
When she was within reach, Charlie's hands shot out and imprisoned her buttocks. He dragged her onto the bed beside him with such force that Hester lost her balance and had to fling out her arms to catch herself.
The arms landed on either side of Charlie's head. Her breasts dangled invitingly scant inches from his face.
"Brute," she said, laughing. The breasts shivered. "You're a big strong brute, you know that?"
"Fruit," said Charlie. "You got some fruit on you, Hester. This brute-likes your fruit, you know that?"
She laughed again, making the pendulous shapes sway. "Go ahead show me how much you like 'em. Only don't be too brutal about it, will you?"
He grabbed the undersides of her breasts in both hands and drew them toward his lips. The solid tips were like small beckoning fingers. They didn't have to beckon Charlie more than once.
He caught one ripe berry in his mouth. Hester grunted with an expectation of pain, then sighed as pleasure welled up into her.
"Hey, brute, she said softly. "You're my kind of brute."
Holding the breasts firmly, he shifted his kiss from one to the other, then back again.
Hester inhaled deeply and snuggled her breasts up against his face. Her hand sought down his abdomen, found him, gripped him. She could feel the bolt of excitement which fired him against her breasts.
He wasn't a hell of a lot of man, she though; but he'd do-he'd surely do. It was a while since she'd gotten the business from a stud like this. He really was hungry for it, he wanted to make it count, and that's what gave it that little extra twist. Making it with some guy at your apartment, or steady with one particular fellow-that was all right in its way, but it couldn't hold a candle to a workout like this.
Hester never enjoyed the same man twice anyway. She liked her men fresh and new, and raring for action. Now that she knew the score, she'd have to keep convention people in mind, even after this year's bash was over. The hotel had a lot of traveling men from time to time, and if they were all as hungry for it as this Charlie was, Hester could see a great future in front of her.
Charlie finished with her breasts and urged her into a new position. Charlie wanted to play turnabout.
Well, that was just fine with Hester.
They settled onto each other, and as their hands and lips sought and found and sealed the arrangement, Hester's mind drifted. Turnabout was something she always enjoyed. It didn't require any effort, and the pleasure she gave matched and surpassed the pleasure she got. She liked to lie like that, cuddling her breasts to some guy's belly, giving him the business and being given the same business in return.
While her body twitched and shivered in growing response, Hester dreamed.
She remembered there was another guy staying in this room a guy who called the desk and expressed a preference for dark flesh. Kit was going to take that turn as soon as Hester and Charlie were through.
She imagined what Kit would look like with her man.
Would she do the same things to him Hester was doing? Or did she have even fancier ideas? It could be that Kit knew about things Hester had never heard of the way Kit talked sometimes, you felt her knowledge and experience were pretty unique. Yeah and pretty mysterious, too.
The more Hester thought about it, the more powerful became her desire to watch Kit in action. To sit-in while Kit stripped bare and gave a man the works to see her swinging that dark body around-
Man! Wouldn't that be something?
When she was a little girl, Libby had seen a movie. She could no longer remember what it was about but she remembered a single scene.
This girl had been knocked unconscious with a blow on the head. And the hero had come in with some other people, and found her and they'd worked like hell to bring her out of it.
When the girl finally awakened, opened her eyes and looked around, she asked this crazy question: "Where am I?"
The question had frightened Libby. She knew it was only a movie, but it never occurred to her that one might find themselves in such a position. Long after Libby had left the theatre, she was unable to shake the fear that it might someday happen to her that she might awaken suddenly out of a sleep srie didn't remember taking, and not know where she was.
Many years passed before Libby forgot about that childhood fear.
Now it came back to claim her.
Physically, she knew where she was. She was on a bed in an unoccupied room of the Oakwood Arms Hotel. The same bed had recently sagged under the combined weight of herself and a girl named Patsy. She was naked; she could remember why she was naked, and how she got that way, and the relationship between her nakedness and what Patsy had done to her.
And what she had done to Patsy.
That part was simple enough.
But it wasn't her physical location that bothered Libby. She knew where her body was. But where on earth was her mind?
Lying on the bed, feeling the cool breezes blowing across her nude flesh, she bent her strength into locating her mind.
Where am I? she wondered. What's that stuff that's really me the stuff that looks out through my. eyes and thinks my thoughts and plans my decisions what happened to I?
It was a crazy feeling. She remembered her name, the things she had done and the places she had been, but they didn't mean anything. A body wasn't I, anymore than a name. A body was just a container for an I, and giving a name to it just made it easier to talk to other people.
Without the essential I, a body with a name wasn't anything at all. It was a corpse. If it twitched and felt and breathed, that didn't make it any more than a corpse-without the I.
She had to find herself. She could sense how important that was. Something had happened, and she had to locate her identity before she could evaluate it.
Try as she might, she couldn't find it.
After a while, she got up and dressed. Her motions were automatic. Some basic animal part of her still felt the tingle of sensations just past, but she had no apparatus with which to examine them.
Dressed, she left the room and stepped into the hall. Not a soul was in sight. She walked toward the elevators.
Patsy. Being naked. On a bed. Doing things. Hands. Lips. Legs. Arms clutching. Fingers feeling. Tongues tasting.
A wealth of memories a treasure trove but lacking the I, Libby simply couldn't put them together.
She reached the elevator, and was about to push the button when the doors slid open. A girl stood in the car; one of the night-maids. Libby didn't remember her name.
"Hey," said the girl. "You Libby?"
"Yes."
"My God they've been looking all over for you. Come on down to the staff floor, and I'll call Walt."
Libby stepped into the car, and watched blankly as the doors closed.
"You got a customer, honey," said the girl.
"I do?"'
"Sure." The girl looked at her curiously. "You feeling okay."
"Yes."
"You act I don't know. Funny." Im sorry.
The girl chuckled to herself. "Man has Walt ever been trying to locate you. Nobody seemed to know where the hell you were at."
"I'm sorry," Libby said again.
"Libby? You know the score, don't you? Somebody told you about this convention deal, didn't they."
"Convention deal?"
"Sure about the room service booking. You must have heard about that."
"Yes," Libby said. It seemed the answer the girl wanted. But Libby hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.