Chapter 12
Cash Moran regarded the flaccid cause of his acute embarrassment and inner torment with utter disgust, and wondered by what cruel whim of unpredictable nature any man could remain impotent when faced with such delights of the flesh as lay in the delectable, voluptuous form and presence of Mavis Preed, sq close to him that he could feel the warmth from her sleeping body. He sighed, regretting the excesses of his younger days. Not that he was, he told himself, old. He was only fifty-four.
He heaved his bulk off the bed, slid his feet into soft leather slippers, and headed for the bathroom, leaving the door open. Sounds of running water woke Mavis. She stirred, yawned, stretched, idly pushed the covers further off the bed with her feet. She was not yet fully awake, couldn't quite compose the pattern of events. After a while her mind focused, took in her surroundings. It had been a rough night. She had vague recollections of Moran's valiant struggles to assert his masculinity. Sometimes his efforts were not entirely futile, but last night ... Mavis sat up. There were compensations. Moran had money, and he was generous.
Almost a month had passed since the flare-up at the Branch house in the Bronx. During the first week she had fully expected Sam Davis to seek her out. When he didn't her confidence returned, and now the incident was, to her, just a bad memory. She thought of Vernice Branch, when she thought of her at all, with some regret. Towards George Branch she was completely indifferent. The affair was a closed book. If he had nosed her out, she would have accepted the animal comfort of his strong male body gratefully. But otherwise the Brandts lived in a different world. They would, she decided, lick their wounds, maybe cry a little, even bawl each other out. Finally they would make up and be all the more loving and dull. She doubted if she would ever see George Branch again, unless by sheer accident.
Mavis looked towards the open door connecting with the bathroom. Moran, wearing just pyjama pants, was holding something up to the light. It was a syringe, a hypodermic! She saw him push down his pants, select a spot on his wrinkled flesh, carefully insert the needle. She heard him swear as the keen point drove home and he pressed the plunger. With his flabby torso bared he looked like some great ape, the orangutang she had once seen at the Bronx Zoo.
So, Cash was a drug addict. Mavis wondered why she had never realized before, why she hadn't recognized the significance of the needle marks on hi thigh. She had read about such things without paying much attention to detail. She was familiar with the slang expressions used to describe peddlers and users of narcotics, and had some idea of the reactions of various drugs and-according to vivid accounts gleaned from lurid magazines, of the ultimate fate of junkies and peddlers alike. They were, she knew the lowest dregs of humanity on the last painful stretch of the road to hell. Yet Cash Moran seemed normal enough. Perhaps, she thought, he was a diabetic. The thought brought her a strange relief. Somehow, ignorant as she was of its full, evil potentialities, the mere idea of dope was sordid and frightening.
Moran swabbed the slight prick wound, cleaned and put away the hypo. He was whistling softly when he came back into the bedroom. Mavis pretended she had seen nothing unusual. Since moving into Cash Moran's apartment she had quit the strip show, mainly because she thought that if Sam Davis wormed the information out of George Branch that she worked there it was among the first places he would visit if he was looking for her. In any case, with Moran looking out for her she had no need of a job. But after a while she became bored.
She was, Moran noticed, drinking a lot lately, taking to it gradually so that she herself didn't realize what a firm hold liquor was getting on her. Cash Moran, getting a continual kick from her company and intimate proximity, was reluctant to provoke her and so kept silent on the subject.
One Friday afternoon Mavis returned from a movie to find a large, middle-aged woman in Moran's apartment, a hard-faced female, all buttock and no bust, that Moran introduced as 'Frenchie' Blaine. She was a coarse, uncouth creature, gimlet-eyed, with raven black hair, obviously dyed. And he was, Mavis decided, no more French than was Brooklyn Bridge ... Mavis disliked her on sight, especially the woman's clammy hand clasp. There was something in the way 'Frenchie' Blaine looked at her that reminded Mavis of Sandra Mathis-the same penetrating, calculating stare, the sullen, sultry mouth, the expression, bold and inviting. But with 'Frenchie' Blaine the lesbian inclination was even more obvious.
Mavis recalled hearing Moran mention the woman on several occasions. After the introduction the big woman seated herself on the edge of Moran's desk with her skirt hiked up above her enormous knees, and studied Mavis continually through a haze of cigarette smoke.
"Cash and myself are old friends," she told Mavis. "I run a place not far from here, on 42nd Street. You ever get stuck for a few bucks, kid, you look me up. I could use a Rood-looker like you. You got class, honey."
"I don't think...." Mavis began.
"I look after my girls good, ain't that right, Cash? Real good. Nice clothes, plenty of spending money, regular medical, everything."
She leaned forward as far as her flabby stomach would permit. "A smart girl can make herself real money with me," she confided.
"Two-three hundred dollars a night if she's keen. You think about it."
"I don't need to. I've got security right her, with Cash."
The big woman laughed raucously. She got to her feet, grunting with effort.
"I've got to go," she said, "Just remember what I said, honey. You call living with that tight-wad security? You come and see me any time. So-long, Cash. I'll stop by with another fix about Tuesday. And it'll cost you an extra five bucks."
Moran scowled. "What's this, another shake-down?" he demanded. "Never mind-I can't discuss it now. I'll see you later."
He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head in Mavis's direction. Frenchie Blaine mangled her cigarette stub, nodded. She went out, moving quickly despite her ponderous bulk. Two weeks passed before Mavis saw her again, during which short time a lot happened to influence Mavis's future.
Still foremost in her mind despite sundry set-backs and, according to those in a position to know, a total lack of acting ability, was the idea that if she could once get to Californa and show herself off around the Hollywood studios, she could make her mark. She was sceptical of everything she had been told about her lack of talent, and she reasoned that with her looks and figure she didn't need to be much of an actress anyway to get a start. She followed the same train of thought responsible for the downfall of literally thousands of her irresponsible kind, and clung to the fallacy they all shared-that she was different ... It might happen to them, to other girls. But not to her. She, Mavis repeatedly told herself, was somebody special, and she would, eventually, make the grade. But as yet Hollywood was a long way off. She needed clothes, expensive outfits, and money in the bank. And, she was smart enough to know, she would need publicity, some gimmick to attract the moguls.
Meanwhile Cash Moran was a meal ticket. He gave her a generous spending allowance, but it was never enough, and so far she hadn't managed to save a dime. Cash Moran, on his part, was becoming fed up with her moodiness, her drinking, and her continual demands sexual and otherwise. She did no more for him than any one of Frenchie's girls would do for considerably less expense and none of the come-back.
Mavis wasn't the first young girl to share his apartment and his bed. Nor would she be the last. He had a soft spot for her, but he was a practical man, and most of the girls who passed through Moran's bedroom via his office and the strip finished up in Frenchie Blaine's whorehouse, with Moran raking off a percentage of each girl's take. Ho didn't force any girl into the game. Like Mavis, they knew what they wanted, or thought they did. So far Mavis hasn't responded to Frenchie's blandishments and Moran's hints. He proposed to give her just a while longer to decide. Then, if she still didn't co-operate-out!
He hoped she'd see reason. She could, with her capacity for men, prove a real asset both to Frenchie and himself.
Mavis Preed's independence ended abruptly the day she came in and found Cash Moran, hypo in hand, lying dead on the bathroom floor.
At first she was terrified. He sprawled there with his mouth wide open, his dentures displaced, eyes staring horribly. Mavis, as if rooted to the spot, watched a fly crawl across one red-veined eyeball....
Suddenly the tension left her limbs and she staggered to a chair and flopped into it. After a while she got up and mixed herself a drink, downed it, poured another. Twice she picked up the telephone and replaced it again, uncertain what to do, dreading becoming involved with the Police-and, inevitably, Sam Davis.
Finally she remembered Frenchie Blaine and called her. The big woman came right over without asking stupid questions. She took in the situation at a glance, and promptly reached for the phone.
"You toss your things into a bag and get over to my place," she told Mavis. "Don't argue, honey. You can't afford to get mixed up in this. I suppose you know that Cash was a junkie. Been taking the stuff for years. No question about what killed him, but the cops are gonna ask questions. So get out of here and let me handle it. Okay? You'll be all right with me, honey."
Mavis, glad to get away from the flaccid corpse with its protruding tongue and glassy stare, wasted no more time. She heard Frenchie speaking over the phone. Who she called Mavis never knew, but from what little she overheard she guessed it wasn't the Police. Inside ten minutes she was packed and on her way.