Chapter 13
The house on 42nd Street was spacious and comfortable. When Mavis arrived the place was quiet. The ground floor front was taken up by a florists' shop-an obvious blind for the more profitable establishment upstairs. Above the shop were five floors each with two apartments partitioned off to form self-contained bedrooms with adjoining kitchen. There was a bathroom on each floor. Frenchie Blaine lived in the basement.
The only entry was through the shop. A woman, middle-aged but still pretty, was in charge. Her manner indicated nothing of her association with what went on upstairs, yet her shrewd inspection of Mavis overlooked no detail.
"Frenchie sent me," Mavis said casually. She sniffed at a freshly sprinkled rose.
"Are you Mavis?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Frenchie phoned, how else, You're to wait downstairs in her apartment."
Mavis noticed a slight emphasis on word 'her' . Evidently there was no love lost between Frenchie and the florist. The woman looked Mavis over again and puckered her lips.
"I'll say one thing for Frenchie," she declared, "She can certainly pick 'em. How old are you?"
"Nineteen. But I know what day of the week it is."
"Don't get me wrong, honey, I admire her taste. At this game the younger you start the more time you've got to make your stack. Go on through. Frenchie has the basement layout. Make yourself comfortable, and she'll be along presently."
Beyond a curtained archway was a short hall with steps leading down to Mavis's left and a staircase on her right. On the first floor landing a scantily clothed Negress leaned over the rails, her jaws busy on a wad of gum. She eyed Mavis speculatively.
"Hi," she drawled. "You movin' in?"
"I guess so."
"Keep yo' nose clean and you'll like it here. Just wrong wid Frenchie. She sho' nuff can get awful take a tip from me, honey, and don't never get in mean. I'se Kitty Jamison. See yo' around."
Mavis nodded. She passed down the steps and through a doorway into a luxurious lounge, thickly carpeted, softly lighted. The decor was colorful, matching Frenchie's flambuoyant temperament. Everything about the place reflected her vulgarity, ornaments and pictures especially. Mavis found a cabinet laden with bottles of liquor and expensive glasses. She settled herself on a low sofa and was just finishing her third drink when Frenchie arrived. A warm glow suffused Mavis, and the big woman didn't seem quite so monstrous or repulsive to her.
"Gee!" Frenchie declared, "I'm pooped ... I see you made it okay. Go easy with the booze."
She flopped onto the sofa and placed a fleshy arm around Mavis, drew her close.
"Well," she said, "what do you think of the place?"
"Impressive. Very. Must have cost a small fortune. Do I call you Frenchie?"
"Sure, honey. Everybody does. Yeah, this lot cost me plenty. But what I say is-what's the good of makin' it if you don't spend it?"
She laughed, slapped Mavis's thigh, squeezed her firm flesh.
"Tonight you can stay with me, honey," she said. "Don't worry, I took care of everything. From now on you're working for me. Okay?"
"I-er, suppose so. If you think I can cope, that is. I don't have any money, nothing except a few clothes. I've never done anything quite like-this, I mean I get on well with men but...."
"Stick with me and you'll do all right. Some of my girls make three hundred dollars a night. I'll put you in with Elsie. Shell soon set you straight. Meanwhile let me see what you've got to offer."
"Huh?"
"Undress, honey. I wanna see if you've really got what the customers want."
Mavis shrugged. She felt a tingle of excitement, the same sort of thrill she had sometimes experienced with Sandra Mathis, a sort of anticipation. The liquor had put her in a receptive mood, and Frenchie's coarse eagerness was contagious. The big woman helped remove Mavis's last remaining garment, making peculiar grimaces as she fondled Mavis's breasts, turned her round and probed her flesh. Suddenly she lay back and raised her clothing.
It was like that during most of that night. Mavis had known what it would be. By morning she was exhausted. Frenchie lay snoring like a fat sow. looking at the gross figure Mavis felt strangely affectionate, and marvelled at her own unpredictable nature that caused her to revolt against something and yet accept and enjoy that same thing simply because she'd had a few drinks.
She was, she knew, definitely abnormal, an extremist in her relations with either sex. At that moment she felt actual physical attraction for the woman lying beside her. A short while ago the most important thing in her life had been George Branch, before him Roley Martin, Al Grant and Sandra Mathis. An inexplicable, non-conformative pattern that even she herself didn't understand.
She got up, bathed, dressed, and switched on the radio in time to hear the news. There was an item about Cash Moran. A cleaning woman had found his body just as Mavis had last seen it lying on the bathroom floor. Evidently whomever Frenchie had telephoned had advised her to leave everything just the way it was. Some doctor had diagnosed heart failure brought on by an overdose of self-injected heroin....
The morning papers carried a short piece about the dead man and his activities. Frenchie Blaine refused to comment on it. Once out of bed she became the practical, shrewd business woman, no more emotional than a hard-boiled egg. She made no reference to what had passed between Mavis and herself. Her attitude was brusque, unresponsive.
"I've got business downtown," she told Mavis. "You're okay, honey. After breakfast I'll take you upstairs, and you can get acquainted. And remember, I don't allow any of my girls down here unless I invite them, understand. And I don't play any favorites. Get me?"
Mavis nodded. The abrupt change in attitudes confused her. For a while she had thought that Frenchie intended her to remain in the basement apartment and contribute to her own personal pleasure. Mavis wouldn't have objected to such an arrangement providing it meant money comparable to what could be earned upstairs, and freedom to select male friends of her own choosing. Obviously Frenchie was subject to conflicting whims and impulses. But at least she appreciated good food. The breakfast she had sent in from the restaurant next door proved that.
Mavis didn't have a lot of time to enjoy it, however, before being escorted upstairs to the second floor.
Elsie was a red-head, big built, with whore written all over her, figuratively speaking, in her easy, insolent smile, her posture, her sexy walk. She had a bust measurement of forty-eight inches, and had been on the game since she was seventeen ... She was now twenty-two, looked thirty, and spoke from experience and with an easy familiarity that endeared her to Mavis from the start. Elsie Hoffman was what she was because she enjoyed it. She said so quite frankly. There was no dark skeleton in her closet that had driven her to evil ways and moral destruction. She liked men and she liked money, and the two went together very well. It was a simple philosophy that Mavis could understand and appreciate, for it was her own exactly.
"You're okay, kid." Elsie told her within ten minutes of Frenchie leaving them together. "I can see you're wise to the drill. Ain't much you can learn from me, girlie."
"I don't know, Elsie. I've been around some, and I've known a few men. I'm game for anything. But I'm new to this."
"Nothing to it. Just act natural. What you charge is up to you, but Frenchie'll expect ten bucks a flip, thirty-five for an all-night caper. What's over is yours. But make sure you collect in advance. Later on, if you're popular, she'll probably take you off the streets and put you on call."
"On call?"
"The phone. Exclusive. A guy calls the shop downstairs, orders flowers. Carmen knows by what he says whether it's really flowers he's after or something else, and how much he's prepared to pay. Frenchie's smart. She has all the angles figured, uses a special code system to describe a girl like she was referring to flowers. And she can smell a cop a mile away. For that kind of business you pull in fifty or sixty dollars a throw, maybe a hundred, without even setting foot outside. If you like men it can be fun. Sometimes you get a queer bastard who wants it different, but anything goes within reason, and those who like it with trimmings pay extra, naturally. You fix the price."
Mavis did some quite figuring. Even at twenty dollars a time she could make an easy fifty dollars a night. And later---
"Are you on call?" she asked. "Sure. I'm Frenchie's prize package. Bit of a comedown for me showing you round, kid, but Frenchie'll make it good."
She let her negligee fall open, cupped her huge but firm breasts with obvious pride. Under the flimsy garment she was completely nude.
"Men like these," she bragged. "You'd be surprised at some of the things I'm asked to do because of these beauties-but then again maybe you wouldn't. Big, huh? And still developing. A damned nuisance though, sometimes."
"They're certainly large. Rather frightening. When do I start?"
"Tonight, honey. I'll take a turn with you. Towards the park is your best bet. One point to remember-never go home with a guy. Make them come here. You'll meet some rough characters around this district. Some of them would slit your throat for a dime. You've got to be tough, kid. No scruples. If a man wants it right there, it saves time, just so long as he pays first."
"On the street?"
"Why not? It's quicker. Some of them don't have much time. But watch out for the cops."
Mavis felt bewildered. She had no scruples, only a natural apprehension of something new, untried. She forced herself to keep thinking about the money. In a few short months she could save enough to take her anywhere, to be really independent. Her heart pounded as she followed Elsie onto the street around seven-thirty. She could have had five men in the first five minutes had she known how to approach them. Elsie took over, and by seven-fifty Mavis was mounting the stairs with a short, dark man, stinking drunk, clinging to her arm while Elsie escorted a tall Marine.
That first time Elsie stayed with her in the same room. The men didn't object, in fact each enjoyed the unexpected exhibition afforded by die other. The moment the door closed Mavis was at ease, in her element, handling the simpering customer like a veteran. He was clumsy, but once he got started he brought sweat to her brow and sheer joy to her pagan soul. Within the next hour she entertained three more men on her own, and realized just how easy it was.
After that she had no further fears. Men were fools, playthings to mould to her whims, gratifying her pleasures while pursuing their own. And for all their brag most of the men she took to her room became shy, almost reserved, when the time came. Some had to be coaxed, others were too nervous to do anything.
When she herself was completely satisfied it was difficult for her at first to feign interest with a man. But after a few days, when she'd earned close on five hundred dollars for herself, she realized that at last she had found her own special niche doing what she was best adapted for, and her dreams of Hollywood seemed less important.
She was, Frenchie told her, a natural. On that occasion the big woman was feeling amorous again. She had the old familiar look in her eyes.
"Didn't I tell you, you'd do well?" she said. She slapped Mavis's bottom, let her hand linger.
"Come down and see me tonight, honey," she requested. "Any time after you get through, huh? I'll be looking out for you."