Chapter 4

Joan was only half listening as her husband recited the details of the big financial deal he was on the verge of bringing off on behalf of his company. She sipped her coffee reflectively while he talked, her guilty mind reaching back insistently to that fatal night in Jack Lynch's photographic studio. She still could not quite bring herself to believe that it had really happened to her and that she had somehow allowed herself to behave in that shamelessly erotic fashion. Now she was back in the plush, pleasant suburbs with her swimming pool in the backyard, talking to her successful young husband about business affairs while they calmly finished their breakfast, and the whole depraved episode seemed a little unreal as if it were merely something she had dreamed one night after a particularly heavy dinner.

But it had happened, and it had left its mark on her. In the past few days she had been more restless than usual, and more than once, the young wife had fought off the wild temptation to run to the telephone and call Liza or Jack. She was determined to break this adultery business off before it had a chance to become a habit. She had married this good man and was living in comfort in his home, and she owed him at least the privilege of having a faithful wife. Maybe their marriage had not worked out sexually as well as she might have hoped, but Allen seemed happy and content and Joan was determined to keep him that way.

"But the only drawback we can see so far is the fact that I'll have to spend a lot of time down in Saint Louis, working out the details of the contract. Hate to be away from home so much," Allen was saying, and Joan suddenly brought her troubled mind back from her dream world and began to pay attention once again. Nor did she liked the idea of his being out of town so much; it gave her too much free time to get into trouble.

"Being on the road isn't so bad, but I hate having to do business with Tompkins," her husband continued, eating with his usual impeccable table manners. "He's strictly from the lower classes and one of those types who make a lot of money but still never learn how to behave themselves. Maybe it's just as well he's insisted we do the negotiations down in Saint Louis. If he came up here, I'd have to entertain him and I'd hate to have our friends meet someone like him."

"What does he do that's so offensive?" Joan inquired mildly, more to prove that she was listening than anything else.

"What doesn't he do?" grumbled Allen irritably. "Besides the sort of table manners I wouldn't expect from a native in Africa, the man's idea of entertainment is disgusting. Why on my last trip down there, he dragged me into a strip tease joint! Can you imagine that?"

"I...I never saw a strip tease," lied Joan nervously. "What was it like?"

"Well, I was disgusted," her husband informed her indignantly. "What makes a woman want to exhibit her body in public is more than I can understand. And then after we escaped from that flee-bitten joint, he wanted me to accompany him to a brothel."

"And...you said no?"

"Well, my dear, I think you know me well enough to guess the answer to that! Of course I said no, and I almost told him what I thought of him, but. . . well, I have my responsibility to the company to think of and one can't let personal feelings interfere with business. If his merger goes through, I could be promoted to Second Vice President of the firm, and that's worth putting up with a little humiliation. Is that someone at the door?"

"I think it's the mailman," replied the young wife, pulling her dressing gown around her and getting to her feet. "You finish your breakfast, dear, or you'll be late for the office."

Allen nodded while Joan walked towards the front door, hoping that one of the woman's magazines to which she subscribed had come with the morning mail. After Allen left for the office there was nothing to do until the maid came at noon, and she was desperately anxious to find some distraction for her troubled mind. Beneath the mail slot in the door there was a pile of letters and envelopes and Joan noted with relief that there were also several magazines. Most of the mail was normally for Allen, but she shuffled through the envelopes curiously anyway until she came to one large manila envelope which was addressed to her.

She came within an inch of calling out delightedly to her husband that someone had sent her something in the mail, but a cautious instinct saved her at the last minute and she stopped in the corridor leading to the kitchen, quickly slitting the strange envelope open with her fingernail. When she saw the contents, she nearly fainted and had to lean against the wall for support, feeling the blood drain away from her head.

"What's there dear?" called Allen from the kitchen. "Anything for me?"

"Eh...yes, love," she answered haltingly, looking wildly around for a place to hide the incriminating object. Finally she thrust it inside of one of her magazines and brought her husband his letters.

It was sheer torture waiting for him to leave the house this morning, but Joan controlled her nerves as well as she could, keeping the magazine with the envelope crushed against her breasts until Allen had kissed her good-bye and closed the front door behind him. Cautiously she waited until she heard his car start up and move off down the street since Allen occasionally came back for something he had forgotten. Once she was sure he was gone, she rushed into the bedroom, pulled down the shades and dumped the contents of the mysterious envelope out on the unmade bed. Before her on the crumpled sheets, there was a large black and white photograph and a note, which said. "Dear Joan, there are nine more just as good as this one. Thought you'd like to have it as a souvenir. Why don't you give us a call and we'll talk about the others? Love and kisses. Jack Lynch."

The photograph had been snapped at the precise moment when Lynch had ordered her to put her arms around his neck. The telephoto lens had missed nothing: His lips plastered passionately against hers, her full naked breasts crushed flat against her chest with the weight of the photographer's body, and even the dark shaft of the man's long rigid penis half-way into the churning depths of her wetly glistening vagina. It was perfect, and Joan saw in a glance that she would never explain away a photograph like this. If Allen were ever to see it or one like it, he would know that his wife was a cheap adultress and nothing more. He would probably throw her immediately out of the house and sue for a divorce, using this photograph as Exhibit A.

Was this blackmail? She asked herself this question as she carried the photo into the bathroom, tearing it very carefully into tiny pieces and flushing it down the toilet. If it's money they're after, then it's a waste of time because I haven't got any! Allen gives me enough cash for the housekeeping and something extra for my personal use but not nearly enough to satisfy the rapacious appetite of a blackmailer.

But there was no point in prolonging the agony. The sooner she called Lynch and found out exactly what he wanted, the sooner she would know what kind of threat they were making. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the numbers, and twice she had to start over again. Liza answered.

"Why, hi, Joan!" she said with unmistakable genuine pleasure when she heard her girl friend's voice over the wire. "How are you honey?"

"Not as well as I might be, thank you," Joan replied icily. "I'm afraid that envelope I got from Lynch this morning has rather spoiled my day."

"An envelope from Jack? I don't know anything about that, Joan. What's in it?"

Liza was incapable of telling a lie properly, and Joan felt a sense of relief that at least her old friend was not part of this plot to ruin her life.

"Oh, maybe it's all a bad joke, but perhaps you'd better let me talk to Jack."

"He isn't here, but Split says he wants to say something to you," Liza replied. A moment later, the arranger's deep voice came over the wire.

"Hello, little lady. I was sort of wondering when you'd remember to call your old friends."

"What do you mean by this?" Joan stormed at him furiously, sure that he and Lynch had cooked up some sort of nefarious plot between them. "Suppose my husband had seen that envelope?"

"Well, we all know what a gentleman Allen is, and gentlemen don't read other peoples' mail, do they? Listen, honey, you cool down because this ain't nothing to get all steamed up about. Great picture, wasn't it?"

"Listen, if it's money you're after...."

"You ain't got any, and we ain't after it,"

Split assured her quickly. "Listen, Joan-baby, all we want is to see you more often. I figure you must get real lonesome sitting out there in the sticks with all them stuffed shirts, when your real friends and all the real action is downtown in your old neighborhood...."

"What are you talking about?" Joan snapped impatiently, sensing that Split was circling over the heart of the matter like a vulture preparing to strike.

"I'm talking about coming down to see us more often. Once a year isn't enough, as far as we're concerned. Now, for example, next Tuesday we've got a party scheduled for the studio, a big one with lots of nice people. Put on that cute dress you wore the other night and come on down arid enjoy yourself, and we'll give you another photograph back, with the negative, naturally."

"Every time I come to one of your parties, you give me back one photograph?" asked Joan, not liking the sound of this at all.

"That's right, baby."

"But that's not all there is to it, is there?"

"No, of course not, love. But you come down Tuesday night, looking real pretty and you'll catch on to the rest of it soon enough!"

Allen was grumbling and irritable, but Joan sensed that she was going to get away with it and knew there was no real danger of his insisting that he come along with her. If there was one person in the world her husband could not stand the sight of, it was Joan's mother and he tried to discourage her from visiting the alcoholic old slut as much as possible.

"I don't visit the poor thing very often, dear." Joan reasoned with him nervously as he sat in the living room smoking his pipe and reading the newspapers, waiting for the evening television shows to commence. "Once every couple of months isn't too much."

"No, no, of course not," Allen agreed reluctantly. "It's just that I hate the idea of you wandering around in that neighborhood after dark. Why every day in the newspaper there's an article about a rape or a mugging or a murder down there. I think the city council should send a bull-dozer in to knock the whole neighborhood down! This is a respectable city except for that area, and I don't know why something isn't done about it!"

"But all the poor people who live there," she tried to reason with him. "Where would they go to live?"

"That's not my problem. Half of them are on welfare anyway and they could take their money and go live somewhere else. You should know better than I what kind of people inhabit that neighborhood! Most of them are bums or prostitutes and in a country like this there's no reason to be poor. If they'd clean up and get jobs like everybody else, they wouldn't have to be on welfare."

This was Allen's pet peeve and Joan realized that she was treading on thin ice just by discussing it with him. The young businessman made a lot of money and therefore paid a lot in taxes, and it irritated him to know that some of his money was being used by the government to support the people from Joan's old neighborhood who preferred cashing welfare checks to getting a job. She could never match Allen in an intellectual argument, but somehow she sensed that he was wrong, there had always been a lot of people in her neighborhood looking for work, and jobs were never to be found. They had no education to speak of, most of them, and jobs for people without college educations were starting to be more and more difficult to come by. Some of her friends from the slum had come from immigrant families who barely spoke English and had been forced to work since they were children in bars or shops. But Allen got angry whenever she tried to explain that side of the story, just as if she were being unfaithful to him by defending the people she had left when she had come to live in his house and share his name.

"If it really worries you, I could stay overnight with mother and come back in the morning," she offered, craftily thinking that this might be better than staggering in at three or four in the morning.

"Use your own judgment," he instructed her pompously. "If it's too late when you're ready to leave, I'd rather have you spend the night there than try to drive through that inferno alone."

"Okay, darling, you have a nice quiet evening and I'll see you later," she said, kissing him on the cheek and smiling as she left the room.

Wow, I got through that in one piece, she congratulated herself bitterly as she walked out to the curb where her sports car was parked. I'm becoming a very competent little husband deceiver!

The girl had considered very carefully the idea of confessing to Allen exactly what had happened between her and Jack Lynch, perhaps explaining that she had been drugged and then throwing herself on his mercy, but after thinking about it for a couple of days, it seemed like a sure way to find herself out in the street. Allen's moral judgments about other people tended to be rather severe, and she was quite sure that he could not find it in his heart to forgive her. That left the unhappy young wife with no choice but to go through with the deception. She had no idea what Split wanted her for. She knew it was liable to be unpleasant and she was preparing herself for the worst. Apparently she had to come to this party tonight and eight more after it and then she would have all the film back in her possession. Once the last negative had been destroyed, she would be out from under his power, and free again. The next time, she promised herself not to be quite so simple-minded when an "old friend" invited her to a party.

Under the back seat of the car was a plastic bag containing her scoop-necked top, some frilly undergarments, and her cosmetics. Obviously she could not waltz out of the house with the story that she was going to visit her aging alcoholic mother if she were obviously dressed for a party. The young wife intended to dress and do her make up at Split's studio.

The evening traffic was almost gone as she maneuvered the little sports car out of the safe, sane respectable neighborhood where she now lived past the Central Train Station and into the section of town which Allen thought should be knocked down with a bull-dozer and made into a parking lot.

There was a spot open right in front of the store and she parked quickly, locked the car securely and went nervously into the photographic shop, her stomach quivering. Lynch was sprawled behind the counter smiling pleasantly, and he glanced at his watch as she came through the door.

"Hello, lovely, you're early aren't you?"

For a moment, Joan was unsure how she should treat him. This was the man who had seduced her into having sexual intercourse with him only a few days before, and then had arranged in some mysterious fashion to have pictures taken while he humiliated and degraded her. Now they were blackmailing her in some unknown manner. She could hardly act as if nothing at all had happened. On the other hand, if she were going to have to come back here eight more times to get the rest of those negatives, she had better not tear into him and tell him what she thought of people who behaved the way he had. Her jungle instinct told her to play this one cool. She met his gaze and tried to make her voice as neutral as possible when she spoke.

"Yes, a little. I want to dress here, if you don't mind my using your bathroom."

"Evcryting I have is yours, baby," he grinned at her lecherously. "Including my bathroom. You'll find Liza's already back there getting beautiful for the occasion. The guests won't be arriving for a little while yet, so take your time and do a good job."

"Jack, what kind of party is this going to be?" she asked him bluntly, determined to get to the bottom of this business as quickly as possible.

"This is Split's show, baby," he explained affably, getting to his feet and walking lazily towards her. "I better let him do the talking. But it'll be fun, you'll see."

It was clear that he intended to fool around with her, and she was in no mood for any more of that, so she gave him an icy stare and side-stepped him quickly, opening the door which led into the studio. Inside, the place had been transformed from a grubby normal photographer's studio into a reasonable facsimile of an artist's pad. Pillows and mattresses had been spread around on the floor, and several jugs of wine sat on the table along with bottles of whiskey and mixers. On the wall had been posted some of Jack Lynch's "art work," mostly portraits of nude girls and Joan looked around nervously to make sure that none of the obscene pictures of her had been added to this depraved collection.

"Well, the life of the party has arrived!" came Split's deep masculine voice as he emerged from what seemed to be a bedroom. "Hey, don't tell me that's what you're planning on wearing for our little party?"

"No, I've got my dress and make-up here," she explained quickly, feeling somehow that he had immediately managed to put her on the defensive. "Listen, I've got to talk to you."

"Talk, baby," the organizer replied affably, pouring a splash of whiskey into each of two glasses and offering her one. "Here's looking at you."

"All right, I think this is a dirty thing you people are pulling on me," she said frankly, accepting the glass of whiskey after a moment's hesitation. "I want to know what little surprises I've got ahead of me as far as this party is concerned."

"No, surprises, dear," Split explained nonchalantly, looking at her appraisingly as he sipped his whiskey. "Let me explain the system to you. Things get a little dull over on your side of town as you've probably noticed in the last year or so, and a little high life is hard to come by unless you've got the right kind of connections. Most people don't and so I supply them, for a cut off the top, naturally. If you've got a client to entertain and he likes a little two-fisted fun, you come to old Split. You've got a gang of friends and you want a real wing-ding of a party, you call me up. Making people happy is how I make my bread...."

"And tonight? Exactly who are you making happy tonight?" Joan spat at him, no longer able to tolerate this kind of talk.

"Why everybody, love." Split assured her, overlooking her display of temper. "Tonight there's a guy coming over who owns a construction company. William Looming is the name and old Bill has got a reputation among his foreman as a fellow who really knows how to live. He's got to prove it once in awhile because he can't lose face in front of his team. So we're having a party tonight here and Bill will be coming over with some of his boys. Nice guys, I've met most of them before."

"Oh, I'm sure they're just angels!" retorted Joan sarcastically. "And just where do I come in?"

"Why, you're just here to pretty up the place," grinned Split convincingly. "These guys want to have a pretty girl to put their arms around while they're socking down their booze. We'll tell everybody that you're an actress, okay? I suggest you take your wedding ring off, love, because it spoils the image, if you know what I mean."

"So I have to stand around all night and be pawed by a bunch of foreman! Are you sure that's all?"

"Joan, honey, would I he to you?"

"Of course you would!" she snapped at him, relieved that there was not more to it than this despite her show of anger. "Where can I change?"

"There's a dressing room in back of the bedroom," Split directed her, pointed to the door. "You'll find Liza back there already, making herself beautiful."

"Hi, Joan!" cried Liza happily as Joan entered the dressing room, closing the door carefully behind her.

"Hello, Liza. Gee, that's a pretty dress!"

"Do you like it?" answered the model apparently unaware of the fact that her girl friend had not come of her own free will. She stood and held the dress up to her proudly and Joan examined it, trying to convey an impression of interest which she did not feel. Liza's dress was very sophisticated and daring cut in front down almost to the navel. For a moment the young wife wondered whether anyone would pay attention to her in her simple little top even if she did have more to show as far as bosom was concerned. Just as well if they don't she decided and started to take off her own dress to apply her make-up.

"I think it should be fun tonight," Liza announced, laying her dress over the back of a chair and returning to the job of doing her eyelashes. "The fellows were all here once before and we had a real brawl! Wow! I didn't recover for three days!"

Joan hung her dress up on a hook and sat down on the bench next to her friend in order to share the mirror. She did not like the sound of this at all, and decided to see if a little more information could be pumped out of the simple unsuspecting girl.

"What exactly do you do at these parties?"

"Oh, drink mostly and fool around with the boys. Sometimes we smoke some pot, but these guys like whiskey better. I guess some money changes hands as far as Split is concerned, and things sometimes get kinda rough after midnight. I always tell myself I'm not gonna do it, and by three in the morning, I'm always flat on my back with three guys on top of me. I guess I'm just evil, but we always have fun."

"Well, I have no intention of landing on my back with three guys on me!" snapped Joan quickly, now seeing the handwriting on the wall. "Is that what I was brought here for?"

"Well, I don't know, honey. I guess you'd have to talk to Split about that," the brown-haired girl confessed uneasily.

The conversation broke off awkwardly at that point, and Joan realized that she had just made herself sound like a real prude, having implied that she was too good to do once in awhile what Liza did regularly. Joan resolved to find Split before the party and make it very clear that she had no intention of prostituting herself so that he could make a few extra bucks. If a gang of construction foreman wanted to drink with her and think they were spending the evening in the company of an actress, that was his business, but the bedroom business was out!

"Hey, Split, you got some hot numbers for me and the boys tonight?"

"Bill, don't you worry about a thing. Tonight this party is going to swing!"

"Yeah, but where are the broads? The boys are gonna be here any minute now, and I don't see nothing but some liquid refreshment."

"Don't worry, man, Liza's in the dressing room gettin' ready and with her is a new chick who'll blow your mind. She's an actress from the West Coast, but she doesn't want anybody to know who she is, so I can't tell you her name. Just call her Joan, although, of course, that ain't the name she uses in the movies."

"Hot shit, really an actress!" exclaimed the construction man eagerly. "But will she...ya know...will she go for the action in the back room. My boys ain't much for jus' looking."

"Cool it man, she'll go. This broad used to make them fuckie-suckie movies before she hit the big time, and she likes screwing better than you like making money. But you got to take your time and you better clue the boys in about this. She's a lady now that she's famous, and it takes her awhile to get steamed up. Let her get a couple of drinks under the belt first and then make your move. Man, she's the best looking piece of ass Jack and me have had in a dog's age!"

"You mean that you and Lynch've already fucked her?" asked the client, his eyes widening.

"Oh man, we've turned that dame every way but loose!" boasted Split untruthfully, making a mental note to allow Joan to work off one of her pictures by going to bed with him some night. No point in letting Lynch have all the fun.

"I can't wait to see this!" enthused Bill Looming lecherously. "Wait'll I tell the boys they got a real live porno actress to fool around with."

"Just remember what I said about taking it easy," cautioned Split severely. "This gal is still worrying about her dignity, and you got to take it slow and polite until she softens up. And nobody's suppose to know that she's an actress, so if one of the boys recognizes her from one of her films, he's supposed to forget it!"

"I'll spread the word," promised Looming gullibly. "Imagine that! An actress!"