Chapter 6
Toward the end of the week, Rita began to feel the onslaught of mental depression. Nothing had gone quite the way she planned; she had vastly underestimated the costs of the new operation, and her credit, she learned sadly, wasn't exactly unlimited.
The building contractor began the downfall, submitting an estimate for the alterations, a bid that ran to an uncomfortable five figures. Rita was shocked. He was damned unreasonable and Rita told him so. The contractor was a veteran to such protests; he was equipped with figures, figures that amply demonstrated rising labor costs and the sky-rocketing increase in the price of materials.
Rita refused to accept his explanations; instead, she called in another contractor, and to her deep chagrin, the second estimate was higher than the first.
There were other disappointments that week: The wholesale catalogues arrived; to her growing consternation, their prices were exorbitantly high, and their credit extensions were not as liberal as they had described over the telephone.
She discussed these and other financial problems at the bank with whom she dealt, and they were not entirely encouraging. They suggested she needed more capital outlay, and while they would be happy to grant her a loan, they couldn't make one in the size that she would need.
The whole picture was dreary; she saw her dream slipping away to oblivion; and yet there was too much fight left in her to just sit idly by and not fight back. Henry Ridgewood was the answer, she told herself. He'd help her because he had to.
On Friday night, she put on her tightest black sheath, her newest and highest spike-heeled shoes, and she surprised him by coming direct to the office.
He was furious. How could she have the effrontery to strut boldly into his office like this? Didn't she realize what people would think. Was she trying to ruin him? "And how in the hell did you know I was working tonight?"
"No one told me," she said, trying to wrench a smile from him, "I guessed." She sat on the edge of his desk, crossed her black-stockinged legs, and afforded Henry a generous view of her thighs.
"For Godsakes, woman. Get off my desk. If someone should walk in here...."
"Relax, dearie," she said, leaning over to play with his necktie. "There's nobody here but us cleaning women."
"Rita, I've no time for games. The election campaign gets under way next month, I have speeches to write, a new campaign platform to draft ... Rita, I just don't have the time."
She smiled patiently. She raised her sheath to adjust her garter not that it needed adjusting and Henry fought with his Adam's apple. Rita was amused.
"Henry, I can't bear to see you overwork yourself, and there's this new place just out of town steaks deluxe, baked potato with sour cream, and according to the grapevine, they load their martinis with Spanish fly. Will you take me?"
Henry threw up his hands in protest. He simply couldn't. Jobs to be done. Duty to the office, duty to the voters...
"But think of all the fun you'll have," she teased him.
"I'm not thinking of fun," he said sourly. I'm thinking of trouble."
Rita slid off the desk and drew him out of his chair. She said:
"I always thought you liked this kind of trouble...." And then she melted her body against him and kissed him.
Drako's Steakhouse was not the measure of intimacy that Rita had hoped it would be. The commodious parking lot was filled, the bright neon heralded a full house, and Henry stubbornly refused to go inside.
"And why not?" she asked.
"Don't lets go into that again. You know why."
"You can tell 'em I'm your campaign manager," she offered.
"Be serious."
"And I am," she said, her gamin-like eyes suddenly filled with mischief. "But if you don't get out of the car this instant, I'm going to roll down the window and scream rape'. " She giggled. "Now what do you think of that?"
"I think you're crazy, and if I lose the next election, I'll have you to thank for it."
"Henry, you're adorable."
"Balls!" be moaned, and led the way to Drakos.
They came as strangers, wanting, if possible, to perpetuate their anonymity, but this was impossible. In the noisy clamor of Drako's, several of those present recognized Henry Ridgewood and waved. Reluctantly, the balding law director nodded to them, and while it was still not too late to turn and leave, Rita tugged at his coat sleeve and urged him forward.
"You might as well make the best of it," she whispered, and before he could reply, the Captain descended on them and gestured to a table for two.
Henry's manner was less than unctuous; his inordinate coloring betrayed his embarrassment, and while a waiter stood at their table to take their order, Henry remained stiffly quiet.
When the waiter had departed, Rita smiled at him and said, "Cheer up, Henry. It's not the end of the world."
"I hoped you're satisfied," he hissed.
"Why? Because someone recognized you."
"In case you didn't know," he said in a brusque tone, "that's Judge Benson there at the bar, and the fellow next to him is Marc Powell, the Council president."
Rita's marvelous dark eyes drifted toward the latticework that separated the cocktail lounge from the dining room. Momentarily it was impossible to distinguish these two men the crowd at the bar was much too dense but when she did chance to glimpse the two men Henry had referred to, she was neither alarmed, nor impressed. A tall blonde girl was standing behind the judge and had her arm draped around his shoulder; Councilman Powell was occupied by the ubiquitous attentions of an inebriated Japanese girl, one who was strikingly attractive and prone to spilling her martini.
Rita shot Henry an annoyed glance. He was preposterously conservative about appearances "What will my public think?" and the sham of these political overtures angered her. However, she kept her anger intact, hoping that the omnipresent ribaldry here at Drako's would be contagious, that Henry would resign himself to the festivities and join in the fun.
This was not the case. Despite her saccharine smile and lingering gaze, Henry's solemnity showed no respite; and it wasn't until the brassy and noisy three-piece combo set into action and their misplaced rhythm was matched by the drunks at the bar, that Henry finally relaxed. Speech was an effort over the off-key din of the music, but Henry managed a weak smile, and to acknowledge it, Rita leaned forward and pressed her hand to his thigh.
They shared four Manhattans before settling down to order dinner; by now, Henry Ridgewood was less concerned about his "public" than he was at the dominance of Rita's breasts. Rita had clasped her hands just under her breasts, leaned forward, and this womanly artifice brought her lush mounds into even greater prominence, thereby gaining Henry's undivided attention. The black sheath was uncomfortably tight, and beneath it she had worn a French bra, which exposed her nipples. The constant rubbing of her nipples against the fabric of the dress and Henry's hungry gaze had contributed toward a steady stimulation: the incipient hunger that preluded sex.
Henry thought the dress was a knockout: it revealed nothing; and yet, it revealed everything! She settled for the compliment, but pointed out that there were others in the crowd who wore less; Henry's ardent rebuttal was:
"I'm not looking at the others, Rita. I'm looking at you."
She flushed at this unusual gallantry that he had bestowed upon her. Obviously, the spell of the Manhattans was responsible. Ordinarily, Henry Ridge-wood was a wordless lothario, tender speeches being reserved for political gatherings, the apple polishers who gave him rank.
Salads and appetizers were delivered to their table by a red-jacketed bus boy; Henry descended on the hors d'oeuvres like a man edging starvation. Rita toyed uninterestedly at her salad; she was hungry, but at the moment she was preoccupied with the problem of how to approach Henry about the money. Threats would lose their validity if she used them too often; and offering him sex was not a flat guarantee that he would loan her $10,000. But how?
Then, midway in the dinner, while Henry was pawing her under the table, the inspiration reached her. Henry was flatly against the teen fashion shop, mainly, because he didn't wish to have the town's citizenry breathing fire and brimstone down his neck. He could afford to gamble his money there was plenty of that but not his career. So the answer:
"By the way, Henry...." She watched his expression closely. "...I've decided my idea for the teen fashion shop won't work, so I'm not going to open it after all."
Henry Ridgewood was graced with too much suavity to let his knife and fork clatter to the floor in surprise; however, his grim determination not to smile was a failure. Speaking softly, he said, "I told you all along that it wouldn't work, Rita. Right from the beginning."
"Oh, it'll work," she said, turning her attention to the filet mignon. "But not here."
"I don't understand."
"I'm going to a larger city, Henry Cleveland, Detroit. I don't know just where. But this town is just too small to support a business like this."
He beamed his appreciation. He had enjoyed his clandestine sexual relations with Rita, and air travel being what it was, that association could continue. But better and Rita could read his thoughts he wouldn't have to be involved with her damn fool schemes.
"The trouble is," Rita continued, "that in a big city, you have to have a bigger operation, a bigger store, a larger line of stock ... takes much more capital. But here in this town, while the profit is much smaller, so is the investment." She paused before going on, then she said, "Maybe I ought to forget Cleveland and Detroit and keep it small, huh?" And now it was a matter of waiting. Henry would have to suggest it
the old con game: Make Henry believe that the idea was his. And she didn't have long to wait:
"How much working capital, or additional working capital, would you need?"
"You mean to move the operation to a larger city?"
"Yes."
She brooded. Mustn't let the figure pop out too soon. Give it some thought. And then, when she felt that she'd waited long enough, she said, "I suppose $10,000 would see me through. Be skimpy here and there, but it could be done."
Henry did not flinch. He'd been born into wealth and the market had provided him with steady growth. $10,000 was not an amount that one threw to the wind, but Henry was facing other aspects and Rita had known he would and wasn't it worth that much just to get rid of her?
And now, having fed Henry the bait, Rita hurried on: "Maybe I'd be biting off more than I can chew. Maybe the smaller profit, staying here where I'm known maybe that's more important." And then she let it rest as a dead issue, finally picking up a new subject: Weren't the steaks delicious? And how was he coming with his campaign plans.
"Rita?"
But she cut him off before he could say it. Let it build, she thought. Let him practically beg her, and she knew he would.
"Henry, I wish you could have seen some of those young girls I interviewed. Talk about delicious!" She watched him look up from the filet mignon. "This one girl...." She fabricated wild untruths that would excite his imagination, also worry him. "...13 years old and she has breasts like grapefruits!"
Henry cautioned her to lower her voice.
"But everybody has breasts, Henry. Why make a secret out of it."
Again, he tried to hush her. She ignored him:
"if you could just see this little thing when she had her clothes off," Rita said, deliberately talking louder, "you'd have zoomed to outer space ... why I'll bet the boys had her behind the barn before she was ten ... and when she wiggles and squirms, Henry ... Christ, it would send you out of your mind!"
He threw down his napkin. "Rita, I'm going to loan you that money."
"When she puts on these high heeled shoes and starts to ... She affected surprise. "...what money?"
"The $10,000."
"You mean...."
"Yes, I'll draw up a loan, and if you still have those tapes ... you do have them, don't you?"
'The tapes?" She enacted a frown. Then she let a flicker of recognition reach her eyes. A smile was born. "Henry, you don't think...."
"I didn't think anything," he said coldly. "But I'd feel better if those tapes were destroyed."
She reached across the table to clasp his hands. She bore him a compassionate lingering gaze. "Henry, I can't blame you for what you think ... I've been a real Jezebel about those tapes. But you should know ... you above anyone ... that if it came down to it, I'd have never used those tapes against you." She put her hands up to plea. "I know I threatened you. I can't sleep nights, remembering. But I wouldn't have done it, Henry. Not ever." And now she lowered her eyes and played vacantly with her napkin.
Henry nobly accepted her contrition. He patted the back of her hand gently. His watery blue eyes warmed with forgiveness. "And, Rita, I believe you. I really do."
Rita warmed with elation. Henry, for all his brilliance, had been easy to con. And now that he thought he was getting rid of her, the trouble she could cause him, he relaxed and directed his attention to her body. This might be their last night together at least, for quite awhile and he was suggesting more drinks: a celebration.
Rita was compliant. The dinner plates were cleared, fresh drinks were delivered to their table, Rita took on a festive mood, and Henry lost no time in fumbling under the table, searching out the defensive warmth of Rita's gleaming thighs.
They had several drinks; the overall effect was exhilarating. Henry dropped his facade of propriety; Rita felt foolishly reckless. She parted her thighs, allowed Henry's explorations to penetrate the musky darkness beneath her dress, and when his hand crawled above her nylons, stretched and touched the mouth of her panties, she shivered with the want of a man.
Henry paid the check, they drove to a secluded dead-end of a dirt road and parked. Rita snuggled over next to her balding lover, and she expected him to immediately begin tearing at her clothes. Instead, he sat quiet, his arm draped loosely around her shoulder, and he said, "Rita, sometimes it's a living hell to be in the public limelight."
Rita shot him a puzzled glance. His meaning escaped her and she waited for him to go on.
He stared at the moonlight that shimmered off the hood of the car. He was silent for a minute, and then he said:
"Those young girls you were talking about.. . if a fellow wasn't the city's Law Director ... I mean if he just wanted to have a good time...." Rita suddenly understood Henry's sick and perverted thinking. He wanted to hear more about the little nymphets, to imagine himself in the role of the conquering seducer of these innocent street urchins; he wanted to talk about it and think about it to become vicariously excited with imaginary situations that would never exist.
Knowing the kind of perverted devil he was, sickened her. She didn't want him to touch her; she simply wanted to be taken home. But on the other hand, if she utterly refused to co-operate with him, to give his perverted desires some measure of release, then Henry Ridgewood might change his mind about the $10,000.
Moments later, because she was convinced there was no choice, Rita crawled into the back seat with her perverted companion. She played to Henry's twisted whims, inventing such tales that would excite his imagination and bring him to the brink of completion. She described imaginary little girls of wanton desires, of nymphets with unbelievable proportions, of young girls who were dedicated to evil, to the satisfaction of man.
Her fictitious stories turned Henry into a savage. He tore off her clothes, his own, and came at her with a surprising storm. He raked her breast, drooled kisses over the most intimate and treasured parts of her body; and despite rebellion and distaste, Rita soon felt the bubbling of her own desires.
"Let's go in the grass, Henry."
"Huh?"
"In the grass. like Adams and Eve. C'mon." She flung the car door open. "Rita, what if somebody comes."
"Stop worrying. C'mon."
Reluctantly, Henry permitted Rita to lead him to a grassy slope nearby. Moonlight bounced off the bareness of his head. "Rita, this is foolish."
"Is this?" she asked. She undulated her body like an Egyptian belly dancer. Her breasts and torso quivered in spasms of expectancy. The green of the forest was her dance floor; Henry, her audience.
He fell to his knees. "My God, Rita!"
She wiggled closer, delighting in the tease she was bringing him, delighting in what it was also doing to her.
"Do you like?" she asked.
"Oh, Rita! How can you ask?"
"And aren't you glad we came out here?"
"Yes, Rita. Yes ... but ... dance some more, Rita. Do it some more.
"You mean this?" She flaunted and gyrated her lower body inches from his awed face. Henry moaned. He bent forth as though he might have cramps. Rita came closer. She caused her whole body to shake. Henry threw himself at her feet. He kissed her ankles, clutched at her calves, and in a moment he had pulled her down beside him.
"Rita ... Rita!" His coarse tongue sought the perspiring pink of her nipples. His hands brought her burning breasts closer and closer together. Suddenly he gorged both of her breasts in his mouth at the same time. Rita nearly swooned.
"Y-you ... you never did that before," she sighed.
"I never did a lot of things before, Rita. But now...." He raised himself over her. "...now I'm gonna do everything."
"Promise?"
"Y-yes ... yes, Rita. I promise." And then he came at her like a runaway torpedo, blasting her with his passion, exploding her innards, bringing her spasm after spasm of electrifying thrills.
They clutched each other as though this were their last minute on earth. And it almost was. Henry was spent. Completely. And Rita, delivered to an ecstasy that she had never before known, lay back on the grass and stared sightlessly at the stars...
Later, after they had dressed, returned to the car, Rita was ashamed of the passion that Henry had brought to her body. She didn't want him to feel proud of himself and now she had to chide him:
"Those young chicks ... talking about 'em gets you, doesn't it, Henry?"
He disliked admitting to his perversions, and now his eyes grew dark with anger. "That's not true," he snapped. "It's just that...."
She laughed at him. "Don't be ashamed of it, Henry. You aren't the first grown man with a yen for little girls. The jails are full of 'em."
He zipped up his trousers. "And is that the category I belong in?" he asked angrily.
Rita started to say 'yes' but decided against it. If she heckled him too much, he might have a second thought about loaning her the $10,000. "I was just fooling," she said, sliding closer and resting her head on his shoulder. "But you have to admit, Henry, that there's nothing more sweet in life than the seduction of a teenager."
"And there are laws...."
"But if there weren't laws...."
"But there are."
"And laws were only made to be broken," she whispered.
"You know, Rita," he said after a lengthy silence, "as much as I like you, and as much as I've enjoyed our little games, I can't say I won't be glad when you leave town."
"Henry," she giggled, "you sound almost bitter."
"Not bitter. Just wise. Because given the chance, I think you'd debauch every teenage girl in the city."
"Wouldn't you?" she asked impishly.
"When are you leaving, Rita?"
"Just as soon as I have the money."
"Then you'll have it Monday morning...." His dark eyes bore into hers. "...that is, providing I get those tapes."
"You'll get 'em," she said coldly. "Monday ... providing I get the money."
"I think each of us understands what the other wants," he said.
"Yes, Henry. I think we do."