Chapter 9
He failed to wake her up; worse, he couldn't sleep. For a while, he smoked away the last of the cigarettes, then he rummaged around in her purse and her dresser drawers, hoping to find a strange phone number. He found exactly nothing.
The next morning he was resolved to get at the bottom of this mess, but Sinclair phoned quite early and wanted him to hurry down to the office. Said it was urgent. Bill promised to be there within an hour.
He cleaned up, threw down a cup of black coffee, and Karen and Edie saw him to the door. "Any idea when you'll be home?" she asked.
He gave her a vacant glance, said he didn't know.
"I wanted you to watch Karen for a little while."
"Why?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.
"I just felt like going downtown, that's all. They have some lamps on sale and ours are so shabby...."
He couldn't see anything shabby about their lamps; she just wanted to get out alone that was it. "I don't know when I'll be back," he said, opening the door.
"I suppose I could get Darla to baby sit," she ventured.
He looked back at her eyes puffed, lips pale and he said, "You really have to go, don't you? Those lamps are suddenly the most important things in the world."
She gazed at him as though he were a stranger. A frown creased her forehead. "You're mad about last night," she reasoned out loud.
"Am I?"
She held his coat sleeve loosely in her hand. "I'm not used to that kind of thing, Bill. I know there were things you wanted me to do, but ... honey, it'll take time. Give me a chance."
"Sure," he said coldly. He started to leave.
"Bill? Can I get those lamps?"
He looked at Karen, who was doing some da-da-da-da. He said, "Do what you damn please," and then slammed his way angrily out the door.
Howard Sinclair was in his private office when Bill arrived. He was drinking coffee from a paper container and mulling over a stack of telegrams. "Sit down, Bill." He swilled some more of the coffee into his mouth. "This wasn't very thoughtful of me, dragging you down here like this."
Bill explained that it was all right, Sinclair hadn't interrupted anything important.
"I still feel like hell about it. You put a man out to pasture, give him a rest, then you turn around and pull him out of bed."
"Don't worry about it," he told Sinclair.
Sinclair smiled. "I like your attitude, Bill. It's too bad the company doesn't have more men of your caliber."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now...." He threw the paper cup in the waste-paper basket. "...this so-called emergency ... I had a phone call from your boy, Grant Harrigan."
Bill leaned back and lit a cigarette. The name Harrigan always swelled him with a certain importance; Harrigan was the chief purchasing agent for Olson & Meadows Electronics, one of Sinclair's more profitable customers. Harrigan forever insisted on dealing directly with Bill, which was why Sinclair called him "his boy".
"He's coming to New York, Bill. Bringing his son along. I thought you could host them around for a few days."
"That doesn't sound like a business crisis."
Sinclair grinned. "Well, there's more to it than that. Harrigan threw a few hints...." He lit a cigar. "...he has a whole series of new jobs in the offing, Bill. Wants some prices on 'em. They're dogs, but the way Harrigan tells it, the jobs could be the juiciest plums we've ever had. So ... if we could agree on price...."
"When is he coming in?"
"Sometime tomorrow. Said he'd send me a wire, so if you could meet him, sort of mother him around a little bit...."
Bill said that he would.
"I'll make it right for you, Bill. You know that."
Another way of saying a bonus, he thought. He stood up to leave. "You'll call me?"
"The minute I hear from him." Sinclair rose to his feet. His expression became suddenly grave. "We don't want to lose this one, Bill. It's big."
Bill reassured him that there was nothing to worry about; he knew how to handle the man, the jobs were as good as theirs. Sinclair was all smiles. He saw Bill to the door. "The family's all right?" he asked routinely.
"Fine," Bill answered, wishing that he had remembered to bring some of those Polaroid shots along. "The wife, too?" Sinclair asked. "Never sassier."
"You take good care of her, you hear."
"I do," he said with a wink.
"I'll just bet you do." He opened the door for Bill. "Maybe one of these nights we'll get together and have a few drinks."
"Sounds like a winner," Bill said happily, and then went out the door.
Out on the street, he felt great; Sinclair had a lot of respect for his abilities, but why shouldn't he? Harrigan represented maybe a million-dollar contract, and who was better suited to bring the bacon home than him? He glowed with an inward pride, the sun was out, he felt on top of the world. He thought the hell with Edie; she'd made her bed let her sleep in it. And he was in no particular hurry to get home; if she wanted lamps and that was a laugh let her hire a damn babysitter.
He dined at Dempsey's, a treat well-deserved, he told himself; ordering filet mignon, baked potato, tossed salad, and all the trimmings. He cocktailed before and after the dinner, luxuriated afterwards with two cups of coffee and a fifty-cent cigar. When he finally arrived back at the apartment, it was after two o'clock.
Darla let him in. "Your wife said...."
"I know," he cut in, "went to look at lamps."
She smiled brightly and fell carelessly to the sofa. She wore a plaid skirt, a purple sweater, and gold sandals. The color combination was atrocious, but she looked cute. The sandals, he loved. "Where's Karen?"
"Napping." She flung her pony tail over her shoulder. "If you want something to eat before I leave, I could fix you a sandwich or something."
He told her that he'd already had dinner, but that he'd like her to-stick around for a while. Sinclair might call earlier than planned. "You don't mind, do you?"
She didn't mind at all. School started next week, the extra time would give her more clothes money. She picked up a magazine, and Bill went to the kitchen and made himself a drink. Darla, meanwhile, made a mad dash for the bathroom. When she returned a few minutes later, flounced herself down on the sofa, he noticed that she had applied fresh lipstick and shadowed her eyes. It was a bit overdone, he thought, and he wondered how much she remembered of the other night.
"Whatcha drinking?" she asked suddenly.
"Bourbon and water."
She made a smacking sound with her lips.
"That wouldn't be a gentle hint, would it?"
She laughed lightly. "Kinda."
"I could go to jail for this," he said, after he had made her a drink. "I won't tell."
"You better not," he warned, "and if my wife comes...."
"I know. Down the sink." She bummed him for a cigarette, then plopped back down to the sofa. He, in turn, threw several toss pillows on the floor and stretched out at her feet. He was only inches away from her gold sandals, fascinated by them, so much so that he reached out to stroke their soft leather.
"They only cost three dollars," she said, suddenly crossing her legs.
Her body hammered with excitement. He had caught a momentary glimpse of her panties, and now her skirt was hiked up and he could see the soft underside of her thighs. The gold shoes became all the more thrilling to touch. He caressed their velvet-like warmness and yearned to kiss them. "You have the tiny feet of an Oriental maiden," he said suddenly.
She laughed; she thought that was funny. His lips drew closer to the dreamy goldness of the shoes. He eased up on one elbow and kissed the tiny warmth of her foot.
A tinkle of laughter broke from her lips. "You're the first one that ever kissed me there."
He wanted to kiss the shoes again and again, but she would think he was crazy. He said, "You have such pretty little feet...."
Suddenly, she jumped up. "Would you like your drink freshened up?"
She was standing over him. Sunlight filtered through her thin plaid skirt and lit the shadows between her legs. He could even see her panties. He let his eyes linger hotly for a moment, then he said, "Good idea." He handed her his glass, then watched her swish to the kitchen. A crazy thought entered his mind: How wonderful it would be, he mused, to be completely naked, to have her walk over him with those sweet, wonderful golden sandals. He could see under her skirt, feel the exciting, excruciating pressure of the shoes on his body and ... He blotted the picture out of his mind. He must be mad.
She returned with his drink and he noticed that she had also re-filled her own glass. He'd have to watch that; if she went home drunk there would be hell to pay. She plopped lazily on the sofa, drew one leg up on the couch, seemingly unmindful that her panties were plainly visible to him.
He gazed longingly at her gold sandals, at the flowered panties she wore; finally, his eyes settled on her shadowed, heavily-lidded blue eyes. It was there in his lap, he thought. All he had to do was reach out and take her; she was like a million other teenage girls wanting to make it with a married man, wanting the chance to brag to their girlfriends that she'd gone the route with somebody's husband. But this was the very thing he was afraid of, that she would talk, that the whole neighborhood would find out.
Suddenly, he reached up, grasped her ankle, and brought her foot to the floor beside the other one. "Didn't your mother ever tell you about keeping your skirt down?"
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. Her eyes danced with mischief. " 'Fraid to look?" He cleared his throat. "Maybe."
"You weren't afraid of anything the other night."
"I was drunk."
She replaced her foot on the sofa. Her skirt fell back. He saw the lush swell of her thighs just above the elastic edging of her panties. "Why don't you get drunk again?" she suggested.
He gazed at her with a mixture of exasperation and excitement. "I wish you were about five years older."
She shrugged. "Scared I'll tell?"
"You might."
"I'm not that dumb."
He was silent. His hands rubbed the cushiony softness of her shoes.
"Do you wanna?" she asked suddenly.
His voice was frozen. He clenched and unclenched the highball glass.
"I won't tell. I promise."
He set the glass down, came slowly to his feet. Her eyes beckoned him. He sat beside her. His hand fell to the shiny warmth of her bare thighs. He pushed her skirt up and kissed her mouth. She ground savagely against him, numbing all his senses of right or wrong. Her hot darting tongue found its way into his mouth; logic dissolved to dust.
His hands fumbled with the warm resiliency of her breasts. She purred like a kitten. "Ohhhh, does that feel good," she whispered. Then: "I could take it off."
"Maybe you'd better not."
"Why? She won't be back right away."
"How can you be sure?"
" 'Cause she left just before you came in." She smiled vainly and pulled her sweater over her head. "Lock the door."
"Darla...."
"Quick. Lock it."
He did, and when he returned she had removed her bra and was zipping down her skirt. The lush enormity of her young breasts surprised him. They jiggled and bounced and the pink aureoles that defined their centers reminded him of miniature carnations. She bent over to climb out of her skirt, and he felt a mixture of excitement and fright. "What if my wife comes home while you're...."
"I can run to the bathroom. You can say I'm taking a shower." She took his hand. "C'mon."
"If you tell anyone...."
"You think I'm crazy, or something?"
"No, but...."
"Do you want to, or are you chicken?" Oh, he wanted to. The point was could he get away with it?"Of course I want to. It's just that. . . "
"Do you want me to help you off with your clothes."
"My clothes?"
"Well, you can't do anything with your clothes on, nutty. Golly!" She unfastened his belt. Then her small hands worked feverishly at the buttons, now the zipper.
He was speechless. Clad only in thin panties, bobby sox and the gold sandals, Darla was completely matter-of-fact about the whole thing; and it was he who felt juvenile.
"You men are so helpless," she said, letting his pants fall and going to work on his shorts.
Suddenly, he swept her into his arms. "Don't get rushy."
"I don't want to wait," he said. He kissed her mouth, fondled her breasts. "Would you do something for me?" he asked, breaking from the embrace.
"What?"
"You won't laugh."
"It depends."
He stretched out on the floor, gazed up at the golden spectacle of her body. Her breasts loomed over him like two pink-shaded clouds. He caressed her shoes. "Walk on me," he sighed.
"What!"
"Please."
"That's kookie and spooky and everything."
"Would you."
"It's nutty."
"Please," he begged. "Just once."
She shrugged. "I heard of girls that walked all over their guys, but I never thought this was what they meant." She placed her golden sandal on his stomach. He braced himself.
"Both feet," he said.
She shrugged again and balanced herself precariously on the flat of his stomach. "Down further," he ordered. "I'll hurt you."
"It's all right. Go ahead."
"But...."
"Go ahead. Hurry." And then the insane craving was suddenly overwhelming, a new thrill that he'd never experienced, with those wonderfully feminine golden sandals tramping down on his throbbing maleness. He screamed in pain and ecstasy. He came to his feet, lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom. He then excused himself momentarily, and she was sophisticated enough to know what he meant.
When he returned, she was sprawled obscenely across their bed, panties off, arms and legs outstretched, waiting for him. Her eyes dropped. He had removed his shorts and she seemed pleased by what she saw.
"I sure hope nobody comes," he said, still frightened.
She was undaunted. "Nobody is coming but us." She giggled. "C'mon, chicken." She hoisted her buttocks up, inserted a pillow. She drew her knees up. "I'm waiting, chicken."
Suddenly, he pitched forward and gave her the damn chicken the head, the wings, everything but the damning telltale egg. He fell between her hot scissoring thighs and surrendered his maleness to a bushy Venus fly-trap that was both heaven and hell. She clamped her legs around him, a lock of no escape.
The clinical match of their bodies was perfect. Though only 16, she knew through experience or blind instinct, more than most married women. She knew when to wiggle her buttocks to encourage him deeper, how to pillow her back so that he might simultaneously suck her breasts, and how to claw his back, bringing pain that was pleasure as well. She wanted him to take his time, even whispered that they could stop for a while and change positions; but time was his enemy. Edie might come home at any minute, and he rushed and merged and battled his way into the teenager's body as though these were his closing seconds on earth.
She realized she couldn't stop him or hold him back, and then she told him to go ahead, that it was all right. He clasped her smooth ripe buttocks for greater leverage. His fingers dug into her hot flesh.
"Faster, honey ... f-faster," she moaned.
He pounded down on her. She met him and fell back. He brought her up again, the wave of hysteria drew near.
"N-Now." She sobbed. "C'mon, honey. Now!" Her words drove him insane. He sent the shaft of passion hurtling deeper and deeper, faster and faster. "Honey...." She gasped. Her eyes swelled. "Darla!"
"Now," she squealed. "Make it nowwww!"
He did. Everything let loose. And she pumped her little body up to drain the last drop of his fury. Then she fell back and let out a tumultuous sigh. "Ohhhh, Bill. That was so gooood!"
He kissed and stretched out beside her. He still twitched, but languor was closing in on him in another minute he would fall asleep. Realizing this, he stole one more sweet kiss; he wanted to eternalize this minute in infinity and space. Then he came off the bed.
The girl pouted. She wanted more. "You're not gonna get dressed ... not already."
"My wife...."
"Scaredy-cat." She twitched her nose at him.
"I'm just being sensible," he said, "and you might try being the same way about this." He hurried to the front room and dressed. She followed him, but it took some angry persuasion to get her clothes on; it was almost as though she wanted to be caught.
When she was finally dressed, he placed a ten-dollar bill inside the V of her sweater. Her eyes widened. She whistled. "Wow!"
"That's to keep those pretty little lips of yours closed."
She pushed the ten to the inside of her bra. "Man, for ten dollars you just christened a new Sphinx."
He unlocked the front door for her.
"And anytime you need me," she smiled, "just give me a buzz. Okay?"
"I'll do that. Maybe I'll even give you two buzzes."
She winked, blew him a kiss, and wiggled her sassy behind down the carpeted hallway. He watched her until the elevator doors glided open. Suddenly, he was certain that an angel sat on his shoulders as the young girl walked into the elevator, Edie smiled and walked out.
The lipstick on his mouth! He turned and fled for the bathroom.