17
Another restless night for Tiger, and she was glad to see the end of it. She wanted an end to her affair with Luther, too. For that’s what it had been—an affair. Not a relationship. Not a love. An affair, and with all that the word implied. Transitory. Migrant. Ugly. Salacious. So good riddance to it. She found herself thinking about Luther in the past tense. That was good. Perhaps he was truly behind her. Now if he’d only stay out of the way, she could press on. Now whatever he did with his life, it was his own foolish business. She’d be damned if she’d let him louse up her life any more than he already had. And she meant that. That was not just a silly observation. That was a cast-iron vow.
She arrived at the office about as unsmiling as she’d ever been. Martha identified the man in yesterday’s cab. Gerald du Bois, middle son of Harper, du Bois & Mallory. Tiger was as unimpressed with the man’s identity as she had been with his personality. Martha said, “Tsk-tsk,” but Tiger said, “So what?”
She was ready to plow into her work, confident that she would do it better today than yesterday. Nothing would stand in her way. She sat down at her typewriter in the steno pool, and there was a note in its carriage: “See me, please.” And it had scrawled signature, illegible, and an imprinted name: “F. D. Douglas.” (Again with the initials.) Tiger asked Martha who F. D. Douglas was and Martha replied, “Chief talent scout and watch out for the couch.”
Tiger got the message but just couldn’t believe that, in this day and age, men in offices still behaved in so archaic a manner. Besides, there were a few girls, though not many, laboring in the steno pool who Tiger thought were immediately more provocative than she herself. Why hadn’t F. D. Douglas, the old roué, chosen one of them? To which Martha replied, “He already has.”
So armed, Tiger walked to F. D. Douglas’ office, determined to make a fool of the cad even if it meant losing her job. She wondered about the true meaning of Martha’s statement. Had the man had all those girls, or had he just tried all those girls? And which of all those girls felt the cushions of that couch on her back? And how did they benefit from their experience? And what in the world was she, Janice McAllister, neo-virgin, doing walking into such a pseudo-slapstick situation? Perhaps it was all a Cocteau dream. Perhaps she should not go and should just quit. But she was too curious and angry. And she also found it so ridiculous that she had to stifle the giggles before going beyond the door with the “F. D. Douglas” on it.
Fred Derek Douglas’ office was perfect. It smacked of status, yet was not opulent. It had windows all over the place, and its own john, and a small bar, and plush chairs, and a huge desk, and Fred Douglas—an athletic forty-five-year-old man who presided over it all in shirt sleeves and loosened tie. The whole effect was of a magnificently confident lawyer, well in command of his own comet, undeniably handsome in face and form, and not a man that any sane girl could find too many reasons for resisting.
But even as he spoke, Tiger sensed a dichotomy about the man, an off-center quality that undoubtedly served him well in his legal combats but that could frightfully unnerve any young girl under his scrutiny. He was overpoweringly direct in his statements, yet he never really looked at her. He seemed to operate via oblique tangents and puzzling digressions. More, he had a practiced glibness that seemed to portray a total lack of interest in the humanity of the person he was talking to. In short, he was something she’d have to contend with.
“There won’t be all that much dictation, Miss—what’s your name, please?”
“McAllister.”
“Mostly it’ll be straight typing. Depositions, briefs, research, memos. It can be a lot of work, but it doesn’t call for any legal training. Also, it’s fifteen dollars a week more than you’re now getting and you have your own office.” He tossed the rest of it away. “It’s small, but it’s private, and a lot better than working in that noisy bullpen.”
Tiger looked off to the side. There was the small office. It was neat, tidy, and had no door except the one leading into F.D.’s office. Also, it had a couch. A nice, big couch. “That office?” she asked.
“Yes.” He kept very busy, never looking up.
“And it only opens into here, right?”
“Correct.”
“And it doesn’t open into out there—just into here.” She felt as though she were doing a guest appearance on The Carol Burnett Show.
He looked up and smiled. His wild blue eyes jigged happily because he sensed that she was onto him, and he liked that because it made it all spicier. “Yes, only into in here.”
And she knew that he was onto her, so she figured she’d just play it full out Zazu Pitts and let the chips fall where they may. “That’s a nice couch, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll bet it opens into a nice bed.”
“As a matter of fact, it does. Like to see a demonstration?”
“Oh, no, sir. Please don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother.” But he didn’t bother to get up and bother.
Now Tiger became more dangerous. Arlene Dahl staving off Ricardo Montalban. “How many notches in the mattress?”
That got him. “Pardon?”
“How many have you bagged?”
He really liked her more than he had even anticipated. “Three thousand four hundred fifty-three and a half.”
“A half?”
“A minor. I threw her back.”
And damned if she didn’t like him, which was obviously his plan, so beware. “I hear that girls who come to work for you are never seen again. Is that true?”
He turned a silver-framed photograph toward her. It was of a very chic ash blond lady about forty. “Exhibit A. I happen to be a very happily married man.”
Tiger figured she was losing ground and creating the wrong impression. So she resorted to ye olde caustic candor. “And I happen to be the worst typist in the world. So why pick me out?”
“You already know. It’s the tradition.”
“Not where I come from.”
“And where do you come from?”
“Wherever I’m going back to when I leave here.” She started out.
“Hey. Don’t be dumb.” He was standing.
“I don’t want to be disrespectful, Mr. Douglas, but really I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“Oh, cut it out.” He was laughing, and he looked good laughing. “You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. And in spite of the things you may have heard, no one has yet done anything on my couch against his or her will.”
“His?”
“Legal terminology.” He had that way about him, of seeming to lose ground, only to snap back, so that he owned more. “Now, come on. Let’s make it twenty-five a week more. I think you’re a great typist. Is it a deal?”
Tiger tried to be logical, but the man had literally turned her into whipped cream and without half trying. She allowed as to that happening because she was basically nineteen and painfully ill equipped to exchange barbs with a master. She added it up in her mind. Twenty-five a week would bring her salary to a hundred, a nice round figure. Of course, accepting the job implied that she also accepted the couch, and that could be dangerous, in spite of the fact that Fred Douglas didn’t look so sex-starved that he’d take her against her will. Anyway, all things considered, she decided to go for broke. “It’s a deal.” But she would try to establish an understanding well ahead of any incident. “Just one question.”
“Yes?”
“Is it all right if every now and then you lose a case?”
“Certainly.”
“Good.”
“Only it doesn’t happen too often.” And he added, “You know the phrase ‘habeas corpus’? It means ‘we have the body.’”
Tiger countered, “And do you know the phrase ‘habeas shmabeas’?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But it’s something to think about.” She left the office with a smile, but he was laughing uproariously. And she wasn’
t sure whether or not she wasn’t getting in over her head. Still, somehow she felt that it was absurdly unreal to think that that man, that beautiful sexy man, would feel compelled to wrestle her down onto the couch. And then it dawned on her that he might never have to. That was his strategy. Create the environment, establish the threat, make one small move—and watch, folks, how the lady topples over onto her back because that’s what she wanted to do in the first place. It was like that guy Luther had told her about. The one who’d invite a girl into his apartment and then leave the room. And then he’d observe her through a secret opening and watch how she reacted to the pornographic photographs he had lying about. If she picked them up and studied them, figuring no one was watching, he was “in.” But if she immediately put them down in disgust, he was “out.” Simple. And it was reputed to have worked every time. Therefore, she was onto Fred Douglas and his evil plot, and she’d be ready; only why was she trembling? Could it be that it was all fait accompli? Had she already taken the last step and sealed her doom by simply taking the first step? Tune in tomorrow, folks, and watch the smart-assed Janice McAllister get hers—but with a very handsome man, you bet.
She moved into her new office (the one with the couch) within the hour. Martha didn’t know quite what to make of it. She just hadn’t figured Janice McAllister to be that kind of girl. Tiger explained as best she could: that she figured that twenty-five extra dollars a week was worth the risk and that, as far as she could see, Fred Douglas was not all that formidable, and that she could handle him, etc., etc. Martha smiled and voiced the opinion that Tiger would have ample opportunity to prove the veracity of her theory.
The first ample opportunity arose at 5 P.M. that very day, when Tiger brought in the work that Fred had given her to type up that morning. He was glad to see her and neatly closed the door behind her like a shifty matador. When she turned to see him, he was gone. All that there was was the sound of the lock clicking closed. And she knew instinctively: “It is now post time.”
A drink was thrust out at her, accompanied by a resonant masculine voice. “I figure you like scotch. Now then…let’s see what kind of typing you do.” She watched his hand take the papers from her hand, and again the male voice came. “Make yourself comfortable, Janice.”
Boy, was he ever fast. She had yet to say a word—and there she was, locked in and balancing a straight scotch that had to be drugged. She put it down noiselessly.
Without looking up, the male in the room knew that she had put it down. “Don’t like scotch? Try something else. Help yourself.”
She looked over at the bar. Suddenly she wanted a Yoo-Hoo. Or a Bosco. Or maybe she could come alive with a Coke. How about a sarsaparilla, little girl? Or maybe a jug of Demerol to slow your racing heart. “If you don’t mind—” She didn’t care for how weak in the knees that sounded, but the words were gone and there was no reeling them back.
“Oh, come on,” he said, still not looking up from the papers. “None of it’s poisoned…Well, a couple small typos, but not a bad job. Not bad at all, Janice. You can fix it up in the morning.” He was walking toward her. She hadn’t even seen him get up, yet there he was, walking toward her. He could skip moves, like time-lapse photography. She’d have to watch that. “How’d you like your first day on the job with evil old me?”
He was standing in front of her with his delft blue eyes, so damned sure of himself. And yet, she thought, he’s pleasant and attractive. He’s bright and kind of charming. He’s desirable as hell, and isn’t this 1971? And aren’t I a healthy girl? And is that not a sturdy couch? Ya, dass iss a sturdy couch.
“You faint in this office, and you’re fired.” His eyes were leaping into her eyes, and she knew that all the color had abandoned her face. And she puzzled over why she should feel all that weak. “Jesus,” he said, “you are going to faint.”
“I’m all right,” piped her midget voice, and she was suddenly terrified that a man could affect her in such a manner. A gruesome wave of fatigue swept over her, and she could feel herself folding up like a telescope. Soon she’d be two feet tall. Yet her mind was still functioning, and she seized on her inexplicable fatigue as an excuse. For what man would make a pass at a girl who was totally worn out from working for him? She groped for a chair and sat down on it like a dying hippo. “I guess…I guess I pushed myself too hard today.” But she could see that he wasn’t buying.
He reinforced that impression with sound. “By God, you are afraid of me. What do you think I’m going to do with you?”
“I’m a little dizzy. I’ll be all right. It’s just that—” It was such a lousy performance that she knew he’d soon yell “cut” and they’d start the scene all over.
“I see,” he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “You’re dizzy.”
“Well, I didn’t want to tell anyone, but—” Here it comes. Copout No. 436.
“But what?”
“I’m pregnant.” It just came right out of her mouth, those infamous two words, supposed to stop men cold in their desire and dead in their tracks.
But he laughed so hard that she figured the windows would surely shatter. He literally staggered backward and had to lean against the desk. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“A boy named Roland. He’s with the State Department…” Deeper and deeper.
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes.” She was sinking. He was chuckling, and she was sinking, because a lie is a lie is a lie, and he knew, he knew, he knew.
“You don’t look pregnant. What month are you in?”
“Fourteenth.” She said it because it seemed her only way out. When pregnancy fails, try quippery.
He roared, laughed like a lion. Shook like a grizzly and howled like a coyote. What a good joke he must have heard. Then he came over to her and kissed the top of her head just like dear old Dad. “Lovely. And you’re lovely. And I love you for being nervous.” And his hand slid down and touched one of hers. “Now come on.”
She ossified right there on the spot. Actually felt the blood in her veins turn to madrilene. She just couldn’t believe that her body could so betray what she had always assumed to be her strongest feature—a caustic tongue. Yet there she was, like something out of a Shirley Temple movie. The big bad stranger was offering her a lollipop and a ride in his car and all she could do was break out in a big scarlet A on her forehead.
“Come on, Janice. Dinner.” She was afraid to look, figuring perhaps that he was standing there naked and that the dinner he was referring to was him. “Janice,” he said, softly and maturely. “I made reservations at Le Moal. That’s great French food. Now do you want to come with me or would you rather stay here and…abort?”
She wanted to go with him, really, truly. But she was so weak in the knees that…“I have a dinner date.”
“Yes. With me.” He was not about to let her slink out of it, realizing that the whole square-off was settling down into some kind of offbeat psychological warfare. “So come on, and stop this nonsense.”
A Glimpse of Tiger Page 13