But Vy Griffin could not speak. In that moment she seemed to relax, to stop fighting and thinking and being afraid. Her arms reached up and pulled Adam down tight upon her. Her mouth parted and covered his, hungrily.
He took off his clothes and lay down next to her again and lay there waiting for the pain to grow, smelling the cheap perfume and the heat and the night.
It was a sickness, someone had once told her. Just like other sicknesses. You went to a doctor and he cured you. So she’d gone to a doctor, and he’d talked with a lot of big words, but what he’d ended up saying was what she’d known all along: there was no cure. You can take the needle away from an addict and you can lock him up, but you cannot take away his hunger and his need.
For five years she had fought the need, ever since Sam had come into her life. But she knew it was there, like a cancer in her blood; and she knew, also, that it would consume her one day. And that would be the end of everything.
Now, with this strange young man touching her, lighting fires inside her, she remembered the five years as though they had been moments—the only happy moments in her life . . .
She had been working a cocktail bar called The Cat’s Pajamas in New York, in company with three other professionals. What were their names? Sally, the big girl with the light tan skin and slanting eyes who palmed herself off as Spanish and got away with it. Jewel, an old Negress, very dark and very stupid, but acclaimed because of her special abilities. And Irene. And it was getting late that night, and business had been slow.
The memory came into sharp focus; she lived it more clearly than she was living these moments now. And she could hear the voices of the Negro women more clearly than Adam Cramer’s . . .
“I don’t know,” Jewel said, “but it’s probably the weather. I dropped into Hardy’s and you know how it is there all the time, but there was only the regulars. And they were watching TV.”
“You shouldn’t ought to go there,” Irene said. The brown fur matched her skin perfectly. “It’s bad for all of us.”
Jewel laughed. She was the independent one, the smart one. A few bottles of blonde hair dye and some make-up had lifted her from the eight-dollar class to the twenty-five-dollar class, but she had little pride. Hardy’s had been her hang-out for six years. It was a rough Harlem joint, but, as she put it, there were a lot of nice men came there. It almost seemed that she missed the free-wheeling, above-board atmosphere there, where a prostitute was a prostitute and everyone knew it and there was no monkey business, like at the Cat, of pretending you were something else.
Sally giggled. Despite her flashy modern dress, she had an air of the ’twenties about her, a fragile, little-girl appearance. This, combined with the sultry Latin quality, made her the most popular of the four. All men were “Daddy” to Sally, all tricks “nice times,” and she always lowered her eyes when she mentioned money. “We could go to a movie and come back,” she said.
“We’ve been to a movie,” Irene said.
“Well, I’m getting tired. Aren’t you, Vy?”
Vy nodded. She didn’t actually like any of these women, but working alone was unbearable. It gave you too much time to think. For a while, after the last job fell through, she had been able to persuade herself that she was nothing more than an up-to-date, twentieth-century person, living and loving free. But when the money ran out and she began accepting “gifts,” she faced it squarely. If you’re going to take money, then you’re a professional, and you might as well work like one. It’s all you know how to do, anyway. You can’t type or take dictation, and you’re not pretty enough—in the light—to get by without it.
So she worked with Jewel and Sally and Irene, because that gave the customers a choice. A white girl was good for business.
Especially a peroxide blonde who knew how to wear furs and had smooth, clean skin.
But she had nothing in common with them. They were stupid and vulgar and hard. Sex was their line of work and that was how they regarded it.
When she’d been younger, Vy had read novels about sloppy old whores with hearts of pure gold, basically lovable creatures, and this had comforted her at first. But she had never met anyone in the profession who fitted that description. The whores she knew were frequently sloppy and sometimes old, but their hearts were shriveled and they were far from lovable. It was not so much that they were evil, merely that they were stupid. That, Vy soon found out, was the characteristic of the real professional. With the hundred-to-five-hundred-a-night girls, and the Hollywood crowd she’d heard about, maybe it was a little different. She doubted it. In the years she’d worked she’d come into contact with a great many prostitutes, and they were all pretty much the same. They worked a few hours at night, slept most of the day, died poor. And she was no different. That was the important thing to remember. Despite the way she felt, her reasons, despite everything, she was no different.
“Well, it’s hot in this fucking place and I’m tired,” said Jewel. “I’m going to—”
“Don’t use that word, don’t use that word,” Sally said.
“Why not?”
“It isn’t ladylike.”
They sat over their glasses of Scotch and crushed ice and waited, and then three men came in and Vy could tell that they were marks. They laughed too loudly, and when they sat down, they looked around the place too hard, and they were not New Yorkers.
“See, now?” Jewel whispered. She smiled faintly in the direction of the men and returned to her drink.
A few minutes passed, then one of the marks got up from his seat and walked over. He was blushing fiercely, and Vy could tell that he was drunk. Not too drunk, maybe. But drunk.
“Hi,” he said.
Sally giggled.
“I’m, uh—well, what I want to know is, I wonder if we could buy you girls a drink.”
He was looking at Sally. In the dim bar light, she was sexy, and she made the most of her breasts. She’d had the muscles tied in one of those operations, and they stuck out, erect and hard. “Well, I just don’t know,” she said. “You know anybody here?”
“Know anybody?” the man said. He craned his neck to look at his friends. “Oh. Well, see, we’re just sort of visiting here in town. We’re just visiting, on a trip. We thought we, uh, might could have a little fun.”
Vy took her eyes away. He was ugly and close to middle years, and the other two didn’t look much better. But that didn’t count, she told herself as always. If you’re a professional, you’re a professional. Weed out the wild ones and the disgusting ones, but take anything else. You can’t afford to pick and choose the way amateurs do.
“We’re not allowed to unless you know somebody,” Sally said, giggling. “I’m sorry.”
It was almost like prohibition. Since the lid had been put on, you had to be careful. The cops were real bastards now.
“Well,” the man said, “maybe I do know somebody at that. Let me just check a little, and I’ll be back. You wait, now.”
He went over to the booth, and Vy saw one of the men, a heavy, red-faced fellow, grin and shake his head. He looked like a pleasant sort, and it was obvious that he was new at this sort of thing.
The first man pointed to Vy and the red-faced man looked over at her. He stared for a long while. Then he turned away.
“I think it’s gonna be okay,” Irene said.
Sally said, “I hope so. I’m tired.”
The first man went to the bar and got Ewald aside. From the corner of her eye, Vy could see the bill pass hands. Then Ewald walked over and said, “Girls, this is an old buddy of mine, Howard De Vries. He and his friends would like to buy you some drinks. Do you mind?”
Sally giggled again. “Not a little bit of it,” she said.
The man called De Vries winked at Ewald and went to collect his friends. Soon they were all seated in the large, semicircular booth.
“This is Billy Diamond,” De Vries said, gesturing at a thin, scared man with sandy hair; then, looking at the fellow wit
h the red face, “and this is Pete Jones.”
Vy smiled at Jones and knew, instantly, that he would choose her.
“How about it?” De Vries asked, much more at ease now. “What you want to drink, girls?”
Jewel said, “Scotch.”
Ewald nodded and went away.
“I thought we was going to be out of luck,” De Vries said to Sally. “Things have changed.”
“Not too much,” Sally said, fluttering her eyes.
“No, guess not too much!”
Ewald returned with the drinks. The man called Diamond dropped a ten-dollar bill onto the plastic tray and said, “Keep the rest.”
Vy could feel Jones’s eyes on her. They were kind eyes, she could feel that, too. He would be all right.
After the introductions, it was clear that Jewel would be left out. She threw down her drink and said to De Vries, “You aim to go out afterwards?”
“Sure.”
“I know a way you can have twice as much fun.”
“Well,” De Vries said, “I don’t know, I don’t think so.”
“You ain’t heard about Jewel?”
“Well, we’re sort of low on money tonight. And—”
“Okay,” she laughed, “forget it.” She rose from the table. “Night’s still young.” She looked much older than her thirty-eight years, standing there. The blonde hair was grotesque in the blue light. “Have fun, kids.”
“Don’t you go to Hardy’s,” Sally said. “We don’t want no cut-rate anything’s goin’ on, now. Hear?”
Jewel grinned and walked away.
Pete Jones took a swallow of his drink and said, “You think you could go with me this evening, miss?”
Vy kept the professional tone in her voice. Maybe it was the hot waiting and the liquor, or the time she’d had to think, she didn’t know; but she felt something near shame, now, the feeling she’d had to fight down the first two years. “I don’t see why not, Mr. Jones.”
“I’d like that.” He bent his head to look at her. “You know, miss, I think you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve seen in New York.”
She smiled professionally. “That’s nice, Mr. Jones.”
He turned a little redder then, and took another swallow. She could hear the other voices, Sally’s fantastic giggle, Irene’s husky tones. They seemed to contrast sharply with this man’s soft, Southern accent.
“My name isn’t really Jones,” he said. “The boys decided we ought to make up names. But I’d slip, I just know I would. So I might as well tell you the truth—it won’t hurt, anyway. I got nobody.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I’d as soon. My name is Sam Griffin. I’m a pitchman, I sell things. But I’m not having much luck here. This is an awful cold town.”
Vy sipped at the Scotch. She heard Irene say, “You don’t have to worry about nothing, honey.”
Diamond had begun to whisper. “Do you do—everything?” he asked, and seemed startled at his courage in asking it.
“I haven’t had no complaints from my customers,” Irene said, smiling.
“Call me Sam. Not many people do. I travel around so much of the time, I don’t get a chance to make friends. These other fellas are pitchmen too; I run into them last night, over at the department store. Ed’s got a line of wind-proof cigarette lighters, Harry’s pushing a fabric cleaner. Pretty good line, too, but the people are so cold in New York. They just stare at you. I mean, it’s the biggest city in America, but I never did feel so alone.” He paused. “I suppose that sounds kind of sappy to you.”
“No,” Vy said. “It doesn’t.”
Sam Griffin beamed. “But I don’t see how you could ever feel alone—” He blushed. “What I mean to say—well, that’s me, putting my big foot in my mouth all the time! What I meant was, a pretty girl like you, there must be fellas . . .”
“Relax, Mr. Griffin. I know what you mean.”
He looked at her. “I think you do, you know? Nobody else does. These guys, Ed and Harry, they’re happy as pigs all the time. Got everything they need. No matter where they light, it’s home to them—and most pitchmen are that way.”
Vy straightened in the seat. They’re not men, she told herself, they’re customers. And it’s getting late.
“You want to go with me tonight?” she said suddenly, in a different tone.
Sam Griffin smiled. “I sure do.”
“It’s twenty-five dollars, hour limit,” Vy said.
A hurt look came into Sam Griffin’s eyes, as though she had disappointed him; but he did not stop smiling. “You want it now?” he said.
“No. Afterwards.”
“Anything you say, Vy.”
“Are you ready, or do you want to drink some more? If you do, I’ll have to charge.”
“I’m ready now,” he said. “Gosh, you got pretty hair. I don’t think I ever saw such pretty hair.”
“Go to the James Hotel,” Vy said, avoiding his eyes, shutting out his voice. “Register as Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. You know where the James Hotel is?”
“No.”
She gave him the address. “Remember, register as Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. They’ll take you to room 7. Lock the door and wait for me there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Get a cab now. I’ll stay here fifteen minutes and come over.”
“Is it real?”
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“No. Dye.”
“Well, it’s pretty, anyway. It smells good.” Sam Griffin started out. Then he turned. “You’ll come, you promise?”
“Sure.”
The man who called himself Diamond stopped Sam Griffin and whispered loudly, “Griffin, listen, you ought to try the dark stuff. I’m not kiddin’. They really know how, things you never even thought of.”
“I’m okay,” Sam Griffin said. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, but you could come over to the joint with us afterwards. You ever had any dark stuff?”
“No, but—”
“I’m tellin’ you, Sammy. They’re a hundred million times as good. Skillful, what I mean. And you don’t need to worry, let me tell you. Clean.”
Vy pretended not to listen, for she knew instinctively that Sam Griffin would be terribly embarrassed.
“You hear what mine just said? I asked her, you know, ‘Are you okay?’—and she said, ‘Honey, you may love me but I love me more!’ These are twenty-five-dollar whores, Sammy—they douche before and after, they go to the doctors for check-ups. I never heard of anyone getting anything offa them.”
“Keep your voice down, Ed.”
“What?”
“Shut up, shut up, keep your goddamn voice down.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you, anyway?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why you looking that way?”
“No way, Ed.”
“I’m just trying to give you a good time. You never tried the dark stuff. I’m just telling you it’s great, that’s all.”
“Okay, you told me. Now forget it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay! But you’re screwing yourself, that’s who you’re screwing, believe me. The white dames, all they do is a job; I know. They ain’t got their heart in it. And for anything extra, man, you go through all kinds of crap. Now you don’t want to throw your money down the drain, do you?”
Vy heard Sam Griffin walking away, and she was glad when he was gone.
“Am I right?” Diamond said to Sally.
Sally giggled, and Vy wished, suddenly, that she’d not decided to work tonight.
What was the matter with her, anyway?
The voices and the bar-sounds faded, and she found herself thinking of Hammond, of August and the rich yellow hay smells, and Bo. It was almost corny, the way it happened that first time. Bo—she’d never learned his full name—had been a trouble shooter for the telephone company. And he’d come by when Mother was visiting Maudie for the weekend. There w
asn’t anything wrong with the telephone, but he had to check, that was his job. His sleeves were rolled up, and the cords stood out beneath the rippling tanned flesh, and she had the feeling, the same as she’d had so many times before. Only, Bo hadn’t looked at her as if she were a child. He’d laughed a lot and poured himself some water and told her she was pretty. And when he’d asked if she was alone, she’d told him the truth.
He had been the first.
She’d felt miserable afterwards, when he’d gone, and she knew how wrong it had all been; but that night she’d dreamed of his hands and of the sight of his big tanned body in the bedroom, of his rough, harsh, unmusical voice.
Bo came back the next day, and she gave herself to him again, and on the next day, and on every day until her mother returned.
She could remember the second man, but the others all seemed to blur into one faceless male entity. The mathematics teacher, Mr. Loge, the shy little boy who’d been so surprised when she’d not pushed him away, the sailors and soldiers, all giving her what she wanted and did not want, desperately did not want, but had to have.
Of course, no one understood, because she didn’t understand, either. When her mother found out about it, she called her a filthy tramp, and Vy supposed that that was right. So she quit high school and came to New York. In New York she could start fresh, get a job, meet someone nice. But it was only a continuation of the same. In every office there would be at least one man who could recognize her, see this thing that burned inside of her. How? How could they know? She looked no different from the other girls, she dressed well, she was proper and ladylike. Still they knew. And they would tell, afterwards. And that would be the end of the job.
Now it was too late to go back, even if there were anything or any place to go back to. She still had this hungry thing that could not be cut out of her, and it still needed to be fed.
Forget that you ever wanted a normal life, she told herself. You’re not sick or neurotic or tragic. You don’t long for love or tender words. You’re just a beat doll who can’t get along without a good time. It doesn’t matter who does it, just so there’s some variety!
Irene patted her hand. “We’re goin’ now, Vy,” she said. “It’s about time for you, isn’t it?”
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