Touchfeather

by Jimmy Sangster

  ‘I’m not going to wake up in Buenos Aires, I hope,’ I said.

  Marvin was holding my hand, and he gave it a squeeze. ‘Nice people,’ he said. ‘You’ll like them.’

  I doubted it, but I let it go. The front door was off the latch and we walked straight into the main room, which stretched to the rear of the house and beyond that to a terrace with the inevitable pool. There were about fifteen people in the room, but I only made it out to be this many after the third count. The room and the terrace were in almost total darkness, relieved only by small pools of light from concealed sources. Three couples were moving around the centre of the room, more or less in time to the music, while the others were sitting, standing or laying wherever the fancy took them, and I do mean laying.

  Orgies I can take or leave, but given the choice, I prefer to leave them. To my way of thinking they fail to live up to any of the promises they’re supposed to provide; they’re a dead loss as far as sexual satisfaction is concerned, and as an exercise in community sociability, they fall flat on their multitudinous backsides. The few I have attended have started off full of embarrassment and deteriorated into near anarchy. So and so, who is terribly broad-minded, suddenly realises that he doesn’t appreciate the things being done to his equally broad-minded wife by the boyfriend or husband of such and such, and Mrs. So-and-so starts to worry that her old man might be enjoying himself too much with the eighteen-year-old nymphomaniac who arrived with the dyke who has already started to upset the hostess. Call me square if you like, but that’s the way I am. In my book, sex is something personal, to be enjoyed by two people alone with each other, without the benefit of audience or extra participants.

  Marvin introduced me to our hostess, a strikingly beautiful Negress wearing a caftan which effectively masked the body beneath it, but not enough to hide the fact that it must have been magnificent, if the way she moved and carried herself was any indication. I was offered a cigarette which turned out to be very good quality pot, so after a couple of drags, I stubbed it out surreptitiously and substituted one that might give me lung cancer, but at least allowed me to keep my feet on the ground while I was getting it. Not Marvin, though. He had come for a static trip, and he took off ten minutes after we arrived. I wandered around for half an hour, becoming more bored and disinterested by the minute. There didn’t seem any point in waiting for Marvin to drive me home; he’d gone so far out he’d not be back for twenty-four hours. So I located him on the terrace and asked him for his car keys. He didn’t even know who I was, but he handed them over regardless. I scribbled a note for him, letting him know where he could pick up the car and, tucking the note in his jacket pocket, I kissed him on the forehead. He beamed at me from twelve miles away as I slipped off towards the front door.

  ‘You leaving us, honey?’ It was my hostess.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ I said. ‘I’m a working girl.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ she said, flashing her magnificent teeth. ‘Mind how you go!’

  I pointed the car downhill and twenty-five minutes later I hit the coast road. An hour later I was tucked up snugly in my lonely, virginal bed—and delighted to be so.

  Mary called me the following morning.

  ‘Are you working today?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll pick you up for lunch at eleven-thirty.’

  I looked at my bedside clock, which showed ten-thirty. Something had to be wrong with Mary. She never got up before eleven and didn’t consider that the day started until teatime. She met me outside, driving herself in a Triumph sports car that she could have lost in the trunk of any of her other automobiles. I’d only managed about four hours’ sleep, but next to her I looked like a baby. There were lines of worry and concern around her eyes that I could have sworn weren’t there last night, and she drove the car as though it were going to blow up at any moment.

  We drove out to the beach, where she pulled in at a small fish restaurant which looked as though it were going into immediate bankruptcy. It was empty when we arrived and, by the expression of the faces of the two queers who ran it, it looked as though it was going to be the same way when we left. The food explained it all, but neither Mary nor I was interested in what we were eating. She managed to hold off until she had downed two drinks while I was still blowing the froth off the first.

  ‘Don’t go and see Gerastan!’ she said suddenly. I’d been expecting something like this, but it still managed to surprise me.

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t want to tell me, but she realised that she was too far in to change direction. So she took a deep breath and told me.

  It was all very ordinary, really, but quite nasty nevertheless. She had met Gerastan before she married Skip. She had been going three parts steady with a Flight Captain named George Random, who had applied for a flying job with the Gerastan Corporation. He had subsequently been screened through half a dozen personnel executives and private secretaries, until it only required the stamp of approval from the great man himself. The job was that of chief pilot for Gerastan’s own personal fleet of aircraft, so the old man wanted to make the final decision himself. At the same time, he asked George to suggest a couple more people who might like to change their jobs—a first officer and a hostess. Naturally enough, George asked Mary if she was interested. She was, and it was arranged that she, George and the prospective first officer would be flown out to meet Gerastan.

  The interviews had gone well, it seemed, and the three of them were asked to stay overnight at the Gerastan place. Roger Gerastan had walked unannounced into Mary’s bedroom in the middle of the night and, when she showed unwilling, he had raped her with the assistance of two of his henchmen, who hadn’t batted an eyelid throughout the entire operation.

  The following day, the three of them had been informed politely by a secretary that they weren’t suitable, and they had been flown back to where they had come from. But Mary, not unreasonably, decided that she would make a fuss. Unfortunately she made the mistake of announcing her intentions before she pitched in. Next day, she was visited by one of Gerastan’s lawyers, who showed her his latest set of photographs. Now, even if a girl is being raped, there are odd moments when it can look as though she is a willing partner; a camera shutter clicks very fast, and an expression of pain, if caught at one-five-hundredth of a second, could feasibly be one of pleasure. Out of the three hundred odd photographs taken from a concealed camera let into the ceiling, a dozen had been selected. According to Mary this dozen had been beautifully doctored, and not only did it look as though she were having a ball, but somehow Gerastan had disappeared completely from the scene, leaving just herself and the two henchmen. The lawyer went to great pains to point out that everyone would be a lot happier if Mary forgot the whole unfortunate episode. So forget it she did, and a year later she was married to Skip.

  Six months after that, Skip’s business advisers had come to Skip and told him that the Gerastan Corporation were trying to buy a tract of land that Skip owned in Arizona. They wanted to build a missile factory or some such. The price offered was fair and the advisers suggested that Skip accept. But Skip didn’t rate Gerastan at all. He despised the man’s politics and had said so on a number of occasions. Added to this there was a background of double-dealing and high-powered chicanery which had taken place sometime in the past over a business deal, when Skip’s father was still alive and Skip had just started working for the company. So Skip told his advisers that he wouldn’t sell a glass of water to Roger Gerastan if the man was stranded in the middle of Death Valley.

  Skip’s advisers duly reported this to Gerastan’s advisers, and two weeks later Mary received one of the photographs in the mail, with a little note signed by Gerastan. How she managed to talk Skip into selling, I don’t know, but she did. She had to. And that, more or less, was it. Gerastan still had the photographs, and she could never be quite sure that one wasn’t going to land on her breakfast table one morning, should Gerastan ever feel dispos
ed to want something from her or Skip.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Skip the truth?’ I asked. ‘He’d have understood.’

  ‘Perhaps he would,’ she said. ‘But it’s too late now. I can’t take the chance. He’s very narrow-minded, in his own way. Perhaps if it had been anyone else but Gerastan, but...’ She reached across and pressed my hand. ‘Don’t go up and see him, Katy. Don’t go near him. Whatever Marvin says about him, he’s an evil man. You could get into trouble, serious trouble.’

  It wasn’t quite right somehow. I knew that Mary was very fond of me, but that hardly seemed sufficient reason for her telling me what I’m sure she had never told anyone else. She knew I was a big girl now and could look after myself in the clinches. All in all it didn’t gel, but there was no point in pursuing the matter. I agreed that I wouldn’t go and see Gerastan, even if I was invited, and she seemed vastly relieved. We finished our lunch and paid a bill large enough to stave off bankruptcy for the next three months.

  Mary drove me back to my hotel. ‘I’d like to ask you round tonight,’ she said. ‘But Skip has to go out of town and I’m going with him.’

  I told her I was working the following day and needed an early night anyway. As I watched her drive away, I thought I saw a car drive past that I had noticed earlier, parked across from the restaurant while we were lunching. But most American cars look the same to me, and I could have been wrong.

  ELEVEN

  I spent a wallflower-type evening. Even Marvin didn’t call, but he probably hadn’t yet got back from his trip. I was flying to New York the following morning, so I had an early night, trying to catch up on some of the sleep I hadn’t had the night before. Bright and early I greeted my sixty-two charges and held their joint hand as we crossed the continent from West to East.

  Walter was out of town, so I had dinner with Robbie in the apartment. I tried to steer the conversation around to her and Walter, but like he did, she politely told me to mind my own business. I decided that matchmaking was for the birds, and we spent a pleasant evening talking about absolutely nothing.

  The following morning I welcomed aboard seventy-eight people who could have been the same ones as yesterday, so anonymous do passengers become when one is flying regularly.

  With the time differential on my side, I was back in Los Angeles by three-thirty p.m. local time. Same hotel, different room. I called Mary’s number in case she had changed her mind and not gone away, but was informed by the butler that Mrs. and Mr. Youngman had departed yesterday for parts unknown and he didn’t know when they would be back. I would have called Marvin, but I didn’t know his number, so I called American Airlines and asked if Captain Fellows was in town. He wasn’t, and that seemed to cover the whole spectrum of my social life.

  I spent a couple of hours by the hotel pool and then I had my hair done. About seven, I hired a self-drive car and drove around town trying to pick out a suitable-type restaurant for lonely spinsters, one where their loneliness would be respected, and where they wouldn’t be required to fight off equally lonely bachelors. I didn’t find one, so I drove back to the hotel where I phoned United and practically begged to be given a flight the following day. The supervisor called me back an hour later and told me that a girl had gone sick, and I could take her place on the afternoon flight the next day. Then I went to bed.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Mike Fellows. He had just got in and they had told him that I had called earlier.

  ‘Can I come round?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s late,’ I said, knowing that he would give me an argument. He gave me one, and twenty minutes later I answered his gentle tap on the door and let him in.

  ‘What did you do? Bribe the house detective?’ I asked after the welcomes were over.

  ‘It cost me ten dollars,’ he said, starting to undress.

  Like I said, I’m a bit in love with Mike Fellows, or rather I used to be up to a week ago. He’s a neat, compact man, with a tidy, well-put-together face and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He has a gentle, humorous mouth and he’s a marvellous lover. We’d had some pretty wild times in the past, but something had gone wrong tonight and it could only have been my fault. He was the same as always, but he felt like a stranger to me. I tried very hard, but it was because of this that I gave myself away. After ten minutes he rolled away from me, his blue eyes regarding me steadily.

  ‘What’s the matter, Katy?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes there is. You’ve met someone.’

  There didn’t seem any point in lying to him. ‘He’s dead,’ I said.

  ’Poor Katy!’ He took me in his arms again, but it was no different this time. After a few minutes he drew back again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you shouldn’t have let me come round.’

  ‘I phoned you, remember?’

  ‘Because you were lonely?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He kissed me again, gently, without passion. It was nice, lying there in his arms, comfortable, and I didn’t want him to leave me. And after a few silent minutes I realised that perhaps I did want a little more from him. I’m a normal, healthy girl and these things happen, however screwed up one may be inside. And he really was very sweet, and I was terribly fond of him, and he smelled nice, and he was cuddly. It turned out to be almost like old times. I woke up once in the night, coming up from a dream of Bill, which left me shaking and covered with perspiration. But Mike wrapped his arms around me again, and after a while I drifted back to sleep.

  We had late breakfast sent up to the room. Then he watched me while I got dressed and we made vague plans for the following day, should I get back to Los Angeles. I kissed him goodbye and went downstairs to check out. Five minutes later I caught the crew bus to the airport. Fortunately, I was early. My flight wasn’t due to be called for an hour yet, and that’s how I saw Hank Almedo.

  He was getting out of a taxi outside the American Airlines terminal. I didn’t recognise him until he turned back to pay off the cab, and by then we had already driven past. But it was him right enough, with one side of his face looking like a Turner sunset. I yelled for the bus to stop and I had jumped out before the driver really knew what had happened. I ran back to where I had seen Hank, but he had already disappeared into the terminal building. This suited me fine. I went in through the end door and looked along the two hundred feet of lobby. He was checking in at the fourth booth and, even as I saw him, he turned away and headed towards the bar. The sign above the check-in counter showed that he was going to Chicago, departing in thirty-five minutes. I ran across to a line of phone booths and then realised that I had left my handbag in the bus. I dialled the operator and asked for a reverse-charge call to Walter in New York.

  ‘There’s a twenty-minute delay to New York,’ reported the operator happily, so I asked for the supervisor, and when she came on the line I gave her the code number Walter had told me to use any time that it was urgent.

  Two minutes later Robbie put me through to Walter. ‘I’ve just seen Hank Almedo,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s flying to Chicago in thirty-five minutes.’

  There was a moment’s pause, the long-distance wire humming gently; then Walter made up his mind. ‘Go with him. I’ll contact Blaser and have instructions waiting for you when you arrive.’

  ‘I don’t know, Walter,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to be nonoperational at the moment. Mr. Blaser might not like it.’

  ‘I’ll take care of Mr. Blaser. You do as I say. What’s the flight number?’ I gave him the Chicago flight number and heard him call it out to Robbie; then he was back on the line with me. ‘What are you supposed to be doing?’ I told him I was due out for New York in an hour and gave him the details. ‘Check in for the Chicago flight in ten minutes. There’ll be a ticket waiting for you. Fly as a passenger in whichever class Almedo isn’t. Clear, Irish?’

  ‘Clear,’ I said, and hung up.

  I ran all the way to the United terminal, w
here I collected my handbag. Some enterprising person had already put my suitcase aboard the flight to New York, so I borrowed a topcoat from one of the girls and slipped it on over my uniform. Walter had worked fast; I’d already been taken off the New York flight and the supervisor was livid because it meant that they were going to have to fly one girl short. There didn’t seem much point in offering my apologies, but I did anyway. I needn’t have bothered, because they weren’t accepted.

  Then I ran back to the American building and checked in at the same desk Hank Almedo had used. My ticket was made out for economy class, which meant that Hank was travelling first. Walter had arranged that I board the aircraft with the cabin crew and, as the flight hadn’t yet been called, I got aboard without even seeing Hank. I saw him board with the other passengers and take a seat halfway along the cabin. It was a window seat, so he wasn’t going to be able to make any rapid getaways when we reached Chicago, which was a relief, because until we landed there and I picked up my instructions, I didn’t know what I was going to have to do.

  The flight was uneventful and it was quite a change to be sitting down in an aircraft while the other girls fetched and carried. Five and a half hours later I was first off the plane, running down the covered gangway hoping that whoever was supposed to meet me would see me before Hank Almedo did. There was an airline man waiting at the end of the gangway.

  ‘Miss Touchfeather?’

  When I agreed that I was, he handed me an envelope. I tore it open quickly. There still wasn’t another passenger in sight.

  Stay with him. Report whenever possible. B.

  And that was it. No matter that I didn’t know Chicago, nor that I was still wearing a uniform covered only by someone else’s topcoat, nor that I had only about six dollars in my handbag, nor that if Hank recognised me he would no doubt get very ugly. Mr. Blaser, three thousand miles away on Pandam Street, had made his decision and it was not my place to reason why. I cursed the fact that I had decided to report for work early. If I hadn’t I would probably have missed Hank altogether. A pox on everyone, I thought. Then my breast started to itch where it was healing up, and I thought about that cellar again, and I thought of Bill and how Hank had been partially responsible for what had happened to him. That made me feel better about the whole thing, and by the time Hank Almedo came out through the first-class exit, I was already across at the other side of the lobby, waiting for him. I had decided what I was going to do. I would follow him to his hotel, and after he had checked in, I would check into the same place and then phone Walter to wire me some money. I had sufficient in my bag to cover my cab trip to town, and that was about all. I still think it was a good plan, and it wasn’t my fault that when Hank reached town he checked in at the YMCA.