“Very nice.” He stretched his shoulders comfortably, inspected a copper cigarette box. “You’ve used good taste here, Charlotte—and smart buying. I’ll bet you can make a dollar travel.”
“Thanks again. You say the most pointed things in the sweetest way. How about an old fashioned?”
“Just what I was going to ask for.”
“Sit down. I use the kitchen for a bar.”
He lit a cigarette and relaxed. The radio-phonograph at the end of the sofa oozed soft music. Something by Strauss, but he could not name it. Smart girl—she took no chances on nerve jangling commercials distracting her callers—she was using the phonograph.
She returned with two Old Fashioneds on a small aluminum tray, neat drinks with small pieces of fruit. He raised his and said: “To a beautiful girl, a good dinner, and lots of business from Russcorp.”
“You cover a lot of ground, but it saves time. Skoal!”
She built a sound drink. They had three, with Ray helping to prepare the last one. He kept the conversation in her corner—questions about things she liked—polite queries about her career—and he listened with sincere interest, making a rare comment or compliment so casual that she never realized how pleasant it was to talk about herself to a good listener. When at last he asked just how hungry she was, she exclaimed: “Starved! I’ve forgotten about dinner.”
He held the small fur jacket for her. “How does dinner at Chambord and then the show at the Versailles sound?”
He knew better than to ask the stupid question—Where would you like to go?
“Wonderful,” she answered. “Like a perfect evening.”
The evening might be called perfect—the dinner at Chambord accomplished the almost impossible trick, in its gourmandic procession, of reaching taste buds and stimulating appetites dulled by the three Old Fashioneds and four dry Gibsons. He allowed the waiter to select a white wine with the fish, a house burgundy with the meat, and Ray selected Benedictine and Brandy for liqueurs with the coffee.
The entertainers at the Versailles were interesting and excellent, making them laugh and stare and grow moody and sentimental over the steady parade of scotches and water. The last singer was a girl who smeared soft blues over the dark, smoky room like sweet whipped cream spread over a blueberry pie.
Ray sat close to Charlotte, his arm around her, as she snuggled against him, her eyes lidded, her mouth petulant as she watched the blonde girl on the small stage.
He could smell the rich aroma from her hair, the strong woman smell and a hint of good perfume. She was high, he knew, but that was the way he thought he wanted her. He had ordered the drinks so casually, without haste, as if it were the normal thing to do. And the way she had kept pace with him, draining the highballs lately in three draughts, he wondered if she needed the stimulus and the elative fire of the alcohol as much as he did.
What a life! He felt sorry for himself. Work and connive and plan and take long chances. For what?
You hustled and bustled and broke your back and when you got to the top some guy would be waiting to drop a rock on your head if you didn’t get him first. Like that time when he was twelve—or was it thirteen?—and he had the eighteen dollars for the bicycle, sweated together a cent at a time, and two fights a week to keep the corner where he sold the papers. And he went to the store and the man told him that he would have the bicycle for him tomorrow, and suggested that he leave the money, but he wouldn’t, because he didn’t trust anyone, although he realized later that it was what he should have done. The man in the store was honest because he had to be. Then he had fought the three kids who had jumped him on the way home, perhaps by chance, but the way they demanded his money made him think they had been tipped off, which may have been true. He had battled his way free, reached the avenue and a man who had helped him. But he thought the man was a sucker to stick his neck out, and he never even trusted Lonny McNicholas, whom he had traveled with for four years, after that.
He had reached home, the three shabby, smelly, tenement rooms with their sticks of furniture, and his father was there alone, drunk. His mother had left two months before, and he hadn’t blamed her too much, although he never felt quite the same and he’d had to hustle for his food. At least, she used to feed him, sometimes.
Big Heine had looked at his son and said: “Lemme take the money, Ray. Jus’ a loan.”
He felt the warm grip of the liquor. His fingers tingled, responding to a delicious, sensual finger that traced delicate patterns along his spine from anus to brain. The room faded into a dark mist, leaving only its aroma in his nostrils, a smothering weight blended and woven of tobacco and alcohol and the aphrodisiacal scent of hot bodies steaming in the fires of anticipation.
This is what Yogis do, he thought, disembody the spirit. I could be a great Yogi. How many times have I done it? Hundreds. It works best like this, in a dark abyss with a woman close by. But I’ve done it in a cold boxcar with a bottle that cost a dime, so I’ve really got the secret Only the really good feeling is just beyond the mist and I’ve never caught it. Now I will. Here I go . . . out I swirl ... I conquer space!
He picked up his glass and drained the highball with a gulp and laughed aloud.
Charlotte whispered, “Stop congratulating yourself on your good work.”
“Not work, exactly.” He studied her unobtrusively, turning his eyes more than his head. She was high, but her mind should be clear. He would soon go over the edge, himself, but at this stage he could shape his thoughts and words like hand-cut crystal. “I’m going to do a lot of business for Russcorp, Charlotte, and I want you to help me. You’ll be paid for it. Regularly, not in promises.”
She looked at him with interest. The big, violet-blue eyes gleaming in her perfect, slightly flushed, face that looked like a model too long under the photographer’s hot lights. “How can I help you?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open for anything at Russcorp that has to do with me. And one thing more—very important.”
“What?”
“Keep a little list of everyone who calls to see Charles Olson, or anyone whom he takes in to see the big boys.”
“But—why?”
“I’m supposed to reorganize the firm’s advertising, and I’m going to do the greatest things for their business that have ever been done. But there’ll be politics to watch, the knife in the back, and I can’t spare the time to be at Russcorp every day. That’s where you come in.”
She looked reluctant. He couldn’t figure that. She asked: “It’s not anything to hurt the firm, is it? I have a certain loyalty—I wouldn’t want to do anything wrong. They’ve treated me well.”
My God, he thought, now I have to run into morality! That bunch of cut-throats throw her fifty bucks a week and she develops ethics. Then suddenly his mood changed, and he felt a tenderness for her and her concern about the firm. If she was so loyal to them, she’d be loyal to him, wouldn’t she? He said: “You’ll be doing them a favor. Maynard has given them about half the service they deserve, wasted money, acted so old-time that he should have worn a wing collar with celluloid cuffs. He’s going to work for me, now, and I’ll be pumping the organ for Russcorp.”
“It sounds like a good idea.”
“Good idea! It’s worth several million a year to them,” he expounded loftily. “I know this business. I’ve handled sales promotion and advertising for some of the biggest corporations in the country. I’ve pushed public relations campaigns and ghosted projects that will be hush-hush for five more years. And you say it sounds like a good idea.”
She laughed lightly, lifted her glass. “Here’s to you. I guess if anyone can give Russcorp a boost you’re the man. I know they have carried a lot of dead wood.”
He thought, was there ever a receptionist who didn’t think the firm was asleep? All they see is the comings and goings, not the inside action. But she’s with me, now, so that’s that “There’ll be a bonus for all of us at Christmas, and wait’ll you see Russcorp’s
annual report. They’re sound enough to boom, in the right hands.”
They had a few more drinks. He had lost count was too high to even total them on the check, but he noted that it came to $31.40, and gave the waiter a five-dollar tip. When he guided Charlotte into a cab, she said slowly, her speech pleasantly liquid, her tongue slightly out of control: “It’s been a grand night, Ray. You’re wonderful to go out with.”
He kissed her carefully, on the cheek at the corner of her mouth, not disturbing the lipstick, but holding it a long time, moving his lips. She pressed against him, returning the kiss with her soft muscles, her own lips in the air.
“That was nice,” he said softly. “I want the rest of it as soon as lipstick doesn’t matter.”
“All right” she answered. “You’ve earned it.”
They drank more—a lot more—and danced when the music was slow, solid, and hot. At two o’clock in the morning they did little more than sway gracefully around the floor. They danced together from the first as if they had been together for ten years, and the attraction had stood the wear of time.
Driving home in another cab, he claimed the full portion of the first kiss, and then he turned her and laid her across his lap and they repeated—or perhaps it could be called an encore that lasted for sixty blocks.
“Here we are, folks.” The driver had to arouse them, stirring them from an embrace that fueled by alcohol, threatened to burst into flames.
At the door of her apartment she giggled as she gave him her key. It was the one flaw he had found in her—the thin laugh that training had not erased. “Won’t you come in for a night-cap?” she asked. “That’s what I’m supposed to say. And now I did.”
He laughed at her. She was drunker than he was, not rowdy drunk—just fun drunk. So she giggled once in a while. What the hell! It’s a free world.
He unlocked the door. “I feel adventurous. Like to do something brave—like carrying a beautiful girl over a threshold.”
She paused, sagged against him. “Start carryin’. I’m too weak to walk, anyway.”
She was solid in his arms, fragrance with a backbone, and he felt powerful and omnipotent in his strength as he carried her into the living room and danced a circle, holding her like a baby as he stepped carefully down the stairs and pirouetted in the soft light of the single lamp she had left lighted. “Second wind,” he bragged. “I’m ready to dance the night through.”
“I’m game—if you carry me like this.”
He stood her gently on her feet, looked into the violet eyes which were suddenly grave, and kissed her hungrily, feeling his emotional tension rise as she surrendered to the passion of his embrace, her lips working against his. They held it a long time—and he released her lips, nuzzling along her soft cheek to nibble at the lobe of her ear, only when he felt the need of another drink.
“You’re almost too lovely,” he whispered. “I’m longing for you—and I don’t like that. I don’t allow girls to do that to me, even beautiful ones like you, darling.”
Her hand worked against the back of his neck, slow pressures that sent ripples down his spine. “Do you always say nice things in such a complicated way?”
He gently disengaged himself, produced cigarettes. “It’s my defense,” he said, looking down at his lighter as if revealing a very intimate trait. “I’ve always thought that Kipling was right, but lately it gets pretty lonesome.”
She walked over and turned on the radio, and he lifted his eyes, but not his head, to watch the sleek flanks move under the gentle mold of the gown. “Which one of Mister Kipling’s out-dated cliches have you been following?” she asked quietly.
The remark startled him. He hadn’t thought she could hold such a definite opinion. Had she been acting a part, too? No, she couldn’t fool him, he had handled too many of them. “‘Down to hell or up to the throne,’“ he paraphrased, “‘he travels fastest who travels alone.’“
She turned on the figurine lamp above the radio-phonograph and looked at him, her expression grave. “That’s poor advice. We have only one life, and it will be lonely in the grave without memories.”
He shrugged his shoulders, almost a shudder. They shouldn’t let these girls get at the books. “I’ll mix another Old Fashioned,” he offered.
She smiled and moved toward the kitchenette. “I’ll help. We’re almost at the crying stage—we need another.”
They had the Old Fashioned, and then another which he got up from the sofa to mix, watching her as she lay there, the voluptuous lines of her body setting fire to those of his senses still under control. It had been a gradual, but natural thing—the embrace which began as they sat together, lips and bodies locked, and ended after almost an hour with their bodies prone on the cushions, the empty glasses on the rug. She made no effort to get up when he went to the kitchen, and when he returned with the fresh drinks—powerful ones—they drank them reclining, like formal diners in ancient Rome.
He held her shoulders as she finished the last of the double Old Fashioned, and when he took the glass from her to put it down on the rug, he let the titanium stone in the broad gold ring flash, studied it when he brought his hand back, watching the fire flash from the table and the colors sparkle from the prismatic cuts. The only gem more brilliant than a diamond, it looked very impressive.
She followed his eyes. “That’s a lovely stone. I noticed it before. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” For titanium, it was perfect.
She placed her fingers on the ring, tilting it so that the refraction shed colors like a child’s sparkler. “Beautiful,” she said. “It looks warm. Most diamonds I’ve seen look so cold.”
He did not bother to correct her, nor did he lie to her. “It has quite a history.” Her imagination would supply a better history than the brief adventures of the synthetic stone. He suddenly worked the ring from his finger and slipped it over the middle finger of her right hand. She held it up, admiring it.
“Keep it,” he said softly. “Or I’ll have it set in a—a dinner ring for you. Don’t say anything at Russcorp, it wouldn’t look good.”
“Why?” she whispered.
He wouldn’t say what she wanted, that might really foul things up. “Oh, hell,” he said. “I just want you to have it.”
She turned her face to him, puzzled, hoping, beautifully flushed. Whatever reserve she had retained was lost in the trap he did not think he had meant to set, but . . .
He kissed her almost savagely, the strong animal passion driving him away from the haunting memory of those lonely black canyons. She accepted him wholly, now, her arms surprisingly powerful about him, her breathing fast, almost gasping, to match his own.
When the sofa seemed too narrow and cramped, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, undressing both her and himself in the darkness, to take no chances of breaking the spell for the important first time. . . .
He awoke first, in the morning. She slept soundly, her mouth slightly open. He raised his arm to encircle her and saw the time on his wristwatch—seven-forty. There was no time. He got up quietly, found the percolator and let coffee burble fragrantly while he washed and dressed.
He drank three glasses of water and peeked at the bright sky through the small bathroom window. It was going to be a great day! Where were those blues of last night? He’d have to learn to control that stuff—there wasn’t any reason for it. He was on his way, the world was an oyster Rockefeller.
He brought her a cup of coffee and kissed her awake.
“Ooh.” She opened her eyes, smiled at him, the soft, weak smiles they have on the first mornings. “I don’t feel too good. What time is it?”
“Just time to get up and you’ll be on time. Here,” he ordered, holding the cup for her, “a couple of these and you’ll be in good shape.”
She drank thirstily, after sipping to note that he had added plenty of milk and sugar. “Oh, my—well, we had fun, didn’t we?”
It was the embarrassment. She ke
pt her eyes on the cup as if there were pictures inside it. He made the only effective reply—leaned forward and kissed her thoroughly. Then he stood up: “One more minute of that and I’ll be back in the sack. So long for now, darling. I’ll see you at the office about ten.” He grinned at her. “Don’t burst out laughing when you see me.”
“O.K. I’ll act very surprised.”
“And I’ll be very formal.”
He wanted her to get that through her head. Some of them mooned around and gave the show away to anyone with a sharp eye. He went to the door. “So long.”
“Good-by, darling.”
The last thing he saw was the synthetic gem, sparkling at him from the bedside table. A real diamond would have relaxed its fire in the morning light. Real stones had less flash, seemed to save it for the right light.
Chapter 10
Ray saw Charlotte again when he entered the Russcorp offices at ten o’clock. Freshly barbered, with a good breakfast under his belt, he might have been any young executive, entrenched firmly enough to disregard the clock. Men waited in the luxurious reception hall—he ignored them. He nodded to Charlotte as he turned down the corridor. “Good morning, Miss Sanderson. I’m expected in Mister Olson’s office.”
“Good morning, Mister Hitchcock,” she answered warmly, and he felt her eyes on his back as he walked away.
The bustling woman who had been Maynard s secretary attempted to cultivate him with a quick smile and a flood of words. He said: “I’m too busy for details right now. Mister Olson expects me.”
She led him to an office beyond the door still marked with Maynard’s name. Olson waited for him behind a cluttered desk, his face a pattern of worry. “I’ve got a lot of problems, Mister Hitchcock,” he began after a brief greeting. “Things are terribly mixed up. We’ve got to do something about—”
“Now, just take it easy,” Ray ordered, speaking firmly but with reassuring confidence, as if he had all the answers and would supply them when he had a spare moment. He tossed his hat on a table, put down his briefcase. “One at a time.”
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