Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  Wayne commented, “Sort of a Gay Nineties idea, but dressed up for the modern tempo.”

  “Exactly. Now, then, if you’ll come downstairs with me — ”

  Wayne Howard was captured and hard at work before the week was out. He disliked being chiseled, his personality clashed with Marty’s, he had a hunch that Marty was one of the most cold-blooded and thoroughly dishonest persons he had ever met, yet there was no doubt that if he turned out the job properly he would be made in San Francisco. He threw himself into the task as if he were making a fortune out of it. That, he assured himself, could come later.

  Marty captured an architect and building contractor and all the subcontractors in the same manner. He got all young men on their way up, none of whom had ever handled a job of that magnitude, but all excellent men in their respective fields. Marty’s enthusiasm brushed off on them and they worked as if they were inspired. There was no doubt in their minds, either, that their success was closely linked with the eventual success of the hotel.

  Dotty Kimball dropped by the hotel one afternoon while he was supervising some upholsterers at work in the lobby. Marty conducted her on a tour of the lower floors, pointing out the renovations and explaining what he had in mind. Dotty was seeing him from a new perspective and was properly impressed by his abilities. But when he led her to his private office just off the lobby Dotty had difficulty hiding a smile. Marty had redecorated the office himself. Though smaller, it was almost an exact duplicate of George Stannard’s sitting room. It failed, however, to capture the elusive atmosphere of continuity that Marty had been after.

  Dotty wandered about the room with her coat thrown back from her shoulders, examining the furniture and the bric-a-brac, while informing Marty that she had moved to an apartment on Pine Street and that she had a very good contract at Chez Rouge. “Sam is a love. He knows he could have had me for less, but he made it five hundred a week.”

  Marty was leaning over the desk, examining some blueprints. He mumbled, “You can thank the Stannard name for that.”

  “I know.”

  “George alone will spend that much in the place in a couple of nights. How have you been doing there?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Hmmmmm?”

  She laughed, walked to the desk, and put an arm about his shoulders. “I haven’t started yet, silly. I open tonight. George has reserved a table for a big party. You’re to be one of the guests.”

  He straightened to face her. “He hasn’t said anything to me.”

  “He will. He just reserved the table a few hours ago, after I telephoned to remind him that tonight was the night. He was the one who started it, wasn’t he? It would be a little dismal for me without the illustrious Messrs. Stannard and Lee.” She held his cheeks in her two hands and smiled into his eyes. “You’ll be there, darling?”

  “Well, all this work — ”

  “Please?”

  “O.K.” he laughed. “We should put it on right for you. But why didn’t you call me?”

  Her eyes slid away from his. “Well, I didn’t think you’d mind …”

  Marty’s features hardened a degree, but he was not angry. “I see. That’s an easy one to put together. More prestige for you if the party’s in the Stannard name. That’s all right. It’s the smart way to do it.”

  “You really don’t mind?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “George was very pleased.”

  “He would be.”

  “I like him. He’s nice.”

  “Sure. Plenty of money, background, culture, and everything else. But the blood got thin when it reached him. No guts. Strictly a weakling.”

  “He didn’t impress me that way.”

  “You’d have to be a man to see it. Listen, sweetheart, don’t go making a pitch in that direction. Nothing there but grief.”

  She ran her arms over his shoulders and pressed a cheek against his. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then I’ll spell it out for you. George never loses sight of the fact that he’s a Stannard. The other two Stannards can forget it now and then, because they’re strong enough and they can afford to, but not George. He can never let go. It’s the only thing he has — the name. So he divides people into two levels, the Stannards and others of their kind on the upper level and everyone else on a lower. You’re on the lower level. Understand what I mean? That’s George’s playground. That’s where he has all his fun. But that isn’t the level where he gets serious.”

  She tilted her head back, her eyes laughing at him. “Marty, how you go on! Why, you’d think I was making a play for him, the way you talk. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not. I’m just telling you a few of the facts of life.”

  “As if I didn’t know them all! Let’s talk about something else.”

  He slid his arms about her waist and pulled her closer. He looked beyond her, to a large couch against the wall. “How about us?”

  She turned her head toward the couch and giggled. “Why not?”

  Marty left her for a moment to lock the door.

  • • •

  George telephoned shortly after she had gone, told Marty about the party, and asked him to be at Chez Rouge at ten that evening. Marty promised to be there, but when ten o’clock arrived he was in a snarling argument with Wayne Howard over the details of one of the rooms. The argument had started late in the afternoon, continued on through dinner in Marty’s suite, and ended finally just after midnight. Marty remembered the party and quickly changed clothes. He could make the last show, if he hurried.

  Chez Rouge was crowded and the most prominent table in the room, George’s, even more so. There were at least twenty people in his party, all of them from George’s level. The men drank and talked business and flirted with each other’s wives or girl friends, while the women chattered incessantly on subjects for which the dialogue could have been written by any society columnist. Marty’s arrival created a slight lull, but they were curious about him and in a few minutes he was the center of attention. He was not at ease in the group and was glad when the last show started to divert attention.

  Marty sipped at a glass of Monopole and paid little attention to the show. He was more interested in George’s friends. They all possessed the same heightened degree of assurance, most of them had known each other all their lives, and their conversation was deliberately designed to make anyone else feel an outsider — until accepted. Under their animation he sensed a deep boredom, not for the moment, which they seemed to be enjoying, but for all the moments contained in the future, each of which had to be filled with excitement, in some form or other, until excitement itself became deadening. Marty watched them for a while, appraising and balancing each in turn, then lost interest. They had nothing to offer.

  They applauded politely when Dotty stepped before the bandstand and smiled in their direction. George whispered to Marty that he had introduced her to the crowd. He indicated a young woman seated opposite them with a nod of his head. “We’re going to her place later. Sylvia Stone. That’s Buddy Markham she’s with. You know, Markham shipping lines. Nice gal, Sylvia. Old Stone mansion’s a wonderful place for entertaining. You’ll have a good time.”

  Marty watched Dotty before the spotlights and saw that she had captured the interest of the crowd, then looked across the table at Sylvia. She was leaning back in her chair, her legs crossed, her slim body seemingly relaxed and listless, and her eyes half closed. Her face was small and thin with a pointed chin and a scarlet slash of a mouth. Dark brown hair was cut boyishly close to the outline of her head and feathered about her tiny ears and forehead, as if she were seated with her back to a fan. Marty searched about in the darker recesses of his mind and catalogued her. The slumbrous lids. The thin face and hollow cheeks. The sensuous curve of the mouth. The relaxed yet eager posture of her body. She had the driving passion of nymphomania. He had no sooner placed her than he made the startling discovery that she had also been appr
aising him, that her eyes had never wavered from his, and that she was tacitly letting him know that the night was still young. He stared at her a moment longer, then twisted about to look in Dotty’s direction.

  The night-club customers enjoyed Dotty and her singing. There was no doubt of her acceptance after the first song. She sang three encores and the applause was as heavy for the last as it had been for the first. She begged off the floor finally with a gracious little speech of thanks, and hurried directly to George’s table. Marty was surprised when a waiter had to bring another chair and place it at his side. Dotty did not notice and sank into the chair with stars in her eyes. She was happy with the applause, her immediate acceptance by the crowd, and the company she was in. She squeezed Marty’s arm to let him know how she felt. Sylvia was watching them, the tiny suggestion of a smile playing about her lips.

  George toasted Dotty, then got to his feet and broke up the party. He told everyone, “Remember, now, Sylvia’s place, and don’t stop anywhere on the way. Let’s not spread out all over the city.” He led the way to the foyer, where they all grouped about before the cloak stand. Marty got his hat and coat and asked Dotty where she kept hers. “In the dressing room, darling. It won’t take me a minute.”

  She turned away from him and almost bumped into Sylvia, who was being helped into a blue mink. Sylvia smiled sweetly at Dotty. “I enjoyed your singing so much, my dear.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “You sound so sincere when you sing.”

  Dotty smiled the pleasure she was feeling. “I try to.”

  “We all enjoyed it very much.” Marty sensed what was coming and thought, No, oh, no, don’t do it. But Sylvia put out her hand to take Dotty’s and her voice was sweeter than ever. “I promise you I’ll be here often to hear you. So — until I see you again?” She looked beyond Dotty. “Coming, Mr. Lee?” She put a hand on her escort’s arm and walked away.

  Marty’s hands were clenched as he watched the color drain from Dotty’s face. She stood where she was, staring blankly, incapable of movement, as the party swept out of the foyer and down the stairs. George was the last to go. He paused and looked back at Marty, his eyes carefully not meeting Dotty’s. “Hey, come on, Marty.”

  Marty said, “Later.”

  “O.K. It’s the brick place one block beyond mine. Same side of the street. You can’t miss it. If in doubt,” he laughed, “listen for falling bodies.” He waved a limp hand and disappeared down the stairs.

  Dotty whispered hoarsely, “You’d better go.”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “Why don’t you go with them?”

  “I’d rather take you home.”

  “No. Please.”

  “Get your things.”

  She left him for a few minutes and returned with a handbag and a coat over her shoulders. They took a taxi to her new apartment oh Pine Street. Neither had anything to say during the drive. As soon as they entered the apartment, Dotty poured a heavy slug of gin into a water glass and drank it down. Marty looked approvingly about the apartment of living room, bedroom, tiny kitchen, and bath. The plaster walls and ceilings were eggshell white, relieved by sharp and contrasting colors in the rugs and furnishings. It was like a thousand other apartments in the city, comfortable and fairly livable.

  Marty did not take off his coat or hat. He knew it was no use. He dropped into a chair and watched Dotty. She filled the glass with gin again and stood in the middle of the floor drinking it, her bitter eyes fixed on Marty over the glass.

  He shrugged. “I tried to tell you. Levels.”

  “That was a sweet little brush-off, wasn’t it? That one was done by an expert. Oh, that bitch. That dirty, bastardly little bitch.” She gagged over the gin and tears came to her eyes. “And you know what she is? I spotted it the first time I saw her. A nympho. A dirty, rotten little nympho. She’ll shack up with anyone, anything with pants. And she’s the one gives me the brush-off.”

  Marty said, “It could have been any of the others.”

  “Oh, no.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Any of them.”

  She dropped her coat to the floor, refilled her glass with gin, and sank onto a couch opposite Marty. The gin, with what she had consumed before, was beginning to take effect. She would be drunk in half an hour and probably maudlin. Marty had no use for drunks of any kind, especially women. He got to his feet. She was staring at the wall, paying no attention to him.

  “One day,” she mumbled. “One day — ”

  “Forget it. You’re doing all right.” He opened the door and found the key still in the outer lock. He took it out, tossed it in the air, and dropped it in his pocket. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head. “I have another.” She looked away from the wall and focused on Marty. “George was no help either. Was he?”

  “Did you expect him to be? Look, Dotty. They’re all alike. The way they think, they belong. You don’t. All the brothers of that lodge hang together. George probably figured you were going along, but the minute he saw what was up he stayed on his own side of the fence. That’s the way they are.”

  “It’s funny. You’re on that side of the fence, too.”

  Marty had not thought of that. He turned it over in his mind and found flaws in it. He was not actually on George’s side of the fence, but because of his place in the Stannard scheme of things he was accepted, at least temporarily. He could cross back and forth at will.

  He stepped into the doorway. “Don’t get too plastered. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”

  “Who cares?” She gave him a vague, bleary smile. “But we understand each other. Don’t we, darling?”

  “I’ll call you later. Good night.”

  He took a taxi out Pacific Street and had no difficulty finding the Stone mansion, a building almost as prepossessing as the Stannard home. When he rang the bell it was Sylvia who opened the door. He stepped inside and heard music and the laughter of the others in another room. Sylvia placed her hands on his arm and looked up into his eyes with a slow smile.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “It took me a little while. Where’s your little pal — what’s his name? — Markham?”

  She brushed her cheek against his shoulder and purred, “I sent him home.”

  Marty put an arm about her slim waist and looked down into her eyes. “How about the others?”

  Her lower lip protruded in a pout, then she laughed and leaned against him. “I’ll get rid of them in an hour.”

  “Good. Why waste the night?”

  They walked down the hallway together, toward the music and the laughter. And later, when Sylvia got rid of the others, they were alone. But it was not good. It was not what either had anticipated. It seemed all right, at first, but it quickly went sour. Marty was interested only in sating his own passions. The intensity of his animalism thrilled Sylvia, but it did not last long. When he got up to leave and she realized that she had simply been used she became enraged and swore at him. Marty laughed at her, until it dawned on him that she was actually doubting his virility. Then he slapped her. He slapped her across the room and against a wall and hit her again with all the power of his open hand and the full sweep of his arm. She collapsed to the floor, sobbing and swearing hysterically. Marty looked down at her and grinned. Knocking Sylvia down had leveled her whole class.

  As he left the house he thought, with a chuckle, that Dotty would have been pleased.

  Chapter Seven

  THOUGH he was busy with the hotel day and night, Marty nevertheless found time to cultivate the Stannard family. He knew that Frank enjoyed his aggressive manner, so he often dropped by the Montgomery Street office to talk over ideas with the older man. He received much shrewd counsel and, what was even more important to Marty, Frank began receiving him as a friend. When he took him to luncheons at the University Club Marty knew he was in.

  George was much easier to cultivate. The younger man was a snob in many respects and chose his fri
ends with caution, but he seemed unconsciously aware of the fact that he was a weak crutch and tacitly accepted the fact that Marty was the stronger man. He had seen Marty manhandle the drunk in front of Chez Rouge and was well aware of the vicious streak latent in his nature, but even that seemed to fascinate him. He got into the habit of dropping by the hotel to call on Marty and took him to dinner many evenings at some of the more exclusive clubs. He seemed to be seeking strength from Marty and used him to support an ego weakened in the shadow of his father. Marty soon realized that he could handle George in almost any manner he desired. George’s weakness could be utilized.

  It was from George that he learned of Karen’s more than casual interest in him. George enjoyed telling him what she thought of him; that she liked his drive, his burning ambition, and even his nerve. She was evidently tired of the effete men she associated with and was attracted by Marty’s obvious masculinity.

  Marty, however, was afraid of her. He had no understanding of Karen or her class and was afraid that he never would. He realized that she exerted an ambivalent attraction for him, but that, too, was dangerous. It would be altogether too easy for him to make the wrong move with her and so bring down the wrath of all the Stannards on his head. Yet she was one of the clan and he needed her good will if he hoped to get anywhere in San Francisco. He could probably get along without them, but with the powerful Stannards on his side everything was made easier.

  He telephoned Karen one evening and made an engagement with her for lunch the following day. She was not at all hesitant about making the appointment, though she probably had to break another to meet it. They lost an initial awkwardness over cocktails and relaxed completely during the luncheon. For once, Marty felt pride in another person’s company, when he noticed that Karen was the focal point of attention of the whole room. Prior to owning the hotel he would have resented that, but his own vanity had since taken a big step forward. He was pleased and, for the moment, forgot his obsessions.

  Karen turned out to be a surprisingly good listener. She prodded Marty into talking about his work at the hotel, and by the time luncheon ended he was surprised to realize that he had actually enjoyed himself.