Don't Speak to Strange Girls

by Whittington, Harry

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “How did the studios miss you for almost two years?”

  “It was easy.”

  She held out the glass. He refilled it. She got up, gathered in two sandwiches, and walked about the room, munching, and sipping at her rum drink.

  She stood in the French doorways, natural daylight rim-lighting her ankles.

  “What a lovely pool. Is it heated?”

  “You mean they have unheated pools in California?”

  “I was in one once. Nearly froze my — well, it was cold.”

  He got up, walked across the room. He stood behind her. He looked at the firm young lines of her body. The thought surged through his mind that she was no older than Sharon. He thought about Amory Darrow, about Darrow’s bachelor apartment, and Sharon at a window and that man looking at her like this.

  He moved to turn away, but he could smell the faint scent of Joanne’s hair.

  He did not move. He kept his voice flat. “I might be able to find you a bathing suit,” he said. “Would you like to swim before dinner?”

  She turned, her green eyes warm, warmer than the daiquiris could make them.

  “I want to do anything you want to do,” she told him.

  Her gaze held his. He waited to see color touch her cheeks. It didn’t happen. So young, he thought with the heated need in him. So young and so wise and so far ahead of me.

  He rang for McEsters, thinking he had lived with Ruth too long, had worked too hard. He had forgotten there were girls like Joanne Stark.

  Then he caught himself abruptly. He had forgotten because he forced it. All these years. He had tried to forget. But the truth was, he had never forgotten. They were always there, like nudes in men’s magazines. And now suddenly here was one of them in the flesh, almost as if he had created her from his own imagination, from his own incredible longing.

  chapter eight

  HE WAS waiting beside the pool in swim trunks and goose bumps when Joanne came across the flagstones.

  She was wearing a pale-green swim suit that belonged to Sharon. Sharon was a lovely child, but this was a woman in her green suit. Clay inhaled heavily, thinking with pleasure that it was truly as though he’d invented Joanne Stark from the materials of his loneliness, his memories and his needs. She could not have come any more directly from his dreams if he had molded her with his own hands.

  He found himself recalling the theme music from the old movies — like the music they played every time Vilma Banky appeared in scenes of The Son of the Sheik. This sort of haunting background melody was all that was lacking as Joanne crossed the flagstones toward him, punching her hair under a green bathing cap.

  Her cheeks were faintly touched with color. She watched his face with a look that was almost shy. She was looking for approval, or more than that, approbation and applause.

  He could not think what to say. He wanted it to be right, knew it had to be light, casual and yet full of the excitement that throbbed in him at the sight of her and warmed away the wind-raised goosebumps. He admitted what he needed in that moment. He needed a clever director, a clever script writer. Dialogue by …

  “What took you so long?” he said. He did not take his eyes off of her. It did matter what he said, after all.

  “I stood in that room, afraid to come out here. I was afraid — you might not like me.”

  “Well, everything is all right now,” he said. “I like you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s easy to see you do. But I was worried.” She shivered slightly. “It’s cold in the wind.”

  “It will be warmer in the pool.”

  She put out her hand, braced herself with her fingers against his bicep. Her fingers were like pieces of dry ice against his flesh.

  She extended the gleaming pillar of her leg, pointing her toes and touching gingerly at the water. She nodded, turning her head and smiling at him.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  “Just a minute.”

  She took a deep breath, tested her cap with both hands against the sides of her head.

  Clay dived into the pool. He hit the water sharply, cutting it cleanly, thinking he was like a teenager showing off for her. Why not? He wasn’t brilliant, he was athletic. There were few enough things he could do well. Why shouldn’t he show off for her? It was what he wanted to do. He wanted to see her excited and pleased at his diving, and the effortless crawl-stroke that sliced him through the water, and the way he could stay under water almost two and a half minutes. Accomplishments.

  He broke through the surface near the far side of the pool from her. He blew water from his face, watching her. She was still poised on the rim of the pool. The light behind her, the lights from each side of her, the underwater lights illumined her in full detail. No, he thought, I don’t believe it. She’s not real. No one who is real is this perfect. He tried to discover a flaw about her as she dived outward toward him. Perhaps her mouth was a trifle large. My God.

  She floated directly to him and came up with her face inches from his, her legs stretched long, reaching for the bottom that was too deep for her. Her breasts caressed his bare chest, her stomach flattened against his so he felt the faint rise of her, the swell of her thighs. He felt the warmth from her body, and the water lapping over them felt chilled.

  “I can’t touch,” Joanne said.

  “Sure. I’m no fool.”

  She laughed and draped her arms across his shoulders. “I like tall men,” she said. “You’re even taller than you look in the movies. Isn’t that funny?”

  Her face was so close to his he could feel her breath, the good scent of the daiquiris. What a hellish thing, he thought. I would hate alcohol on anyone else’s breath. Hers was so good he moved his face closer, brushing his mouth against her mouth as she talked.

  “Hello,” she said, talking into his parted mouth.

  “This is quite an invention,” he said.

  “I know an even better one.”

  She floated her legs outward for a moment and he was chilled thinking she was moving away from him. She slid her legs around his hips, locked her ankles behind him. “Isn’t this nice?” she said.

  “My God.”

  His hands moved over her as if it were not his will at all. He thought, someday he would enjoy touching her body, but at the moment it was something he was compelled to do and his arms were leaden, his hands no longer sensitive to touch. It was as if he had to discover all there was to know about her, all at once, but the blood congealed in the pit of his stomach. There was no way to get messages from his leaden arms to his brain.

  She moved her slender fingers along the nape of his neck, across his shoulders, in the hair above his ears. She placed her mouth against his, turning her head slowly, barely pressing her lips on his so he felt her breath more strongly than the pressure of her mouth.

  “Oooh,” she whispered. “We can’t.”

  She loosened her ankles, but in panic he caught her with both hands against the small of her back, pressing her again into place.

  His voice sounded odd in his own ears. “Why not?”

  “I’m crazy about you. I truly am. I want you to like me.”

  “You think I don’t?”

  “Anybody can like someone in a hurry — like this. I don’t want to lose you in such a hurry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She came close suddenly and smashed her mouth hard against his. Then she writhed free, swam away from him, going the length of the pool with long easy strokes.

  He did not swim after her. He did not move. He felt desolated and cold without her body pressed hard on his.

  He stood there, feeling the gusts of canyon air-currents against his head and shoulders, feeling the warm-laced chill of water against his chest, feeling the need for her.

  He watched her turn and spiral in the water, rolling and kicking the way a child might, disappearing and then breaking free through the surface. He thought, hell, she is j
ust a child. She is as young as Sharon — younger. Why should I think she would feel the torment and torture and desires that I feel?

  He moved to swim toward her but then saw she was returning to him, swimming slowly, her gaze fixed on his face. When she was near him, she rolled over on her back in the water, floating to him.

  She was carrying the green swim suit in her hand.

  “Good Lord,” he said in a low whisper.

  Her face was pulled into an odd, troubled smile. Her green eyes watched him, almost as if she were frightened.

  Her voice was as low as his. “Do you like me?”

  He pulled her close, trying to keep his voice steady. “I saw Hedy Lamarr do this bit in Ecstasy — only not in close-ups, of course.”

  She came closer to him, putting her arms under his, sliding her chilled hands up his back and pulling him against her. Her face came closer and closer, her eyes dreamy. He felt the hotness of her. “I can’t help it,” she whispered. “I’m crazy about you. It’s what I want to do. I want to be close to you, close against you. Closer.”

  chapter nine

  HE WRAPPED Joanne in a thick towel and carried her across the library and up the stairs. His heart banged like a scored cylinder but he did not slow his strides. He could not think of a better way to die.

  He pushed open his bedroom door, carried her inside. For a moment, he paused, admiring the many pictures they made in the full-length wall mirrors. He laid her down across his bed and scrubbed her body slowly with the towel. She did not take her gaze from his face.

  She was still carrying the green bathing suit.

  He took it from her clenched fingers, laughing. “For hell’s sake. Give me that thing.” He threw it across the room. It struck hard against a wall and fell in a wad on the carpeting.

  “You look better like this. You look like something magic. You must be magic. Hell. To come here — to want me — you’re magic.” A troubling thought flashed through his mind, but he brushed it aside. “You’ve got to be.”

  “Yes. I’m magic.”

  He sank to the bed beside her, moved his hands slowly, caressing her, learning her by heart.

  “I’m afraid of you,” Clay said.

  “Why should you be afraid of me?”

  “Who are you? Where did you come from? But worse than that — much worse — where will you disappear to when you leave me?”

  “Back to a rented room. And I’ll dream about this — and I won’t believe it — only I’ll always be glad it happened.”

  “Don’t talk like this. You talk as if it were all over.” He felt that touch of chill again; for the first time he saw it was going to end casually, as it had happened casually.

  “That’s up to you.”

  He laughed. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  He reached out, lifted the phone, buzzed the kitchen. After a moment, McEsters answered.

  Clay glanced at Joanne. “What would you like? Steak or chicken or roast beef?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He smiled at her, spoke into the phone. “Steak, McEsters. Medium?” He checked her, questioningly. She nodded. “Two steaks. Medium.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait. And chicken. Breasts only — ”

  “I like drumsticks, too,” Joanne said.

  “And drumsticks,” Clay said into the phone.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And two slices of prime rib of beef, McEsters. Medium.”

  “Yes, sir. And how many will we be having in for dinner?”

  “Just the two of us, McEsters.”

  “Oh? Yes, sir … I see.”

  “And serve it in the library, McEsters … and we’ll want a big fire.”

  “Yes, sir. And may I say, sir, I hope you enjoyed your swim.”

  Clay laughed. “We’ll have to get blinders for you, McEsters.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m glad you’re feeling better, sir.”

  Clay replaced the receiver and sprawled back on the bed beside Joanne. Everybody worried about the state of his health, his condition. He didn’t like to think about this and Joanne at the same time, because Hoff, Kay Ringling and Shatner had all been scheming to bring him out of his lethargy. He didn’t like to believe all this had been staged, prearranged — and paid for — for his benefit. He shook his head and stared at the ceiling, stretching his lean arms upward, fingers splayed.

  “I feel good,” he said. “I feel even better than I knew anybody could feel.”

  Joanne turned on her side, pressing the heat of her bare body against him. “I’m not magic,” she said. “You’re magic.”

  • • •

  At midnight, Joanne stirred in his arms, staring at the smouldering fire on the hearth.

  “I’ve got to go home,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been here — good Lord, I’ve been here eight hours.”

  “Are you sure? Seems eight minutes.”

  “If you knew what you’d done to me in those eight hours, you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “Golly. I better.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  She went tense. She pushed away from him. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “No. I’ll just call a cab.”

  “Why can’t I take you home?” Suddenly he was sure of it. It was all a commercial arrangement. Shatner, Hoff, Ringling. Worried about him. Bring him out of it. Hire somebody — a living doll. Money no object. But which one of them was responsible for her? Ringling wouldn’t want him to have a woman, would she? Shatner’s taste ran to the Mamie Maddens. There’d be no gloss left on the merchandise Hoff chose; the woman he selected would have to be realistic. He breathed deeply. “I want to take you home. I’ve got to know where you live, don’t I?”

  She chewed at her underlip. “Not this time. It’s all been so nice.”

  “Why won’t it be nice for me to know where you live?”

  “Oh … it will, Clay … later. I mean — if you want to see me again — ”

  “I don’t even want you to go now.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  “When? In the morning?” She laughed. “I have to work.”

  “Oh?” He sank against the divan. “When will you come back?”

  “As soon as ever you want me,” said the throaty voice.

  “But suppose you don’t?”

  “You sound like a little boy.”

  “Maybe you think I don’t feel like one.”

  She touched her palm gently against his cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Clay. I’m just nobody. You’re the — first nice thing ever happened to me — I’m not going to let you get away.”

  “Then let me take you home. I’ll know where you are.”

  She hesitated. “I — live with some girls. It’s — pretty shabby — after this. I won’t mind so much — after you know me better — and I know you better… . Please?”

  He nodded. “All right.” His voice was empty. She kissed him impulsively. He called a taxi for her. She found a piece of paper and a pencil. She printed her telephone number in numerals two inches high.

  “This is it,” she said. “See you don’t forget it.”

  He pulled out his wallet, extracted two fifty-dollar bills.

  Her face was suddenly gray. She stared at the money. “What’s that for?”

  “Taxi fare.”

  “A hundred dollars?”

  “It’s all I have on me — the least I have. Sorry. Take it. Hell.”

  Her voice was chilled. “You’re paying me.”

  He caught his breath. He wanted to grab her arm and ask which one of them had paid her — Ringling, Shatner, Hoff? He controlled his hurt and rage, but his voice was sharp. “Why should you think that? And a hundred dollars — is that what I’d pay you?”

  “It’s not much to you. It might be a lot to me.”

  He threw the money and wallet
on the divan between them. “Oh, hell. Forget it.”

  Joanne stared upward at him, eyes slanted, hellish, the devil himself looked out at him from her eyes. “No.” she said with a strange smile. She took the bills, wadded them in her fist. “I’ll take it. As long as you’re not paying me.”

  chapter ten

  THEY DINED on the flagstone terrace beside the pool with a low-ceiling roof of smog between them and infinity — almost as though they, and this part of the earth, were intentionally shielded from the jealous presence and watchful eye of God, and had no need for clear skies anyhow, because nature couldn’t really compete with the studio art departments, and if they needed a view of open sky, they could order one created of paint on canvas rolls and charge it against a budget they never saw anyhow.

  Joanne sank back in her chair, licking the tips of her fingers. “You’re spoiling me,” she said. “You’ve spoiled me so badly already, I can’t ever go back.”

  He yawned, fed and content. “I told you, you’re not going anywhere anyway.”

  She smiled. “It’s all right for you to dream… . You’ve got it made. I’ve got to think about when this ends.”

  “Is it going to end?”

  “Isn’t it?” She met his gaze directly, her eyes clear and green and young, but some of the stubborn toughness showing in the shadowed irises. “Everything ends … everything in my life.”

  “That’s funny,” he said. “With me, it’s different … either I never truly knew what I wanted — or I never got it.”

  “You’re talking like marbles.”

  “No. I drifted into acting because I could ride a horse. I was a stunt man. I didn’t know what I wanted — except a job that paid a lot of money.”

  “God knows you got that.”