CHAPTER ONE

The moment she walked into the theatrical agent's office, Laura Haynes found herself regretting it. There was no receptionist, only an owlish-looking man of about forty, and he stared up at her with intimate curiosity. His gaze seemed to go right through her clothes; it was as if with his eyes he could lay bare her full, firm breasts, her tawny thighs, her sleek, satiny buttocks. Laura had never been appraised in such a knowing way before. She felt color rising to her face, and fought back the urge to turn and run out. She stood grimly where she was.

"Are you Mr. McCarten?" she asked hesitantly.

His eyes were riveted to the rising sweep of her breasts. It was like being stark naked in front of him, Laura thought uncomfortably.

"That's right," he said. "Ned McCarten, just like it says on the door behind you. What can I do for you, Miss—Miss—?"

"Haynes. Laura Haynes."

"Sit down, Laura." He gestured to a chair to the left of his desk. As Laura walked across the room toward it, he followed the fluid sweep of her hips and buttocks eagerly with his eyes. She lowered herself into the chair and crossed her legs, hiking her skirt up above the knee. Might as well give him a show, Laura thought. He's going to want to look anyway.

He took in the display. Laura moistened her lips uneasily. McCarten said, "I suppose you want a job in show business, Miss Haynes?"

"That's right, Mr. McCarten." Her voice came out thin and squeaky, little-girlish.

"Make it Ned. Ned and Laura. Saves breath." He reached for a pad. "Okay, Laura. Let's start at the beginning. What can you do?"

"Well," Laura said nervously, "I can dance, I sing, I've done some acting—"

McCarten made idle scribbles on his notepad. He seemed uninterested.

The telephone rang, cutting Laura off. "Excuse me," McCarten said mechanically, and picked up the phone. While he talked, Laura glanced around the office. It was a squarish, cluttered room, opening onto a smaller room at the right. The larger room had a desk, a piano, an old leather couch, some bookshelves, and a table piled high with sheet music, magazines, and old copies of Variety. The prevailing impression was one of sloppiness and clutter. On the walls were several dozen framed and signed photographs, none of them of people Laura recognized. Most of them were women. Laura was a little surprised to see that one picture, directly behind McCarten's desk, showed a totally nude girl, wearing not even a G-string. She was grinning gaily into the camera; her breasts were full and heavy, her hips ample, her thighs round and thick. Squinting, Laura made out the inscription in the corner of the photo: To Ned McCarten, the man who made me ... what I am. With love from Dawn Ryse.

She wondered what sort of a girl would give a man a photo like that, with everything showing. Probably some strip-teaser, Laura thought, that McCarten had helped find work. She wondered about the inscription, whether it was just a joke or if perhaps there were some truth in it.

McCarten finished his conversation and hung up. "The damn fool," he muttered, looking up. "Expects me to produce miracles for him every time he snaps his fat fingers. Oh, well. Where were we?"

"You were asking me what I could do."

"Oh. That's right," McCarten said. He chewed speculatively at the end of his pencil. He was a short, squat man, going bald in the middle of his scalp. His face had a loose, sensuous look, but the eyes behind the thick glasses were fiery and intense. "You sing, you dance, and you act," he mused. "Any professional experience?"

"Not—really."

"What does that mean, 'not really'?" he asked sharply.

"I mean, not for very much money. I did some singing at county fairs, local dances, you know. But you can't really count that as professional, can you?"

"No, you can't," McCarten agreed sourly. "Where are you from?"

"Kansas," she said. "Marshall, Kansas."

"And how long have you been in New York?"

"F-four days."

"And you're living with an aunt," he said. "Or else you have a room at the YWCA. Which is it?"

"I'm living at the Y," Laura said in surprise. "But how did you know?"

"It isn't telepathy, honey. Do you think you're the first girl who ever came from Kansas to New York to get into show business?" He drummed his pencil on the scarred desktop. "You're a rank green-horn, no experience worth a damn. Well well well. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"That on the level?"

"Of course. I was twenty-one last month. March 23 is my birthday."

"Okay, skip the genealogy. Parents living?"

"They died when I was a little girl. I lived with my grandparents."

"On the farm, I suppose. And you read the picture magazines and dreamed of coming to New York. And now you're here, expecting to be showered with gold."

"You're making fun of me," she said, reddening.

"I'm just feeling sorry for you, honey. I see so goddam many of you come this way. Apple-cheeked flowers of American womanhood, you know. All of you beating a track toward fame and fortune." He shrugged. "How'd you come to pick me out of the book?"

"I looked up theatrical agents in the classified telephone directory. Your office was the closest one to the Y, so I came here first."

McCarten smiled. "Okay. You sing, you dance, you act, and you implore me to find work for you. Got anything special in mind? A Broadway lead, or prima ballerina at the Met, or—I'm sorry, Laura. What kind of work would you like to do?"

Laura was confused. Half the time McCarten seemed to be poking fun at her, the rest of the time he appeared almost paternally concerned about her. After a moment's hesitation she said, "I'm willing to begin anywhere, Mr. McCarten. A chorus line, if I have to. Just so I'm in show business, even at the bottom—"

He looked at his watch, as though growing bored with the interview. "Chorus girl, eh? Well, just for a starter, let's hear you sing." He pushed himself up out of his swivel chair and stalked across the room to the piano. "How about—ah—the Mary Martin thing from the Rodgers & Hammerstein show. Starts off I'm as corny as Kansas in August. Kansas girl ought to know that one."

"All right," Laura said.

McCarten gave her a brief introduction, nodded her a cue, and she sang. She was so nervous that she started off sharp, but after the first bar she got back on pitch and everything went well. With his back to her, McCarten's expression was hidden. He played through the first two verses, then suggested another Rodgers & Hammerstein tune. Laura sang that one for him, and a third.

After the third song he swivelled around. "Okay," he said. "You can sing. Nothing spectacular, but at least it's easy on the ears and you can carry a tune. You started sharp on the first one."

"I know. I guess I was scared."

"Well, after that you were okay. But the country's full of girls who can carry a tune. You've got to have a figure, too." Again he eyed her in that speculative way, as though undressing her. He went from the piano to the closet, reached in, brought out some sort of costume. "Here," he said. "Get into this and let's have an idea of what's under the dress."

"Right here?"

He scowled. "Go into the next room, if you're bashful. I won't peek."

Uneasily, Laura took the costume from him and went into the smaller room. She closed the door. There was no way of locking it.

The small room was piled high with junk—more old newspapers, cartons of magazines, phonograph records, ledgers, all kinds of debris. Laura put her handbag down on top of a stack of trade journals and examined the costume McCarten had given her.

There wasn't much to it. Just a pair of blue panties with spangles, and a halter. They both looked a little small for her. With an uncertain glance at the closed door, she began to undress. There was a keyhole in the door, and she didn't trust McCarten very much. He was just the sort who would peep at her while she got into the costume, she thought. She moved to the side of the room, where she hoped she would be out of peeping range, and closed the dusty venetian blinds.

Her hands were trembling a little as she unbuttoned her blouse and carefully hung it over a chair. The plaid skirt came off next, then the half-slip. In the drafty office, she shivered a little in panties, bra, and garter-belt. Her hands went behind her back and she undid her bra, letting her breasts tumble free. She had an excellent figure, she knew. Her breasts were big, but not so big that they drooped or dangled. They thrust outward and upward from her chest, two rounded white globes tipped with little reddish-brown nipples.

Quickly she reached for the halter and put it on. It was tight, and she just barely managed to get her breasts into the cups and fasten the snap in back. Looking down, she reddened a little in embarrassment. The halter was so tight it was like a second skin; there were evident bumps at each nipple.

Hurriedly, now, she rolled the panties over her hips, took down her stockings, removed the panty-belt. She pulled the briefs up over her loins. They were really scanty, just a tight triangle of cloth round her waist. Craning her neck, she saw that several inches of buttock were exposed on either side in back. For a moment she hung back, frightened of showing herself to a strange man in a costume as revealing as this. The thighs and bra seemed designed for a smaller girl, and on her they were dreadfully provocative.

For a moment she came close to getting back into her street clothes and leaving. But that would be foolish, she told herself. She wanted to have a career. She was going to have to show her body a little, if she hoped to get anywhere in show business.

She opened the door and walked into the other room.

McCarten was on the phone again, but the moment he saw her he said, "Excuse me, Phil. Something important just came up. Call me back in an hour, huh?"

Laura saw the reaction on his face. His fleshy mouth had sagged open, and his bloodshot eyes were wide with surprise. She knew she had made an impression on him. She stood by the door, throttling back her embarrassment, while his eyes roamed her body.

"Well?" she asked, smiling.

"You're okay," he said hoarsely. "That's a pretty good build you got."

"Do you think I can have a job?"

He smiled. "I'd say the prospect's pretty good. But let's keep the audition going. You know how to do a Charleston?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then. I'll play. You dance."

He went to the piano again, and pounded out a tune for her, looking back over his shoulder to watch her as she danced. Alone in the middle of the floor, she did the Charleston for him. There were some uneasy moments when she was sure her halter would break from her exertions. She began to sweat, and felt the globlets rolling down her almost bare body. McCarten seemed to be playing forever—hours and hours. Actually it was no more than three or four minutes before he stopped.

He walked over to her, appraising her. She was almost as tall as he was, at her height of five feet five.

She was panting, and she was afraid she would catch a cold, heating up in this drafty office. But she said nothing.

McCarten said finally, "You're not a bad dancer. And you've got a swell figure."

"Thank you."

"I'm not complimenting you, I'm appraising you. No thanks needed. And I think I can get you work. Chorus-line stuff at first, better jobs later as you absorb professional polish. You've got a lot of natural ability. With voice training and a decent dance coach, you can go places. Just a couple of things that have to be checked, first."

"What are they?"

"Those," McCarten said. He extended two forked fingers. He was pointing at her breasts.

Laura blinked in surprise. "I don't understand."

"The knobs. The knockers, honey. Are they real?"

Color flamed in her face. "Of course they're real! I'm practically naked in this little thing, anyway. I couldn't be fooling anyone."

"I've got to be sure. Before I get you a job, I got to make certain you won't embarrass me. Like I mean, I send over a girl with a Size 38 bust, and the second day she has an accident with her bra and it turns out she's Size 33 with some foam rubber? That finishes me as a supplier for that particular chorus. So I got to make a hundred percent certain."

Laura felt chillier. "What do you want me to do to prove it?"

"The obvious, of course."

She took a step back. "But—show myself to you? I don't understand—"

"Do you want to get into show business or don't you?" McCarten demanded.

"Well, of course I do."

"Okay, then. I'm offering you a job worth $95 a week at the start, $120 after six months. And you're giving me the modesty act."

"I didn't think I'd have to undress myself to get a job. I'm sure other agents—"

"Other agents wouldn't even let you get past their receptionists," McCarten said flatly. "They don't bother fooling around with green talent. You were just lucky you walked in on a morning when I didn't have much to do, so I was able to give you a break. Just try going elsewhere, and see if you get anything. The contract's right there on my desk for you. I'll send you right over to the studio and you can start rehearsing this afternoon, and your first paycheck on Friday. Now, come on. Show me what you've got, baby. For Christ's sake, there's nothing so awful about displaying the body God gave you."

I don't want to, Laura thought frantically. I don't want to show my nakedness to you. I'm not that sort of girl. But you've got a job for me. Her throat went dry. What did it matter, just taking off the bra and letting him look? If it gave him satisfaction, and if he wouldn't let her have the job under any other conditions—

"All right," she said in a faint voice.

"There's a sensible girl."

Her cold fingers went behind her back. She fumbled with the catch for a moment, almost hoping that it would be impossible to get it open. But the hook left the eye and the tight halter sprang away from her breasts. She felt a sudden gust of cold air around them, and felt the flaming redness of her skin.

McCarten's eyes were like augers. He stared at the two high mounds with awed fascination.

"D-do I get the job?" Laura asked, stammering from shame. "Can I get dressed now?"

"Just a minute," he said in a strange, harsh voice. He moved toward her, and before she could step away or cry out he was up against her, his small soft hands cupping her breasts. She felt his pudgy fingers tightening over the ripe swells, felt his fingertips pressing on the suddenly hard tips of her nipples. His mouth was against hers, cutting off all outcry. His hands left her breasts, went to her hips. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her briefs and pulled them down over her thighs, and she was naked, and he had his hands on her buttocks, and then he was holding her in an unbreakable grip and carrying her to the leather couch.

She shoved his face away from hers. "Let go of me," she whimpered.

"Just one little thing more, honey," he crooned. "Then the job is yours. I promise—"

"No. No—I'm a virgin—"

He laughed harshly and pressed her down on the couch. She felt the cold leather against her back and buttocks. She wanted to scream, to cry out, but her voice betrayed her in her extreme fright, and nothing emerged but a feeble little cry. He was kneeling above her, holding her down with one hand, unzipping his trousers with the other. She closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to see. She was weak and limp with terror at the unexpected attack. His weight was on her, now. She had her ankles locked together, but he slipped one foot between them, and the hard shoe brought a little cry of pain from her, and she was forced to break her grip, and the next moment he had spread her thighs apart and she felt the sudden agonizing thrust, and the world swirled around her crazily. She did not lose consciousness, but she felt dazed and stunned, and she was only dimly conscious of his body moving above hers, of the constant pain. And then she heard him shudder and let his breath out hoarsely, and it was over, and he was rising from her.

She looked at him in horror. I've just been raped, she thought inanely, her mind catching up to reality. He threw me down on the couch and raped me.

"I didn't know you really were a virgin," he mumbled. "Christ, I didn't think there were any virgins left. I figured you'd give me a good time, to earn the job. I didn't know—"

She shivered. Fire raged in her loins, and she looked down and saw blood on the couch and she realized she was at the edge of hysteria. All she knew was she had to get out of here. She pushed herself up from the couch and rushed past him into the other room and began to pull her clothes on. He followed her in.

"Listen, baby," he implored. "Don't take it this way. I got carried away by the way you looked, and all. Christ, I never suspected—listen, calm down, I'll give you the job, everything will be all right—"

"I wouldn't take your filthy job!" she cried. With trembling fingers she buttoned her blouse. "Get out of my way!"

"Don't think you can call copper on me, honey," he said, his tone changing from a wheedling one to an angry one. "You don't have a case. I can claim you came in here and tried to twist my arm to give you a job, and pulled a tease act that made me lose my head at the last minute. Agents are always having girls come into the office and try to sleep their way into a job. The cops know the setup, and they'll believe me. So don't try running to them. Be a smart girl and take the job—"

"No!" she spat at him. She snatched up her handbag and ran past him, to the door, out into the hall. The world was reeling around her.

Raped, she thought.

She rang for the elevator.