CHAPTER TWELVE

They made love twice that night before McDermott, utterly sated, dropped off into sleep. The hotel desk woke them again at seven-thirty. When they parted, after breakfast, McDermott did not give her anything. Laura understood. It had nothing to do with the three hundred dollars he had given her the night before. It was simply that McDermott was a man of fastidious tastes, and he felt it was improper to offer crude cash to a woman you had asked to become your mistress and someday perhaps your wife. To slip her some cash that morning would be to destroy all he had asked for the night before. It would reduce her to the status of a whore again, albeit an elegant one, rather than a lover.

Laura returned to her apartment by ten. She took a nap, and was well rested by the time Spinelli phoned in the afternoon for a report on her activities of the night before.

She told him, in detail—including the proposition that she move to Boston.

"I know," Spinelli said. "McDermott brought it up yesterday. He wanted to know if I had any objections, and also how I thought you'd react to the idea. I told him to go ahead and ask you."

"Do you have any objections?"

Spinelli chuckled. "McDermott would recompense me amply if he took you out of my string. And it would be very useful to have you settled in Boston under his protection. No, no objections here. Did he give you anything for last night?"

"No," Laura said, and explained why. Spinelli seemed to accept the theory without any particular hesitation or suspicion.

"Okay," he told her. "You'll be with him again tonight. He wants you for dinner at his suite around seven o'clock. He's also made arrangements to stay over in New York for at least another day. You'll be assigned to him for as long as he stays."

At seven, Laura reported to the Whittier for the third night in a row. McDermott received her in a costly-looking oriental dressing-gown. He had cocktails ready, and while she sipped hers he telephoned downstairs to have dinner brought in.

He had arranged for dinner to be prepared at a fine restaurant around the corner, and brought over specially. It was wheeled in, now, on a sumptuously laden tray—meats, vegetables, salads, all manner of delicacies, accompanied by the best wine. Laura was glad she had not bothered with lunch.

They were not finished eating until after nine. McDermott had the remnants of the meal removed, and as soon as they were alone he put his arms around her, drew her tight against him, clasped her tightly and kissed her.

"Have you been thinking about—what I asked you last night?"

She nodded. "Yes, I've been thinking about it, Bob. But I still can't give you any definite answer. Not for another few days."

"I'll be going back to Boston Saturday morning."

"I couldn't let you know before Tuesday," she said. So much depended on the meeting with Dan Monday night. "Could you phone me at home on Tuesday? We'll be able to decide everything then."

"If I have to wait that long, I guess I have to wait," he said quietly. Gripping her hands, he whispered, "Don't fail me, Laura! I need you so very much, you know. More than I could ever tell you."

He began to undress her. When she was completely nude he knelt before her, gently kissing her soft flesh until he had reached her lips. They kissed deeply. Breaking away, he kissed her left breast in a way that sent tremors of excitement through Laura's middle. He toyed with the little nipple, while his hands roved the rest of her body. She began to pant as excitement rose in her.

He took his mouth from her bosom and cupped the heavy breasts in his hands while she undressed him. The tips of his fingers curved under the full globes, squeezing them tenderly. She throbbed in anticipation of delight. He was naked now, his bare body flattened against hers, his teeth nibbling at the lobe of her left ear while his hands caressed her bosom and back, and their harsh breaths mingled in one stream, and she began to draw him across the room toward the divan, a kiss at each step.

Then they were curled there in each other's arms, ready for love, hers long since on fire, and they kissed again, both of them coyly delaying the moment when their bodies would become one. He was talking, now, whispering passion-inspired words of love into her ear. He had learned quickly which places set her on fire, and he was making use of his knowledge.

"Take me," she murmured, "Don't wait any longer, Bob. Now. Bob. Now!"

She thrust toward him.

A key turned in the door.

They had only half a second to react, and in that time they were both so enflamed with desire and numbed with surprise that they did nothing. Then the door was flung wide open.

What seemed like an army poured in. Men in police uniforms, men in business suits, men with cameras, men with guns. Flashbulbs exploded. Laura heard her own voice screaming hysterically, wordlessly; she heard McDermott shouting angry curses, gutter abuse, violently vivid language.

A raid!

Stunned, the naked pair on the couch sprang up. Laura saw McDermott scowlingly pulling a robe around his nakedness. She herself had nothing to put on; she looked wildly around for a robe, a towel, anything, but there was nothing, and perhaps a dozen men were staring greedily at her bare breasts and thighs, their eyes alight with keen appreciation.

Finally someone gave her an overcoat. Dazed, she murmured, "What—what's going on?"

A towering man in business clothes glowered down at her. "What's your name?"

"Don't answer him!" McDermott shouted.

"Shut up, you," the big man snapped. Again to Laura he said, "I want to know your name."

"Lois Harper," she said quickly, using the name that had been her pseudonym in her streetwalking days. "But what is this, anyway?"

"This is a vice raid, lady. I'm Lieutenant Harkness of the vice squad, and you're being booked on a morals charge. You," he said roughly to McDermott. "Your name is Robert McDermott of Boston, now?"

McDermott looked shell-shocked and crushed. He did not even seem to have the strength to bluster. "Yes," he said weakly. "That's my name."

"And who's this woman in your room?"

McDermott shrugged. "You ought to be able to figure that out for yourself."

"Answer my questions! Did you hire this woman for immoral purposes this evening?"

McDermott shook his head. "I don't have to say a word to you, friend. I intend to speak to my lawyer before I give any statements to the police. And let me tell you this, while I'm at it—before I'm through with you I'll bust you down to a beat cop."

"Listen to the wise guy! He's in so much hot water he's boiling all over, and he can still threaten!" the vice detective guffawed. "Listen, McDermott, you know who tipped us off? It was your wife. She wrote a letter asking us to check up on you because she suspected you were entertaining call-girls when you took business trips. She wants divorce evidence, I guess. And so when the Chief ordered a city-wide crackdown for tonight, you were a natural. Especially when the bellboy told us you had young female company. And there the two of you are bare-ass, you and Miss Bigtits here. Don't threaten me, McDermott. You're in big trouble."

McDermott turned away, his face ashen, and sank down on the couch. Laura began to whimper hysterically. The suddenness of the raid, the flash-bulbs, the huge army of men—there were more than a dozen of them—she was dazed and rocked by it. And her body, brought just to the pitch of desire before the spectacular interruption, was aching now.

The policeman who seemed to be in charge said, "Ryan, keep an eye on the lady while she gets dressed."

"Gladly," a thin, beak-nosed man in uniform grinned.

He scooped up Laura's clothes, underwear and all, and handed them to her. She took them, still in a fog.

"Come on," he said. "Into the bedroom here and get into your things. We're in a hurry."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Book you, of course."

She began to panic. "I've got to make a telephone call!"

"From the station," Ryan said. "Get into your clothes."

He shut the bedroom door and stood with folded arms. Laura stared at him.

"Aren't you going to turn your back?"

"And have you jump out the window or something? Uh-uh. Come on, kiddo. You've been selling it long enough. You can spare me a free look, now. Hurry it up."

Blushing a fiery red, Laura slipped off the overcoat they had put around her. Ryan's eyes were glued to her breasts as she hurriedly donned her bra. She dressed quickly, weak with fear and embarrassment, while Ryan leeringly watched her.

"Okay," he said when she was finished. "Shake your butt, will you? Everybody's waiting."

Fully dressed, she returned to the outer room. Most of the invaders had left. McDermott sat on the couch, his head in his hands, sobbing brokenly. Feeling a sudden surge of pity, she started to go toward him, but Ryan caught her wrist and pulled her back.

McDermott looked up. His eyes were streaming tears. He tried to speak, but no words would come.

Laura said, "Don't worry, Bob—"

"Too late. Too late. Elizabeth's stinking spy has pictures of us. There'll be a divorce ... a scandal ... everything ruined...." He sobbed again, his whole body shuddering. He covered his face with his hands and slumped down.

"Come on," the police said to Laura.

"Where are you taking her?" McDermott demanded.

"To the station-house, to be booked on a morals charge. You want to come along?"

"I have to talk to my lawyer—"

"Talk to Phil," Laura whispered. "Tell him—"

The police hustled her out.

They went down via the freight elevator, which was some relief to Laura. After having been the object of much interest and admiration in the main elevators for the past three days, she did not want the humiliation of being seen in police custody.

The freight elevator opened onto the side street facing the hotel. A police-wagon waited there. One cop held Laura as though expecting her to break and run, while the other opened the back of the wagon. They thrust her in. The wagon started to move.

There were four other women in the wagon already, and they looked at her with blank curiosity. Two of them were Puerto Ricans, fleshless wiry little women wearing slips. A third, a big blonde, was dressed only in a housecoat and a pair of panties. The housecoat was open, and her big, heavy breasts, full and pendulous as a cow's, hung out exposed, swaying and jiggling with every motion of the Black Maria. The fourth girl was a very young-looking negro, wearing a tight red sweater and a pair of black toreador pants. The Puerto Rican women seemed not to understand or to care about what was going on; the fat blonde did not appear to be very concerned, while the negress huddled in one corner of the wagon, obviously terrified and tearful.

The big blonde grinned at Laura. "They pull you outa that hotel?"

Laura looked at her feet, and said nothing.

"A snob, huh?" the blonde cackled. "Well, go screw yourself. I was just trying to be sociable."

"Please," Laura said. "I don't feel like talking."

"None of you broads feel like talking!" the blonde roared. "The spics don't understand, and this one is scared spitless, and you don't feel like talking. What the hell kinda whores are you, anyway?"

Laura said nothing. One of the Puerto Rican women looked up hesitantly and said, "Donde estamos?"

"I don't understand Spanish," Laura said.

The woman smiled. "Por favor donde estamos?"

"I don't understand," Laura repeated.

"She wants to know where we are," the negro girl said in a husky voice. "She's been asking that all the way downtown. She's never been south of 72nd Street before." Turning to the Puerto Rican, she said, "Estamos cerca la calle numero cuarentidos."

The answer seemed to satisfy the Spanish-speaking woman, who settled back in silence.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, the wagon pulled up in front of the House of Detention in Greenwich Village. Police guarded the women carefully as the van was unloaded. Other wagons were parked nearby in the streets, indicating that there had been plenty of arrests in the last half hour.

As Laura marched up the steps and into the building, bright light exploded in her face. To her horror, she saw a little squad of press photographers just inside the door, getting shots of the girls as they came in. Spitting a curse, Laura threw up her arm to shield her face, hoping their pictures would not come out.

She was ushered inside. The place was brightly lit and ugly, with high, bare walls. A bored-looking desk sergeant booked the new arrivals in, explaining yawningly that they would be held in custody overnight and arraigned in the morning. Laura once again gave her name as Lois Harper, and she was led further into the building, to the cell blocks.

They put her in a big cell with four other women who had been picked up that evening. One was the negress, one the big blonde who had ridden with her in the wagon. The Puerto Rican women went into another cell. Laura's remaining two cellmates were a slovenly-looking redhead who seemed to be a friend of the blonde, and a tall, lean girl in blue jeans who kept to herself at the far corner of the cell. The metal door clanged shut. Far down the corridor, some woman was singing in a high-pitched, drunken voice. Further down, two women were arguing violently in Spanish.

Feeling strangely out of place in her elegant clothing, Laura huddled down on one of the hard cots. It was only midnight. There were many long, bleak hours yet to come before dawn.

She wondered what would happen now. They might send her to jail, she thought. Perhaps she would just get off with a fine. In any case, she was in trouble. Not so much trouble as McDermott, though. She pitied him terribly. No doubt there would be a messy divorce case, now. She would be named as co-respondent, and the pictures of her and McDermott in the nude would figure prominently in the trial, and his reputation would be blasted. Probably he had enough money to get along for the rest of his life, but his banking career would be effectively ended.

She settled down without undressing and tried to sleep. A short while later, she heard hoarse sounds coming from the other side of the cell, and looked up. It was the big blonde and the redhead. They had pushed their cots together and had stripped, and now they were lying with their heavy bodies entwined, their lips pressed together, making love. It was a disgusting sight. Laura remembered her own brief lesbian interlude with Marilyn, but she told herself it had been nothing like this. These were two heavybreasted cows of women, women in rut, grappling with each other to slake their revolting lusts. Big breasts quivered with desire; thigh locked around thigh. Laura closed her eyes, but she continued to hear their heavy grunting, to hear the sudden gasping insucking of breath as first one, then the other, arrived at a culmination.

It was a horrible night. Laura slept hardly at all, and every time she awoke it seemed that the two lesbian prostitutes were at each other again, enjoying it mightily. She heard the slap of hands on buttocks, the sticky squish of one sweat-bathed body pulling away from another and approaching it again. When morning came, Laura's head throbbed mercilessly. She felt as though there was sand in her mouth, gravel where her eyeballs once had been. Her clothing was rumpled and dirty, and she needed a shower badly. She was hungry. She was frightened. She was miserable.

A burly policewoman came to the cell door about seven the next morning, looked in, and entered. The two lesbians were still asleep in each other's arms. The policewoman, grayhaired and iron-jawed, slapped them soundly on their exposed buttocks. "Here, you two disgusting chippies! Get up and separate those cots!"

She stalked out. The lesbians muttered angry curses after her, but separated.

At nine that morning the policewoman returned. Peering into the cell, she said, "Lois Harper, or Laura Haynes, or whatever you call yourself?"

"That's me," Laura said.

"Somebody to see you. Come on out."

Laura freshened up quickly at the little dirty washstand in the cell, while the policewoman opened the door. Laura followed her down the wide halls toward the offices at the front of the building. Feeling hopelessly rumpled and sloppy, she was ushered into a small waiting-room. A suave-looking man of about forty rose immediately to greet her.

"Miss Haynes?"

"Yes," Laura said uncertainly.

"My name is Brewer, Leon Brewer. I'm a legal representative of Phil Spinelli." He dropped his voice to a hollow whisper when mentioning Spinelli's name.

Laura smiled wanly. "When did he find out I was here?"

"Last night, when Mr. McDermott called him. But there was nothing we could do to help you until this morning."

"What's going to happen to me?"

"Nothing. You're free," Brewer said, smiling loftily. "The city doesn't have a case against you. There's no proof you were soliciting, no proof you were receiving money. All they can definitely accuse you of is being present in Mr. McDermott's suite in—ah—a state of undress. In short, they could make trouble for you, but not very much, and in any event we've succeeded in having charges against you removed."

Laura understood. Spinelli had pull. Brewer had spoken a few magic words and they were letting her go. But all the other girls rounded up last night, the streetwalkers and whores who didn't have fancy legal assistance to help them, they would have to pay the fines and serve the workhouse terms for prostitution.

Don't complain, Laura thought. At least you're free, aren't you? It's their hard luck that they don't have any pull.

There were a few technicalities involved in her release. Within half an hour, she and Brewer stepped out of the House of Detention into bright morning sunlight. A black limousine pulled up.

Spinelli was inside. Laura and Brewer got in. Spinelli looked grim.

"Was there any trouble, Leon?" he asked.

"Not a bit," Brewer said. "I just explained that they had accidentally nabbed a Spinelli girl without realizing it, and they let her go with apologies."

"A damned good thing," Spinelli muttered. "I pay thousands a year for protection, and what happens? They pick up one of my own girls. Christ, I'm going to smash someone for this!" Suddenly solicitous, he said to Laura, "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Filthy. Scared as hell."

"Take a couple of days off. And don't worry about this thing. It was a big mistake. Some hotshot flunky wanted to have a morals raid, that's all. And McDermott's wife put a bug on him. It was just a lousy coincidence."

"What about McDermott?" Laura asked.

"Up the crapper, I'm afraid. He went back to Boston on a midnight train. You better forget any deals you might have been offered by him," Spinelli said. "He's going to need every cent he has, by the time his wife gets through with him. The lousy bitch."

Laura shuddered. "The poor man."

Shrugging, Spinelli said, "He could have avoided it. He should have paid a bellhop to look out for something like that. But he never thought it could happen to him. It always is a big surprise, when the bulls bust in. But it was his own damn fault."