CHAPTER FOUR

The hotel was on 56th Street just off Seventh Avenue. It had obviously seen better days. It was a big massive nineteenth-century structure, with gargoyles and everything. But the marquee was stained and tattered, and no doorman waited in front. Laura walked in. It was just as Marilyn had described it: a dump. Even the potted palms were drooping and frayed. The lights were dim, sputtering fluorescents. A couple of sloppy-looking bellhops lounged near the elevator. The desk clerk had a copy of the Daily Mirror spread out in front of him, and he was doing the crossword puzzle.

Laura felt a tight band of fear across her belly. She remembered with tension what Marilyn had told her in explaining the pitch. Hotels don't like to rent rooms to unescorted girls without luggage, because they know that nine times out of nine and a half the girl is a prostie. They'll rent to you, but if you don't grease them up they'll give you a hard time first.

She moistened her lips as she waited for the desk clerk to look up from his crossword puzzle. He stared at her out of faded, red-rimmed eyes.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for a room," she said. She opened her hand and let the crumpled five-dollar bill tumble out. It landed on the open newspaper. Casually, the desk clerk covered it with his palm, smiling faintly.

"A single?" he asked.

"That's right. For—for tonight."

She waited hesitantly. The fiver was out of sight, now. All the clerk had to do was shake his head and say the hotel was filled up, and he was five bucks ahead for not very much effort. Laura added after a moment, "I'm a friend of Mary Ryan." That was the name Marilyn used when she signed the register here; Marilyn had told her to mention it to the clerk.

The clerk nodded. "Okay. We've got a room. Three-fifty okay?"

"Fine," Laura said in a choked voice. Now I'm in business, she thought.

"We usually prefer it in advance when the party doesn't have any luggage," said the desk clerk blandly. "Do you want to see the room first?"

"That's all right. I'll take it anyway."

"As you wish, ma'am. Would you sign here?"

He shoved the register toward her. Laura signed in as Lois Harper, giving a fictitious Brooklyn address. Then she counted out three singles and two quarters, and shoved them across the counter. The clerk scribbled a receipt for her and handed her the key.

"Room 804," he said. "The bellhop will take you up if you want a look."

"Thanks," Laura said. She took the key and walked toward the elevator. The bellhop, a boy of about eighteen, got in and clanged the wire cage shut. Creakily, the elevator began to ascend.

"You're new, aren't you?" the bellhop said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, you've never been around here before. We don't get classy ones like you, much."

Laura's face reddened. She looked at the floor. "Just show me to my room," she said.

The elevator halted jerkily on the eighth floor. The bellhop led her down the dark corridor, with its threadbare carpeting, to a room near the end of the hall. Taking the key from her, he opened the door. She followed him in. Grinning, he put his arms around her and tried to kiss her. Laura's first impulse was to slap him. But more advice of Marilyn's came to mind. The bellhop will probably fool around. They always try to grab a free feel. Let them have it, because otherwise they could make big trouble for you. A nasty bellhop could tip off the cops and get you raided. But don't let them get more from you than a feel, Laura. You start giving out tricks on the house and pretty soon you're everybody's doormat.

She let the bellboy kiss her and squeeze her breasts. He pressed his body against hers, until she quickly eased away.

"That's enough," she said.

"Let's have some fun, baby!"

"You've had all I plan to give," she said. She nudged him toward the door. He left reluctantly but without putting up much of a fuss, as though it was all part of the rules for the bellhop to do a little smooching but then to leave.

Laura surveyed the room.

It was not much. There was a wide bed—one of the reasons Marilyn preferred this hotel was that the single rooms came with wide beds—and half a dozen clean towels were draped over the iron bedstead. There was a rickety dresser, a yellowing mirror, an ugly lamp, a small table. The room had its own sink and toilet bowl, but no bath or shower. Instead of venetian blinds, there was a greasy-looking windowshade. The room was painted a depressing dull green, and didn't seem to have been painted within the last ten years. It was a cheerless, bleak room. But it only cost $3.50 a night.

Laura locked up and rode downstairs, and walked briskly back to Central Park South. According to Marilyn, the block running along the bottom of Central Park, 59th Street between Columbus Circle and Fifth Avenue, was one of the best places in the city for streetwalkers. Usually the cops didn't bother you, especially if you were well-dressed and quiet, and since it was the street bordering a park you didn't run the risk of being complained about by shopkeepers whose storefronts you might be sullying. Marilyn had told her, If a cop comes over and starts trouble, just say you're waiting for your boyfriend. Stick around another ten minutes, then walk away. They can't arrest you unless they actually catch you in the act. Loitering isn't enough to stand up in court. They have to follow you to your hotel room and break in on you and the john you've picked up.

Marilyn's area was near the Columbus Circle entrance to the park. At her advice, Laura moved further east, on the other side of Sixth Avenue. That way they wouldn't be competing with each other, and, besides, more high-money men were likely to come walking from east to west along 59th than from west to east.

There was no sign of Marilyn. Laura wondered if she had a client. She walked past Marilyn's post, heading toward Sixth Avenue. The time was ten minutes to three; the weather was warm, the sky very blue. Laura leaned up against the low wall that rimmed the park, and began to wait.

Marilyn had been a little surprised, the night before, when Laura had announced her decision. At first she had tried to discourage Laura from sharing her profession; then, seeing that Laura was determined to go on the streets at least once, Marilyn had set about to instruct her. They had been up half the night, the teacher and the willing pupil, as Marilyn poured out all the benefits of her three years' experience.

Laura's heart raced furiously now. If they only could know about me now back in Kansas, she thought. They'd have fits if they knew what line of work pure and lovely Laura Haynes has gone into.

Although she was not fond of smoking, she lit a cigarette now to mask her nervousness. She was dressed in her smartest clothes—a tan trenchcoat over a tight cashmere sweater and a crisp skirt. She had the trenchcoat dangle loosely from her shoulders, revealing the eye-opening thrust of her bosom and the trim lines of her waist and hips. To a casual passer-by, she might have been some Fifth Avenue beauty waiting for her beau.

Twenty minutes went by. A number of men looked at her with keen interest, but moved on without stopping to speak to her. Maybe I'm too chic to look like a streetwalker, she thought. Most of them have a kind of bedraggled look that tells a man they're available. But maybe men are afraid they'll get slapped in the face if they try to proposition me.

When it was nearly four o'clock, and she had been on her territory almost an hour without any sign of a client, she came close to giving the whole thing up. She told herself, though, that Marilyn spent nine or ten hours a day to find four or five clients; presumably a girl as attractive as Laura would do better business, but, still, she hadn't expected to be ignored this long. She felt ambivalent about the situation: she wanted to be picked up, yet at the same time she wanted not to be picked up. She would have preferred to retain her virtue. On the other hand, she had already spent $3.50 in rent and $5 in bribery to get a hotel room. Marilyn had told her to charge $10, but, even if she got a client at that rate, she would have only $1.50 to show for her first encounter. With a fixed overhead of $8 or $10 a day for a hotel room, it was necessary to have several clients, at least, to come out ahead.

Laura went tense. One man, who had already gone past her twice, was coming back a third time—and now he was walking toward her! He had come from the Fifth Avenue direction, had eyed her carefully, and had gone on walking toward Columbus Circle. Then, a few moments later, he had returned, as though for a second look. He had gone on to Fifth, again. And now he was back, and cutting away from the sidewalk to walk over to her.

Her heart thundered. Don't freeze up, she thought. Don't muff it.

He was about forty, she thought, and well-dressed. Of middle height, no hat, balding slightly, dark clipped mustache. Not bad-looking. Slightly heavy-set. A big ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

He was holding out an unlit cigarette. In a suave voice he said, "Pardon me, Miss. My lighter doesn't seem to be working. Could I trouble you for a light?"

"No trouble at all," Laura said, making her voice husky. She stood up, opened her handbag, took out a matchbook, struck one for him. He puffed busily for a moment.

"Thanks," he said, when the cigarette was lit. He hesitated a moment, as though still trying to size her up. She wondered numbly whether it would all fizzle, whether he would now puff on his cigarette and stroll away. But he said at length, "Maybe you could do me one more favor. I'm looking for some congenial companionship for the next half hour or so. Are you free, or are you waiting for somebody here?"

"I'm waiting," Laura said, as Marilyn had instructed her. "But it doesn't look like the fellow is going to show up, so to the deuce with him." She smiled warmly. "My name's Lois. I've got a place a couple of blocks from here, if that's what you're interested in."

He smiled. The formalities were over. It was a straight business transaction now. "Interested? Yes, I'd say I was. Depends, though, on what it's likely to cost me."

"Ten," she said.

"For the next half hour?"

"That's right. Without any specialties." The cold words rolled glibly off her tongue.

He eyed her, looking her over from head to toe. "Ten is a little higher than some charge, Lois."

She smiled urbanely. "Ten is the price."

He hesitated only a moment. "Okay. Ten it is. Take me to your love-nest."

She took the arm that he extended, and they began to walk toward Seventh Avenue. Laura was so nervous she nearly tripped on her high heels. Even though she had rehearsed her little speech all morning, she was surprised that she had carried it off so coolly. She was surprised, too, at the way the conversation had changed from casual interchange to a seamy negotiation, almost of its own accord.

They crossed 59th and headed down Seventh Avenue toward the hotel. They chatted about the weather. Laura kept up a steady flow of light talk. Marilyn's advice went round and round in her head. Never try to find out anything about them. They'll think you're prying, and anyway you don't need to know. Always collect from them in advance. Always let them know that you're taking them for a single trick, and make sure they know that specialty items command a higher price. And once you get your clothes off, get it over with as quick as you can. The faster you can get back out on the street, the sooner you'll be turning your next trick.

They reached the hotel. The desk clerk did not look up as Laura and her "friend" walked past him. The bellhop on duty was a different one from the one who had brought Laura to her room before. He kept complete decorum as he ushered them into the elevator.

The client seemed a little surprised at the shabbiness of the hotel, but he said nothing. The elevator stopped at eight. Laura led him down the hall to the room, and opened the door. As she stepped inside, seeing in one glance the towels on the iron bedstead, the little nightstand, the dingy walls, she had a sensation very much like vertigo. She knew that she was standing on the brink, and the moment she let this man into the room with her and closed the door she would begin the long descent into the abyss.

She closed the door and flipped the catch on the lock, as Marilyn had specified. Now not even a management key could open the door.

She switched on the light and smiled bravely at the man. "I'd like the fee now, please. You can put it on the dresser."

"Right."

He slipped a bill out of his wallet while Laura undressed. Marilyn's words again were in her mind: If they look well-heeled, peel to the buff. You may get a little extra that way. Otherwise don't bother. Get back on the street as fast as you can.

She draped her coat over a chair, unzipped her skirt, and stepped out of it. She peeled the tight sweater off next. After just an instant of hesitation, she unsnapped her bra. She heard her client's sharp little indrawn hiss of pleasure and surprise as he saw that the full, ripe mounds of her breasts were all genuine. She removed her half-slip next, and rolled her panties down over her hips. Now she wore nothing but garter-belt and stockings. She tried to be casual about her nudity. As she motioned to remove the stockings, he said in a strained voice, "Leave them on, please. I rather like it that way."

He had removed his jacket and his trousers. She took a quick look at his body. His legs were hairy, and surprisingly lean, considering the stockiness of his upper body.

Make sure they wear protection, Marilyn had warned. Marilyn had given her a little packet just in case, but the client had provided his own, Laura saw.

She mounted the bed, lying on her back looking up at the ceiling.

God help me, she thought. There's no turning back now.

She felt his weight above her. His hands touched her breasts, squeezing them gently, toying with the stiff little nipples. He made no attempt to kiss her. He roamed her body with his fingers, and she felt herself warming under his touch. He didn't seem to be in any hurry. Some of them may try to be regular romeos, had been Marilyn's warning. Don't let them spend hours on preliminaries. Get yourself ready, and do it. You're in this for cash, not for kicks.

She locked her legs around him, and he responded, and their bodies joined. She closed her eyes and began to move rhythmically. It had not been painful, as it had been with McCarten. She felt a faint sensuous stirring in the pit of her stomach, and wished dimly, sadly, that she could be doing this out of love and not out of callous cynicism. Every movement brought a soft tingling of pleasure. She realized that she could almost be enjoying what she was doing.

But Marilyn had warned her to bring matters to a swift culmination. Laura began to gasp, counterfeiting the crisis of passion. Sweat broke out all over her, and she closed her eyes tightly, continuing to thrust her body, and suddenly she cried out in counterfeit ecstacy and the man shuddered and gave a little moan, and his body shook convulsively and it was all over.

He did not want to get up, or even to leave her body. She waited a minute, then said, "It's all over."

"Okay. Okay."

"You can stay another round, if you like," she told him. "Same price." Always be a good salesman, Marilyn said.

"No," he muttered, getting up from her. "I'll leave now." The suaveness seemed to be gone. His lust satisfied, he hardly looked at her. He took one of the towels and washed himself, and then, quickly, he dressed. He was in a hurry now.

Laura remained on the bed, watching his hasty exit. He got what he came for, she thought. Now he wants to scram before the hotel gets raided.

He muttered a goodbye and tried to open the door. But he had trouble with the catch; Laura had to get up and let him out. He paused before going, taking one last look at the ripe glory of her breasts and buttocks, and then he was gone. Laura shut the door behind him and locked it.

There was a ten-dollar bill on the dresser. She put it in her billfold. Her watch said twenty minutes to five. So she had given him a little over half an hour, and now she had a profit on the day of $1.50, with hours still to go. Wearily, she walked over to the mirror. Take a good look, she thought. Take a look at the face of a whore, Laura.

She felt tired and embittered. There was a dull ache in her loins, the throb of unfulfilled desire. Marilyn had warned her of that. The men got you all worked up, but there was no satisfaction.

She went over to the sink and washed herself carefully, and then she got dressed. In the dim light of the lamp, the room was unimaginably gloomy. She felt terribly depressed. The transaction was completed. She had sold herself to a middle-aged stranger; he had ploughed his furrow and had paid and was gone.

She pulled the bra cups over her breasts and fastened the snap. Is this what I want? she asked. An ugly hotel room and a few minutes of sweaty grunting? I can do better than this, I don't have to depend on five or ten bucks a lay. As long as I'm selling myself, I ought to get a good price for the merchandise.

Dressed, she locked the door and rang for the elevator. This is minor-league stuff, she thought. But it's valuable experience. I ought to be able to better myself soon, when I've been around a little more.

The commitment was made. She felt neither joyous nor sad about it. This was her life, now—and, if she played her cards right, she would wind up living a plush life. Everyone has to start at the bottom.

Outside, it was growing dark rapidly. Laura walked at a brisk pace back to her post near Sixth Avenue, and waited for the next customer to come along.