CHAPTER FIVE

Laura turned her second trick about forty minutes later. He was a tall, sharp-faced man in his late thirties, who talked with a pronounced Southern drawl and seemed very embarrassed about the whole thing. After him, business slowed down. At quarter to seven she went into a cafe opposite the Coliseum and had a quick supper. By twenty after, she was back on her post again. It was getting quite chilly, now. Marilyn had said that the outdoor work was done only in the spring and summer and early fall; the rest of the year, they hung out in the many bars in the neighborhood. Bar work was easier in many ways, but also less profitable, since you usually had to give the bartender or proprietor a cut of your takings if you wanted to be allowed to solicit on his premises.

Trick number three turned up at half past eight—a short, round-bottomed man of perhaps forty-five. He had a strong body odor, and he seemed more interested in playing with Laura's breasts than in making love with her, but she finally managed to get rid of him. Now she had taken in thirty dollars; she was $21.50 ahead on the day, after about five hours' work. She decided to quit after one more trick, since it was getting cold.

The trick came along. Jovial, well-dressed, fairly high. He wanted to take Laura for a few drinks first, but she kept her mind on business instead. When he asked about the price, she upped it to fifteen, figuring she could always let herself be bargained-down. He looked like a free spender, though, and he was. Fifteen was okay with him. They went to the hotel.

At quarter to ten, Laura returned to the little room she shared with Marilyn. She felt tired and filthy all over; the sweat of four men had mingled with her own, and four men's bodies had pressed down heavily on hers. She took her jacket off, stripped off her clothes quickly. Every square inch of her body seemed to itch. She went into the bathroom and turned the hot water on. She wished Marilyn had a shower. She wanted to have the hot water cascading down on her from above, washing away the day's physical contact.

But there was no shower, only the tub. She ran the water in, as hot as she could stand it, and scrubbed hard, until her skin gleamed. She knew now why Marilyn always spent an hour in the tub after coming home from a day's work. It wasn't to prevent picking up any disease as much as it was to wash away the touch of the men who had bought her body that day.

When she was through soaking, she towelled herself vigorously dry. She felt cleaner, but there was still a residue of discomfort.

Maybe you never can wash the feeling away, she thought. Not even if you take a bath in concentrated sulphuric acid. It stays with you, soaking into your bones, and you can't ever get rid of it.

And there was the dull throbbing of frustration in her loins, too, the cost of being sexually aroused four times without a single fulfillment. She felt the discomfort up through her entire body. Her nipples were hard and painful. Her thighs ached.

She finished drying off and went into the bedroom, planning to read for a while and then perhaps doze off until Marilyn came home. But she was surprised to find the door opening, and Marilyn coming in. Marilyn had a paper bag under one arm.

"You're back early," Laura said. "It isn't even eleven o'clock yet."

"I know. But I figured you'd come in by now, and I wanted to get back here and spend some time with you. What sort of day did you have?"

"Four tricks," Laura said with a touch of pride. "Three tens and a fifteen."

"Wow! You take to it like a natural."

"Thanks," Laura said ironically. "How'd you manage today?"

Marilyn shrugged. "Four tricks. Twenty bucks. If I had your figure, I could charge ten and get away with it. But I don't, so I can't. How do you feel?"

"Okay, I suppose."

"I mean, you aren't all keyed up? They heat you up, and then they don't finish what they've started, and it leaves you all lousy inside. Or didn't that happen to you?"

"It did," Laura said. "I took a hot bath, but it didn't help much."

"There are ways of helping it," Marilyn said. "Let me get washed up and I'll show you." She began to get out of her clothes.

"What's in the paper bag?" Laura asked. "Groceries?"

"Sort of," Marilyn laughed. "Take a look."

Laura opened the bag. Inside was a fifth of Scotch. "Whiskey!" she said.

"I figured we'd have a little party. To sort of celebrate your debut. It's a kind of special occasion, after all."

Marilyn finished undressing and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. While she bathed, she bombarded Laura with questions about the way her day had gone. She wanted to know what sort of johns she had picked up, whether they had given her any trouble, whether the hotel people had been sassy, whether there had been any kind of interference from the police. Laura found that talking about the day in this manner eased some of the festering guilt within her. It reduced the whole day's activities to a mere professional level. They could just as well be two secretaries or two receptionists talking shop.

Pink and glowing, Marilyn came out of the bathroom and opened the Scotch. "How do you want yours, honey? On the rocks, neat, or with mix?"

"Mixed, I guess."

"There's ginger ale in the fridge. Dig it out while I'm opening the bottle. Get the icecube tray too, while you're at it."

Laura complied. When she had finally succeeded in wrestling the frozen-in icecube tray out of the miniature frigidaire, she saw that Marilyn had already poured healthy quantities of liquor into two drinking-glasses. Almost a third of each glass was filled with whiskey. Marilyn added two icecubes to each drink, and filled Laura's the rest of the way with ginger ale. She drank her own on the rocks.

"Cheers," Marilyn said.

Laura smiled. "Cheers."

They clinked glasses gravely and drank. Laura had never been much of a drinker, and when she did have anything it was usually bourbon-and-water, sometimes rye-and-ginger. Scotch was new to her. But she liked the flavor, and she particularly liked the immediate warmth in her throat and in the pit of her stomach.

"It was awfully good of you to think of picking up a bottle," Laura said. "I was getting kind of blue, here all by myself."

Marilyn nodded. "It's always a little rough, after you've finished your first day on the street. That's why I knocked off early. To keep you company here."

Laura found the drink slipping smoothly down her throat. In no time at all, nothing but half-melted ice cubes remained in her glass. Marilyn caught up with her in two quick gulps and poured refills.

"Not much for me," Laura said. "I'm getting dizzy, I think."

"What of it? Come on—you only live once."

But Laura was getting dizzy, very dizzy. She drank the second drink cautiously. Even so, her head began to buzz a little, and her eyes would not focus. She leaned back, letting her gown dangle loosely open, and a glassy smile appeared on her face. So this was what it was like to be drunk, she thought. It was fun.

She was vaguely aware that Laura was filling her glass again. She tried to protest, but the only words that came past her lips were thick, fuzzy things that probably were unintelligible. Automatically, she lifted the third drink to her lips. She could make out Marilyn's face smiling across the table at her, blurred and badly out of focus.

"Want another?" Marilyn asked some time later.

"No ... no, please. I want to go to bed."

"Sure, baby. Sure." Laura stood up and staggered uncertainly, almost falling. But Marilyn was right next to her, her arm around Laura's shoulder, and with the strength that seemed so strange in her thin, wiry body Marilyn managed to hold her up, to carry her across the room and put her gently down on top of her bed.

"Let's get the robe off you," Marilyn said. "Easy, now. Just lift your shoulder."

Laura complied, and Marilyn took off the robe. Laura saw Marilyn remove her own robe. And then, to Laura's surprise, Marilyn lay down naked, not in her own bed, but on Laura's. The two girls were naked, side by side. Laura frowned, not knowing what to say.

Marilyn murmured, "I'm going to make you feel real good now, honey. I'm going to help you relax and get a good night's sleep."

"What—whatcha gonna do—"

"Just relax, Laura, just relax." Marilyn's hand was cupping Laura's breasts. It was almost like a man's hand, Laura thought, nothing soft and feminine about it. She lay on her side, facing Marilyn, and the other girl had her hands on both of Laura's breasts, playing now with the nipples, now squeezing the entire heavy globes with all five fingers. One of Marilyn's thin knees gently pushed its way between Laura's thighs. Laura found it was pleasant to have the leg between hers. She began to move rhythmically, deriving pleasure from each rubbing motion of her loins over Marilyn's skin.

Then Marilyn released Laura's breasts and began to move her hands over every part of Laura's body. Laura smiled. She saw nothing unnatural in one woman making love to another, at that point. It was simply that all day both of them had been denied fulfillment, and now, alone with each other, they could give each other the pleasure that their clients had denied them all day.

Laura's lips gently caressed Marilyn's stiff nipples, and her hands wandered toward the other girl's lean, muscular buttocks. She wriggled closer to Marilyn, and the two girls embraced, and Laura could feel the jutting little bones of Marilyn's hips pressing into the softness of her own thighs.

Laura began to pant as Marilyn's hands touched the secret places of her body, stimulating them, exciting them. She reached out for Marilyn, wanting to do the same.

"Kiss me," Laura muttered harshly. "Kiss me there."

Marilyn kissed her. "Now you kiss me," Marilyn whispered. Laura did. "Again," Marilyn said. "Oh, again, again!"

And then neither of them could control themselves any longer, and they came together in a tight embrace.

After the long hours of standing in the street, all the moments of sweaty exertion beneath the sagging bodies of strange men—all forgotten now, all blurred by the sweet haze of alcohol and the warmth of Marilyn's lean body above hers.

Laura felt her heart pound as though it would rip out of her chest. Every muscle contracted; she gasped harshly for breath and cried out, "Oh oh oh!" and at the same moment above her Marilyn emitted a low moaning sound, and then it was finished, and Marilyn clung limply to Laura like something washed up by the tide, and the two women rested, letting the fierce tides of passion ebb slowly away.

The ache in the loins was gone, now, Laura thought. The day's frustrations were wiped out.

The very strenuousness of the act had sobered her, had burned the excess alcohol from her brain, and now, as she lay with all passion spent, Marilyn's warm flushed body against hers, she reflected that what they had done was unnatural, a strange act.

But was it so unnatural, really, she asked herself?

They were friends. They shared a mutual need for fulfillment. Because of their profession, they could not get that fulfillment from men. What more natural thing in the world was there but for them to give that fulfillment to each other?

She opened her eyes. Marilyn, smiling, looked into them.

"Hello, darling."

"Hello, Marilyn."

"How do you feel now?"

"Wonderful."

"No guilt about it?"

Laura shrugged. "I don't know. It was like all my troubles being washed away in one second."

"You've never done anything like this before, have you?" Marilyn asked. "I mean, with another woman."

"No. Never."

"Then I was the first. That makes me very happy."

"Do you—have you done much of this?" Laura asked.

"Practically since I went on the street. It's the only way I can get any kicks. I pretend the men excite me, but it's never happened, never once in my life with a man. Only with women."

Laura closed her eyes. "I feel very sleepy now. Warm and drowsy and happy."

"That's the way you should feel, honey. Let's get some sleep, now. See you in the morning."

Marilyn's lips gently grazed Laura's. Laura smiled.

"Goodnight, Marilyn."

"Goodnight, honey."

Laura nestled under the covers, against her pillow. The lights went out, and a moment later she heard Marilyn getting into her bed. Laura yawned.

She understood now why Marilyn had been so eager for her as a roommate. It was more than sheer generosity, more than mere loneliness. Marilyn had been looking for a lover. Laura frowned. She was not sure she wanted to settle down this way as a regular habit. Walking the streets all day for twenty-five or thirty dollars, then coming home and drinking and making love with another woman....

Yet a routine it became, at least for the next three or four days. In the morning, the girls read, slept, shopped for food. Marilyn had a bank account with several thousand dollars in it, and she persuaded Laura to open one as well, and to bank as much of her earnings as she possibly could, as an emergency fund against illness or pregnancy. In mid-afternoon, they would go out together to take their positions near the park. Then, at whatever time they decided to call it a day, they would return to the apartment. Usually Laura got back first, since she demanded a higher rate and was more popular with the passers-by. She would return by eleven and bathe and set up the drinks; by midnight Marilyn would come in, and after she had tidied herself up they would have a little party and then go to bed.

The lovemaking invariably satisfied them both. Laura felt secret pangs of guilt at these lesbian practices, but she said nothing about them to Marilyn. She did not like the idea of making love with another woman, but on the other hand there was always the ache of frustration in her loins at the end of the day, and after a couple of drinks her inhibitions disappeared.

Then, on the fourth day, Marilyn said apropos of nothing at all, "Hey, did you ever call that Spinelli fellow back?"

Laura frowned. "Why, no. I forgot all about it."

"You dope, why'd you do that?"

"I didn't know any Spinellis."

Marilyn glowered scornfully. "Suppose it was Phil Spinelli, though? Maybe he saw you somewhere, and wants to line you up for his syndicate."

Laura shook her head. "Don't be silly. There are dozens of Spinellis in New York, and Phil Spinelli doesn't know me from Eve. Besides, it was probably a mistake, a call for some other girl on my floor. There were two or three girls with Italian names—"

"Does it cost you very much to call him?"

"No, but I feel funny, calling a strange number and asking to speak to someone I don't even know—"

"Just suppose it is the bigshot, though!" Marilyn urged. "Christ almighty, Laura, do you want to spend the rest of your life selling your ass at ten bucks a throw? A girl with your figure could be making a mint. I tell you in all truth, I never seen a pair of buttons like yours on any woman in the trade. So you live up here wasting yourself on me and on a bunch of cheap ten-buck johns, when you might be a big syndicate girl—"

"But how could it be—"

"Call him," Marilyn insisted. "You never know. Don't sell yourself short."

In the end, Marilyn won out. It was unreasonable not to try, at least. Laura had some trouble finding the scrap of paper on which the number was written, and for a moment she thought she might have thrown it out. But at last it turned up, crumpled into a corner of her handbag. She flattened it out.

"Maybe it's too early to call," Laura suggested hesitantly.

"It's eleven in the morning, goof. If he isn't there, you can leave your number or something."

She had run out of excuses. She went to the phone and dialed the number. On the third ring the phone was picked up, and a deep masculine voice boomed, "Yeah?"

"Mr. Spinelli?" Laura said weakly.

"Who's this?"

"My name is Laura Haynes. I got a message about a week ago from Mr. Spinelli telling me that he had called, but I lost the number and it just turned up. Are you Mr. Spinelli?"

"No. What did you say your name was?"

"Haynes. Laura Haynes."

"Hold on, huh?"

Laura held on. She heard muffled sounds, as though someone's hand were over the mouthpiece while a discussion went on.

"What's happening?" Marilyn asked.

"They're bringing Spinelli to the phone, I guess," Laura said. Her heart pounded.

A different voice—smooth, almost oily—said, "Miss Haynes?"

"That's right."

"I was wondering why it took you so long to get in touch with me, Miss Haynes. I was very anxious to hear from you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You've been recommended most highly to me, Miss Haynes. Do you mind if I call you Laura? And you can call me Phil. I like my friends to call me by my first name."

Laura nearly dropped the phone. Nodding frantically to the puzzled Marilyn, Laura said, "Ah—yes, Phil."

"That's better. Are you free this afternoon for lunch, Laura?"

"I—could be. But this is all so mysterious—"

"I'm sorry. But I have a business proposal for you, and it's not something that can easily be explained over the phone. Shall we make it a date for lunch in, say an hour and a half?"