CHAPTER SIX

"I'll be damned," Laura muttered in quiet incredulity, as she hung up the phone. "So you were right after all. It was Phil Spinelli! But how—where would he find out about me?—"

"They say he knows everything about everyone, honey. Aren't you glad you listened to me and called him, now? Christ, I wish I could get into his syndicate! If I only had your looks—then I wouldn't need to tramp around in the cold for five bucks a trick." Marilyn shrugged. "Well, this is your big break. What kind of arrangements did you make with him?"

"He's picking me up here at half past twelve."

"Here? Baby, you better be ready ahead of time, and wait for him out in front."

"Why?"

"Because we don't want Phil Spinelli to know that you live in a dump like this. His girls have to radiate class, poise, breeding. Which means you've got to give him the impression right from the start that you come from the proper side of the tracks."

"Oh, dear—"

"Don't worry about it," Marilyn snapped. "Just start getting ready. And dress like you're having a date with the Duke of Windsor."

Laura put on her one cocktail dress, a tight blue affair with a scoop neckline that left bare the creamy upper globes of her breasts. At Marilyn's suggestion, she put just a dab of perfume in the hollow between her breasts, and wore a tiny jewelled locket that lay tantalizingly over the soft, high hills of flesh. She combed her long auburn hair out and arranged a meticulous coiffure. She brushed her teeth until they sparkled like pearls. By the time she was finished, she glistened. No one could possibly tell, merely by looking at her, that only the day before she had taken part in five squalid acts of physical lust in a cheap hotel room with flyspecked walls. She looked more like a radiant Bryn Mawr senior on her way to meet her fiancé. Marilyn nodded in approval when Laura turned away from the mirror at last.

"Tremendous," she enthused. "You'll knock him for a loop. You've got just what they want—a virginal appearance without the virginity that goes with it."

"What sort of man is he, do you know?"

Marilyn shrugged. "All I know is that he's supposed to be a smooth operator with lots of dough. Also that he doesn't like to waste time."

"Do you think he'll want me for—for his syndicate?"

"You bet. And you know what that means. He'll put you up in a plush apartment somewhere on the East Side, and every afternoon you'll get a phone-call telling you where your assignment for the night is, and you go off to some fancy party or some millionaire's hotel suite and you earn yourself a hundred bucks."

Laura shook her head. "But why will men pay so much just for a night in bed with a woman?"

"For one thing, because they can afford it. For another, because it saves them a lot of fuss and bother. Look at it this way: Phil Spinelli's girls aren't cheap whores. They're beautiful society dames of the sort every man wants to lay. But to lay a regular society woman, you've got to date her for weeks, take her to fancy restaurants, spend a lot of cash and time on her before she'll come across. With a call-girl, you short-circuit all the steps in between. You pick up the phone, you call Spinelli, and you get a nice glossy Fifth Avenue type girl who doesn't need to be coaxed into bed." Marilyn glanced at her watch. "But it's almost half past twelve. You all ready?"

"Yes."

"Get downstairs, then. You don't want Spinelli to have to come looking for you up here."

"Okay. I'm going."

"And—" Marilyn smiled tenderly and squeezed Laura's gloved hand. "Good luck, honey. I hope you make the grade—even if that means we have to split up."

"We'll stay together, no matter what," Laura promised.

Marilyn shook her head. "It won't work out that way, believe me. But thanks for saying it. Hurry along, now, honey."

Laura made her way downstairs, trying to remain calm. She had only a few moments to wait in front of the building before an enormous black Imperial sedan glided up. A chauffeur hopped out and opened the back door, and a man emerged. He looked around uncertainly for a moment before spotting Laura.

"Mr. Spinelli?" she said in a hesitant voice.

He smiled. "Laura."

"That's right."

"Don't call me Mr. Spinelli. I like people to call me Phil," he said, and gestured toward the car. The chauffeur opened the door again, and Laura got in. The back of the car was enormously roomy, and the upholstery was luxurious. A sliding glass panel separated the rear compartment from the driver's cabin.

"Hungry?" Spinelli asked, grinning.

"Some," Laura said.

"What about the Henri IX? Or don't you like French cuisine?"

Laura almost said, I don't know, I've never tried it. But she checked herself in time. Settling back against the wonderfully buoyant upholstery, she smiled and said, "I love it."

"Henri IX," Spinelli said to the chauffeur, and slid the glass panel shut.

As the car pulled away and swung eastward in a big, arrogant U-turn, Laura turned slightly to eye Spinelli. He was younger than she had expected—no more than thirty-five at the very most, and possibly even a few years younger. He was a medium height, extremely well-dressed, with a relaxed, cosmopolitan manner. His face was tanned, his dark hair thick and curly, and he wore a neat little clipped mustache. He was, Laura thought, one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He positively radiated wealth, power, animal magnetism, strength. An enormous sapphire glinted from a massive gold ring on one hand. Even his wristwatch was formidable, a sleek oval face with all manner of smaller dials on it.

He was looking her over thoroughly, too. And, so far as Laura could tell, he seemed to be pleased.

As they reached the corner he said, "Would you care for a drink, Laura?"

She smiled in faint confusion. "A drink? You mean, we'll get out now?"

Spinelli chuckled. "I mean right here and now. This is a very well-equipped car." Leaning forward, he pressed his fingers against a wooden panel on the rear of the front seat, and the panel swung open, revealing a miniature bar within. "What about a Manhattan?" Spinelli asked.

Laura was too astonished to answer the question, at first. Staring at the bar in wonder, she said, "I didn't know automobiles could have things like this."

"A custom job can. A Manhattan?"

"Oh—yes. Yes, thanks."

Spinelli took a glass from a rack and punched a spigot. Amber liquid squirted out. "I keep Manhattans and Martinis readymade under refrigeration here," he explained, as he took a cherry from a plastic container and popped it into her drink. "It's a nuisance trying to mix things while the car is moving." He filled a second cocktail glass with a martini for himself, and they sat back. Laura sipped her drink, it was delicious; and, in the big car, there were no jounces, no bumps. The ride was serene.

Spinelli said, "I suppose you're wondering how I happened to get your phone number."

"I suppose I am," Laura said.

Spinelli smiled amiably. "I have a number of friends around town who keep me informed about promising newcomers," he said. "I like to know about it whenever a lovely girl comes to New York—especially when she's looking for a job in the entertainment world. One day last week there was a call from one of my friends, a Mr. McCarten."

Laura stiffened involuntarily.

"Something wrong?" Spinelli asked easily.

Laura forced a smile. "Mr. McCarten and I had—some unpleasantness."

"Oh? He didn't mention that. He did say you were an extremely handsome young woman, and I must remark his judgment was excellent. And he thought you might be receptive to an offer from me. I'm—ah—in a form of the entertainment world myself. Mr. McCarten told me where I could reach you, and I phoned the Y, only to learn that you were out. When I called again the next day, they informed me you had moved, but they didn't know your address." Spinelli shrugged. "I was ready to write you off as a lost cause, until your telephone call. I'm delighted you were able to get in touch with me at last."

Laura sat back, sipping her drink. She found it hard to believe that this handsome, cultured young man could be the overlord of high-priced vice in New York City. But it was easy to read between the lines of what he was saying, to know that McCarten was one of Spinelli's talent scouts and had recommended her. It was strange that McCarten should think that a girl who had been raped of her virginity would be interested in becoming a call-girl—but perhaps McCarten was so shrewd a psychologist that he knew exactly what the effect of his act would be. Certainly it had led her in a straight line toward Spinelli.

The limousine pulled up in front of an East Side hotel. The chauffeur ran around to the side to open the door; Spinelli got out, helping Laura, and they entered the hotel together, she on his arm. The restaurant was at the rear of the hotel; the moment Spinelli entered, a dignified-looking man in black came racing up, bowed, and gave him an effusive welcome.

"Your table is ready for you, Mr. Spinelli. If you and Mamselle will come this way, s'il-vous-plait?"

He led them the length of the lavishly-upholstered restaurant to a dim alcove at the very rear, where a table for two nestled in intimate darkness, separated somewhat from the rest of the dining room. Spinelli helped Laura off with her jacket, and, in turning, she made a half-bow, revealing her bosom to him. She noticed that his eyes flicked appreciatively to her breasts for an instant before returning to their usual blasé expression.

"I have a permanent lunchtime reservation for this table," Spinelli explained softly, as they took their seats. "Sometimes, when the place is full and I am not here, they will telephone me for permission to give it to someone else. But normally it waits for me at all times. They are very kind to me here."

He gestured to a waiter, who glided over at once. There was no menu. Laura, having no idea what to order, smiled warmly and asked Spinelli to order for her.

Spinelli nodded. Speaking in smooth French, he said, "We'll begin with escargot today. Onion soup for the lady, petite marmite for me, and the baked pheasant for two. With a bottle of the '47 Tavel, Pierre."

The waiter moved away. Laura asked Spinelli for a translation, which he supplied.

While waiting for the snails, he said, "McCarten told me you had just arrived from Kansas. I don't suppose you have many restaurants of the grand cuisine out there, do you?"

"Not very many," Laura said.

"You don't have to pretend with me," Spinelli said gently. "I know you want to seem sophisticated, Laura, but you don't have to be afraid to admit things. You're a very beautiful girl. The sophistication can come later. You've never eaten in a French restaurant, have you?"

Laura glanced at the table. "No."

"All right. There's a first time for everything. Don't you agree?"

"Yes," she murmured. "A first time for eating snails—and a first time for other things."

"But you've experienced some of the other things already, haven't you?"

Color came to her cheeks. "Yes," she said.

"Good. I just wanted to start clearing up any misconceptions you may have. McCarten gave me a rather ambiguous report about you." Spinelli toyed with his silverware. "You are twenty-three?"

"Twenty-one. Did he tell you—?"

"He told me you were twenty-one. I'm a very suspicious man, my dear, and I like to try to catch people in little slips. I believe in perfect honesty, both on my part and on the part of my associates."

The waiter returned, bearing a little tray of snails. Laura stared at them in some anxiety, but Spinelli quickly dispelled it. Carefully he showed her how to grip the shell in the little clamp and extract the snail with the tiny fork, and how to mop up the delicious garlic-butter sauce with a bit of bread. The snails were magnificent. Laura had been apprehensive about eating them, but she found nothing repugnant at all about them.

Spinelli seemed to be in no hurry. He kept up a smooth flow of conversation, generally aimed at trying to draw Laura out. She abandoned all attempts at pretense of sophistication—but, at the same time, she endeavored to let him know that she was not utterly innocent. She kept from him any hint that she had been a streetwalker for the past several days. As Marilyn had pointed out, that would hardly enhance her market value to him.

At length, when only a few scraps of pheasant remained on their plates, Spinelli said, "I think the time has come to take off the masks we've been wearing. Laura, do you know what sort of employment I can offer you?"

"I think so."

"Don't try to make guesses." Spinelli steepled his fingers. "I don't know what stories you may have heard about me, but probably they're all fairly accurate, if somewhat coarsened. One of my chief enterprises is a kind of entertainment service. I provide feminine companionship for a wealthy and carefully chosen clientele, largely business executives. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," she said in a steady voice.

Spinelli looked a little surprised. "McCarten remarked that you seemed a trifle naive to him. Perhaps his standards of evaluation need some revising."

Gently Laura said, "I had only been in New York four days when I met him. I've had an extra week, now, and a week more in New York makes quite a difference."

"Evidently," Spinelli said. He stared evenly at Laura. "I have reason to want you to join my staff," he said. "The activities you will engage in are far from unpleasant, and highly lucrative. The girls on my staff earn between $20,000 and $50,000 a year, all of it tax free. The amount they earn is limited only by their eagerness and—ah—abilities. I think there's an opportunity for you. You're free to leave my employ at any time, so long as you give me adequate notice—say, two or three weeks. Most of my girls stay with me five or six years. The nature of the work brings you in contact with a good deal of promising matrimonial material. You'd be amazed to learn how many wives of executives are my alumnae. At no time will I stand in the way of a good match—though naturally I'll expect that you keep my interests in mind when you take up your life as the wife of a wealthy man." Spinelli smiled urbanely. "Don't give me any decision yet, please. There are certain technicalities to settle before we can arrive at any agreement. If you're absolutely positive you're not interested, let me know at the end of the meal, and we can go our separate ways. Otherwise, I'd like you to come up to my apartment for some further discussions."

Laura nodded. "Very well."

Spinelli lingered over dessert and coffee, and he finished the meal off with cognac. It was now well over two hours since they had entered the restaurant. When he was ready to leave, he put a five-dollar bill on the table and they departed without waiting for a check. Probably they simply sent him a monthly bill, Laura decided. She wondered how much the meal had cost. Twenty or thirty dollars, probably.

The limousine was waiting. Spinelli looked at her inquiringly.

"Shall I take you home, Laura?"

She smiled. "I'd rather continue the discussion," she said.

He looked gratified. He helped her into the car and it drove off, eastward to a towering apartment building in the mid-Sixties, overlooking the river. Spinelli dismissed the chauffeur and escorted Laura into the glittering lobby. They rode up, up endlessly it seemed, getting out finally on the twentieth floor. The elevator opened right into a foyer of an enormous apartment. As they walked in, a massive man came out of a room off to the left, bearing a sheaf of papers.

Spinelli nodded. "Laura Haynes, this is George Skalkottis, my personal secretary. Say hello to Miss Haynes, George."

"Hello," the big man said. Laura recognized it as the voice of the man who had answered the phone earlier that day. Skalkottis looked like nothing so much as a well-dressed ape. She shivered imperceptibly, realizing that the "personal secretary" was probably really a bodyguard and hired killer. Spinelli's urbane charm had almost made her forget the fact that he was a criminal.

"Save the messages for later, George," Spinelli said airily. "Miss Haynes and I have business to discuss. See that we're not disturbed for at least an hour."

"Yes, sir."

"Come, Laura."

Spinelli led her through a series of breathtakingly beautiful rooms, into one final room at least forty feet long and twenty wide, which opened out onto a terrace that gave a magnificent view of the river and of Queens beyond it. The big room was lavishly furnished, with a big hi-fi set, an enormous bar, and a vast divan big enough to sleep two. Laura noticed that Spinelli clicked the door shut behind him. He moved gracefully to the controls of the hi-fi set and flicked a knob, and soft string music filtered into the room from what seemed like every direction.

"Another cognac?" Spinelli suggested.

Laura took the drink from him. They stood together at the terrace, admiring the view, sipping the drinks. Laura waited tensely, knowing what was coming. It would be a personal test of her abilities, she thought.

Spinelli's hand rested lightly on her shoulders. Suddenly, putting the drink down, he spun her around and bent to kiss her breasts just above the neckline of her dress. His hands left her shoulders, travelling down her sides and trailing lightly over her buttocks.

Without a word, Spinelli began to undress her. She tried to remain calm as he unzipped her dress and drew it off, removed her slip, and unhooked the tight bra that thrust her breasts upward. Despite his silence, she could see the obvious pleasure in his eyes at the sight of her full round breasts bare before him. Continuing, he knelt to unhook her garters, and delicately rolled her stockings off. His hands moved with a surgeon's finesse. The panties and garter-belt followed, and she stood naked before him, feeling the color mount to her throat and breasts under his intense appraising gaze. She put her hands on her hips and stood with her legs slightly apart while he looked her over.

Then he removed his own clothes, just as silently. His body had an athlete's lean symmetry, with wide, muscular shoulders and a deep chest, tapering to narrow hips and thickly-muscled but narrowing legs. He was tanned an even golden-brown over every part of his body.

Smiling, but still silently, he came toward her, took her by the hand, led her toward the divan. He folded his arms around her, and she felt the flat muscles of his chest tight against her breasts, and, gently, he drew her down on the divan.

He was an expert lover. He played on her body as though it were a fine musical instrument, and every motion was a graceful, unhurried one. Desperately, because of her lack of experience, Laura tried to play the part of an experienced woman. She took her cues from him. He seemed to sense that she had never made love in a fully willing way before, because every touch was one of tenderness. His fingertips lightly caressed her nipples until they became hard and erect. His lips darted like a butterfly's wings over her entire body. His hands brought gasps of pleasure to her.

At last he decided that they could complete the act. Laura was clinging to him, eager and aroused, and he seemed magically to float above her, until she began to feel the rippling waves of ecstacy and she could no longer keep her eyes open.

She closed them, and her lips parted to admit his tongue, and she felt warmth rise up and surround her, soft soothing warmth like the loving embrace of the womb, and with every motion new pleasure inflamed her. Her breath was coming in irregular bursts now, and whenever she opened her eyes she saw Spinelli smiling above her, always calm, always silent.

She cried out, a moaning wordless cry of delight, and felt her muscles contract and her skin grow cold, and she moved feverishly in her ecstacy, subsiding after a moment with throbbing heart. Spinelli was still with her, though, carrying her along from one height to the next, smiling, bending his head now to kiss her breasts or to nibble thrillingly at the fleshy part of her. Her breath was coming in irregular bursts now, until finally—it seemed like hours later—Spinelli's grasp tightened on her shoulders, and he quivered and she cried out one last time, and then all was still. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight against her.

For some time they remained that way. Then Spinelli rose from her and walked to the window. Naked, he stood with his back to her, looking out over the islands of the East River.

He spoke, at last, for the first time since it had begun.

"You're very beautiful," he said. His voice was deeper, harsher than it had been before.

Laura said nothing. Her body still throbbed from the afterglow of their sensual encounter.

"I want you to work for me," Spinelli said, turning around. "You're magnificent. For a novice, you're tremendous. I'll guarantee you $500 a week, and you can have a month's salary in advance before you walk out of this apartment today. What do you say?"

"I'll take it," Laura said in a voice she hardly recognized.