CHAPTER EIGHT

Within a week, there no longer was any novelty for Laura in mingling with rich men and accepting money from them for her favors. Within two weeks, her new career had settled down as a routine. Each day, about three o'clock, Spinelli or one of his assistants would phone her and tell her the details of that evening's assignment. At the earliest—when the evening began with a dinner date—she had to set out about six; other engagements began as late as nine or ten. She would taxi to her rendezvous, which almost always turned out to be in one of the fine hotels in the Fifties, and for the rest of the evening she would take part in whatever sociability was required of her. Generally she was free to go home by three or four in the morning, though sometimes she had to remain until dawn. When she got home, she would sleep for eight hours, get up, breakfast lightly, and spend the hours after noon shopping or reading or at a movie matinee. By three, she was back in the apartment to await Spinelli's call.

It was difficult, at first, to adjust to a schedule that involved staying up half the night and sleeping all morning, but gradually she found herself accommodating to the change. It was harder to adapt to the sudden quantity of fine food and liquor that her profession required her to consume; she quickly learned to eat sparingly when on dates, to drink as little as she possibly could without seeming unsociable, and to cut down on her other meals of the day. She skipped lunches altogether and reduced breakfast to a matter of juice, toast, and coffee, and thus was able to cope with the output of New York's finest restaurants each evening without undue ill effects.

The assignments were varied. One night she was picked to accompany an aging steelman to the theater. She sat at his side through a musical, clinging appreciatively to his arm during intermissions and attracting a lot of attention by her daring neckline. After the theater they visited a nightspot and went to his hotel. It turned out that he was not interested in making love. He asked her to undress, watching eagerly as each garment came off. When she was totally naked, he inspected her body with weird curiosity, and then put her clothes back on her. She undressed two or three more times, and he fondled her and pinched her and ogled her body, and then gave her fifty dollars and sent her home.

Another time, Laura's task was to attend a convention of automobile dealers. She and two other girls, a brunette named Gloria and a blonde called Charlene, were assigned to the task of setting themselves up in the bedrooms of a big suite belonging to one of the automobile manufacturers, and entertaining certain specific guests. By the end of that evening, Laura figured that she had slept with close to a dozen bigshot auto dealers—but her tips for the evening's work came to more than $200, and when she left the hotel, at four-thirty in the morning, she was able to blot the succession of grunting paunchy men from her mind with ease.

Tips were running high—anywhere from $150 to $450 a week, on top of her regular salary. Each day when she talked to Spinelli she scrupulously reported the amount of cash she had been given the night before. She sent some of it to him to cover the furniture expenses, and spent the rest on clothing, furs, jewelry, fine objects of art for her apartment. She banked fifty dollars every week no matter what expenses she had, and when she could manage it she put a hundred away. Her years of big money earning couldn't last forever, she knew, and if she saved systematically there would be a cushion of quite a few thousand dollars by the time she quit.

One day a few weeks after Laura had begun working for Spinelli, he called up with a weekend assignment. "Fellow named Burrows," Spinelli said. "He's an advertising man who owns a yacht, and he's giving a little weekend shindig for his possible future employer. He wants two girls to liven the proceedings up during the weekend. I'm sending Charlene to take care of the guest—how about you for the host?"

"Sounds swell," Laura said. "When and where?"

"This weekend. The yacht's kept in Long Island Sound. I'll have you and Char driven out to the place Saturday morning. Take Friday off so you'll be well rested," Spinelli told her.

She was up bright and early on Saturday. It was almost a novelty not to be getting up after noon. She packed a light frock and a couple of bikinis and some evening wear, and at noon she was in front of her house waiting for the limousine to arrive.

Charlene was already aboard. She was a tall, slim, solemn girl of about twenty-four—not busty like Laura, but more elegant, more like a high fashion model. The two girls smiled hellos and settled down for the long drive out into the country.

At one-thirty they reached the North Shore home of the advertising man. He came out to meet the limousine. Burrows was a rangy, good-looking bachelor of thirty-two; his guest, Stan Fields, was closer to fifty, with a worried, uncertain look. Both men were deeply tanned, and both were dressed in polo shirts and Bermuda shorts.

After introductions, Burrows said, "Everything's all ready aboard ship. Suppose we head out there now."

There was a launch out back, belonging to the marina, and they rode out to Burrows' yacht. The boat was good-sized, a sleek, low white ship with two masts. "I'll bet he won't be through paying for it for twenty years," Charlene murmured in a low voice as they stepped out onto the schooner's deck.

Burrows and his guest busied themselves, slipping the mooring and heading out of the harbor under power while the girls stowed their personal gear in the staterooms belowdecks, and changed into bikinis. When they came up above again, the motor was killed and the two men were energetically making sail.

"Help with those halyards!" Burrows yelled. "You girls didn't think you were here just as decorations, did you?"

Laura and Charlene pitched in, and the canvas rose and bellied out in the breeze.

"We're under way," Burrows said. "Laura, there are martinis in the refrigerator down below. Want to break them out and do the honors while I'm heading for the cove?"

Laura efficiently served drinks in the cockpit. The sleek ship raced along, heading eastward through the Sound, until finally Burrows pulled it into a secluded cove and dropped anchor. Here, they could frolic undisturbed all weekend.

It was half past two, now, and the warm late-spring sun beat down. The four yachters downed martinis for a while, accompanying them with hors d'oeuvres from Burrows' well-stocked galley. It was after the third round of drinks that the older advertising man said, "How about a swim, Teddy-lad?"

"Fine with me," Burrows said. "Girls?"

The girls were already in their swimsuits—eye-popping bikinis that consisted merely of a double-diamond-shaped piece covering loins and buttocks but leaving all but the essential parts bare, and a nipple-shielding strip under the arms. Burrows and Fields went belowdecks and returned a few moments later in trunks.

They dove overboard and splashed in the cool, clear water for a while. The coupling had definitely been established—Laura and Burrows, Charlene and Fields—and there was a good deal of horseplay in the water. Exhausted, Laura swam to the side of the boat and hung on. Burrows came paddling up behind her and locked his legs around her body, slipping his hands up and cupping her breasts. She turned around halfway and kissed him, and at the same moment his hands found the catch of her bikini halter and opened it. The bit of cloth fell away. Her breasts, round and full, rose into his hands. She turned to face him fully now, and they bobbed in the water, his hands cupping her breasts, her leg thrust between his thighs, both of them laughing and panting in excitement. Laura heard giggles from the other side of the ship, and knew that Charlene and Fields were engaging in similar shenanigans over there.

Burrows was busily engaged now in opening the loop that held Laura's breechcloth on. He had some trouble—the salt water made the cloth stiff—but finally he whipped the flimsy fabric away, tossing it and the halter up onto the deck. Laura was naked, now. The cool water was delightful against her bare breasts and loins. She found the beltstring of Burrows' trunks, pulled it, pulled them off. Now both of them were totally naked in the water.

"I've never done it in the water before," Burrows laughed. "I didn't ever think of the idea."

"There's always a first time," Laura said. She put her back to the boat, reaching behind her to grasp the ladder with each hand as a stabilizer. Burrows swam to her, and she locked her legs around him, moving back and forth. From the far side of the boat came a derisive yell: "Hey, cut that out! You're making waves!" Burrows laughed without replying.

The water surrounding them cooled them, slowing stimulation and prolonging the act. Laura clung to the lean, athletic body against hers, releasing her grip on the ladder as he took hold of it, and body to body they gasped out their delight. At the highest moment, Burrows let go of the ladder. They slipped below the water, bodies still joined, and she felt the tingling sensation of a mutual climax while she held her breath, and then they were coming up for air and drifting apart and smiling.

Afterward, they clambered up on deck. Nude, Laura stretched out on the forward deck to bask in the sun, while Burrows lay at her side, gently stroking the silky skin of her buttocks. A little while later, Charlene and Fields came on board, both of them minus their bathing-suits, and all four sunbathed until the afternoon grew old and the breezes brisk. By five, everyone was in a gorgeously gay mood. Charlene served more cocktails, and then, as it began to get still cooler, they went belowdecks. Burrows made love to Laura again in his stateroom—he seemed tremendously virile—and then the girls prepared dinner, serving it wearing little aprons over their otherwise nude bodies.

After dinner, it was fishing time, to lay in a stock of food for tomorrow's lunch. Then the four of them gathered in the big salon near the galley for some music and necking. During a lull, Charlene explained to Laura exactly what kind of specialty Fields went in for. "They picked me specially for it because I don't mind doing it that way. Some girls can't stand it at all."

"I don't think I'd like it very much," Laura said. "It doesn't give the woman any satisfaction."

Charlene shrugged. "I told him I'd do it that way if we did it regular way too. So I'm taken care of, and so is he. All in a day's work, darling."

Night descended, starry and beautiful. Cold now in sweaters and slacks, they danced above deck until late, then retired. When he and Laura were in bed together, Burrows began telling her all of his troubles. He earned $32,000 a year at his present job, but he was heavily in debt, and hoped to transfer to the agency Fields helped to run—at a salary of $40,000 or better. The job was all but cinched, and inviting Fields out to the yacht for a weekend of coeducational fun and games was intended as the hoped-for clincher. "The only trouble," Burrows complained, "is that if I make $40,000 a year I'll spend $50,000. I can't help myself. It's like a disease. This yacht costs me thousands a year in upkeep alone. But I tell myself life wouldn't be worth living if I didn't own a yacht." Burrows laughed and cupped Laura's breasts. "Come here and give me a good time, honey. And wish me luck."

They made love three times that night, and in the morning, after breakfast, they swam and made love in the water once again. The older man, Fields, seemed to be beaming, so evidently Charlene had pleased him more than a little.

Burrows produced a camera and insisted on taking color shots of the girls, nude, as souvenirs of the weekend. He promised not to show the pictures to anyone, and to send them prints. They consented, and Burrows photographed them sunbathing on the deck, photographed Laura as she climbed breasts-first up the ladder out of the water, photographed Charlene with a life-preserver round her hips. Fields began to suggest some more imaginative poses, but luckily the film ran out long before any of his suggestions could be acted upon.

Late that afternoon Burrows sailed the yacht back to his marina, and they returned to the mainland. Spinelli's limousine was waiting to take the girls back to Manhattan. As everyone said goodbye, Burrows folded a hundred-dollar bill into Laura's hand. "Thanks for making everything so wonderful," he whispered. "This is for you and Charlene to keep."

They were back in the city by sundown, and Laura went straight to her apartment. Tanned and tired, she stretched out on the couch and relaxed. It had been a swell weekend, she thought.

She thought of Marilyn, then, for the first time in weeks. Her promise to keep in touch had been foregone; things had simply been too hectic.

Marilyn doesn't spend weekends on yachts in Long Island Sound, Laura thought. And my tip for that weekend was more than Marilyn earns in two whole days of grubby soliciting. Laura felt sudden guilt. She tried not to think about rights and wrongs, now, but suddenly it seemed wrong that she should be living so luxurious a life.

For a moment she thought of phoning Marilyn. But she shook her head. Marilyn probably did not want to hear from her now. It would be only human for Marilyn to hate her, since envy turns easily to hate. Laura decided simply to forget Marilyn. She and Marilyn did not inhabit the same world any more, and any communication between the worlds was bound to be distorted.

She forced herself to forget about Marilyn.

It was June, now. She had been in New York City for two months. Every week, she wrote a postcard to her grandparents, telling them how she was doing. It was practically the same postcard every week, because she knew the old people would not care. Am holding a nice job and meeting interesting people. New York is a wonderful city. The weather is getting a little warm now. Send my best wishes to everyone back home, Your affectionate granddaughter, Laura.

That was all that was needed—a formal reminder every now and then that she was still alive. She suspected the old folks never read the cards. They had their Bibles and their farm to keep them busy, and never went in much for family ties.

Laura took stock of her six weeks with Spinelli's syndicate, and the stock-taking surprised her. She had earned $3000 in salary, $2250 in tips, or almost nine hundred dollars a week. She had a well-furnished apartment, a lot of jewelry and furs, and a thousand dollars in the bank. With the furnishing expenses behind her and her wardrobe complete, she would be able to start building up the bank account now. She began to make elaborate plans. She would put ten thousand dollars in the savings bank, to start with, and then she would start buying stocks and bonds. As she grew richer, she would be earning more and more from her investments, and perhaps it would be possible for her to retire from the call-girl business altogether by the time she was twenty-eight or so.

Retire to what? she wondered.

Marriage? A theatrical career? Possibly, she thought. But she suspected that she would grow to like her present soft life so well that she would never abandon it voluntarily. Having money pour in faster than it can be spent is an agreeable way to live. And, Laura told herself, she had never been much on asceticism.

One gilded day flowed into the next. Laura consorted with bankers, stockbrokers, salesmen, manufacturers. She was astonished by the magnitude of the business of sex. If people only knew, she thought, how many big deals are clinched in bed—

Dozens of influential executives had fondled her breasts. Scores of big-budget purchasing agents had been treated to an expensive night between her satiny thighs. Her lush bosom had been a decoration of more than one high-powered smokefilled-room conference at big conventions.

The summer wore on. The money poured in.

There was only one snag in paradise, though. Laura began to discover it as June came to an end and July began, and she settled down into the snug routine of a syndicate hostess.

She was lonely.

She had no friends.

Lovers, yes. But all one-night stands, or a weekend at most, and then they drifted off out of her life, and she out of theirs. Nor did she want any further contact with any of her clients. She had no interest in becoming friendly with a man who paid for sex.

But she had no personal friends. Marilyn was lost to her at the other side of an economic gulf; the other girls of the syndicate were friendly, but most of them were too busy or too tired for any after-hours socializing, and, in any event, Spinelli frowned on much intimacy between girls of his syndicate.

She hardly ever saw Spinelli, either. He summoned her to his apartment every few weeks to stay the night with him, but that was all. He treated the girls of his syndicate as his personal harem, but there was always a fifty-dollar bonus in their pay envelope the week they had slept with Spinelli. He slept with the girls, he told Laura, to make sure they were staying in condition, and to keep tabs on the sort of services they were offering the clients. Laura enjoyed the evenings spent with him. But they were few and far between.

She took to wandering around the city on her days off, drifting idly from store-window to store-window, looking for something but not knowing what it was. The idea of remaining home, alone, was repugnant to her. The very act of being near people in the streets—even strangers—gave her pleasure.

That was how she met Dan Bittner.

It was a Thursday afternoon, late in July. There had been a heat-wave for the past two weeks, but it had abated somewhat, now, and Laura was out strolling on a day off. She was walking up 57th Street, looking in the windows, remembering that night so long ago—only three months, but it seemed like centuries—when she had stared into these same windows and had resolved someday to have money to buy beautiful things.

She had the money now—all she needed, and more, to buy anything she wanted. But it all seemed hollow, all the empty gaiety of the fine restaurants and the gaudy musical shows. Lonely, bored, jaded, she wandered up 57th, across Madison toward Fifth. While waiting for the light to change, she happened to overhear a bitter quarrel just behind her.

"I don't care if you do have tickets!" a girl was snapping petulantly. "You can take the tickets and throw them away, for all I care! I'm not going, Dan."

"Listen, Ruth," a man's voice said mildly, "I paid six bucks apiece for those tickets, and it's lousy of you to back out now. I don't want to go alone, after all. Even if we've broken up, you could—"

"You could have found someone else!" the girl retorted. "You think you're going to shame me into going to that damn show with you, but I'm not! Find another date somewhere! Or just throw the tickets away, if you don't want to go. Goodbye!"

"Ruth!"

Laura paused, looking back. She saw a tall, very good-looking young man of perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight, staring in anguish at a well-dressed, angry-faced girl who was flouncing petulantly away.

"Ruth!" he yelled again. He gestured in frustration, as if trying to pull her back on invisible strings, but she was almost half a block away, and moving faster as she picked up steam.

Laura had no idea what made her speak up at that moment. But she was surprised to hear her voice say, "Don't go after her, Dan. She isn't worth getting excited over."