Don't Call Me Madame Page 3

He took a cigarette from the box, chain-lit it from the burning stub he was smoking. “How many girls do you have working for you?”

  “On and off, a round number — fifty.”

  “How many tricks do you get turned for you on a particular day?”

  “You mean like a twenty-four-hour period?”

  He nodded. “I mean.”

  She squinted, thinking, wrinkling her nose. “Like at least ten a day. It’s a big, busy city. There’s eight million people in New York, sweetie.”

  “Ten a day,” he said. “Seven days a week?”

  “You betcha. Don’t let nobody kid you about never on Sunday. That’s for the movies or something. Guys get horny on Sunday just like any other day. Maybe, with religious guys, after church.”

  “How much per trick?”

  “With my girls, and my kind of customers — a hundred bucks the minimura.”

  “And half goes back to you?”

  “Don’t you think I deserve it?”

  “Half back to you?”

  “Correct. Half back to mama — who keeps it all sweet and clean, who runs the entire operation.”

  Supplying carnal recreation for the bigwigs mounts up to a large enterprise, Chambers thought as he clicked off the mathematics. Ten tricks a day earned a thousand bucks, and five hundred went back to Goldie. That meant thirty-five hundred a week (and all of it very beautiful because it was tax-free, and when it is tax-free it is very beautiful bread indeed). At a fast computation, Goldie’s take was $175,000 a year, and that, even according to her, was the minimum. No wonder Barry Burnett was putting on the muscle and, in fact, his demand for $1500 a week was, for Barry, comparatively cheap. Barry Burnett was the Big Boy in control of prostitution in Manhattan. He collected from the pimps who collected from the hustling hookers, and in exchange he performed a service: he paid off the ice to the fuzz, he juiced the politicians, he provided the doctors who provided the pills and the penicillin, and he footed the bills for the coterie of lawyers who defended the hookers when on occasion there was a bust. An operation like Goldie’s, however, was usually outside the scope of Barry Burnett’s activities; but this one had quietly achieved such magnitude that Barry had got wind of it and was working his angles to latch on to a piece.

  “So?” Chambers said.

  “So I want that bastard off my back. And you’re the guy to do that. And you name your own fee, and whatever it is, I pay it. Right now. In advance. Cash on the barrel-head.”

  “No fee.”

  Not for Goldie Dorn. First off, Goldie was a dear old friend. Second, Peter Chambers was anxious to make character with Goldie Dorn because Goldie was an invaluable source of business who, on and off, recommended valuable clients. Third, Goldie had frequently done favors for him and he owed her a few in return. In sum, free for Goldie was not really free, it was tit for tat: in the trade it is called professional courtesy.

  He smiled. “Now that the fee is settled — ”

  “Thanks.”

  “ — what’s this about Dorothy Steel?”

  “The bitch! The miserable little bitch!”

  “Who’s Dorothy Steel?”

  “One of my kids. An airline stewardess.”

  “What’s she got to do with this?”

  “Sleeps with this Barry Burnett. A personal thing, y’know? Like Sandi with her Mark. Well, you don’t have to be from the FBI to know that she tipped him to my action. That bitch is finished. Off my list. Like she’s turned in her panties as far as Goldie’s concerned. All washed up, the little bitch.”

  “Hold it.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Who’s jumping? Sweetie, that’s not jumping, it’s crawling.”

  “Not true.”

  “Now why — ”

  “Because you don’t know Barry Burnett.”

  “Don’t I, though? Hasn’t the bastard been bugging me enough? Why, right now we got a date — ”

  “Goldie, this guy’s a big hatrack in the hooker business. An operation like yours, sooner or later this Burnett figured to get wind of it — with or without Dorothy Steel.”

  “Well, we’re going to find out about … with or without.”

  “When?”

  She looked at her watch. “Now. The bastard called me like about two minutes before I called you. Said he wanted to talk to me, said for me to come over to Dorothy Steel’s apartment at ten o’clock. That’s why I called you. If I hadn’t gotten you, I wouldn’t have gone. But I did get you, didn’t I, sweetie?”

  “You got me.”

  “So we’re going.” Her grin was sly. “Think you’ll be able to convince him I don’t need protection?”

  “I’m going to give it a try.”

  “My money’s on you.”

  “So’s mine.”

  “You’re my boy, sweetie. Okay, let’s go visit.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Fifty-third and Second.”

  Goldie locked up, and a cab took them to 53rd and Second. The house was an old-timer, a refurbished brownstone, a walkup, and Dorothy Steel’s apartment was on the second floor facing front. Goldie rang the bell and nobody answered. She rang again and nobody answered. She growled, “Son of a bitch,” and tried the knob. The door opened. Chambers followed her in.

  There was a small foyer and then a large living room. Seated in an easy chair was a slender brunette with a surprised expression along the edges of her mouth and a small hole in the middle of her forehead. Chambers did not have to touch her, but he did. She was stone-cold dead.

  “She she?” he asked.

  “Dorothy Steel,” Goldie whispered.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re not going to look around?”

  “Out!” he said.

  Downstairs in a glass phone booth he dialed the quickie number for cops, reported the murder, and hung up. Then he took Goldie’s arm and walked her to a pub. They sat at a rear table where Goldie ordered a double brandy and Chambers a Scotch on the rocks. Goldie disposed of her brandy at a single gulp.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. Her eyes were haunted.

  “Easy, madame,” Chambers said.

  “More booze,” she pleaded.

  He ordered another double brandy. She was a big woman; she could handle it. This time she sipped. She lit a cigarette. Her fingers were trembling but her eyes improved. “Jesus Christ,” she said again.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “What the hell kind of an eye are you?”

  “Private eye,” he said.

  She drank. Assurance returned to the improved eyes, and her voice was better. “A dead broad, and a private eye who doesn’t even look around. Man, what is it with you?”

  “No need.”

  “For what no need?”

  “To look around.”

  A squint. “Why, eye?”

  “Barry Burnett.”

  “I don’t get it.” And finished the brandy.

  And he ordered another for her. Another double.

  “Modus operandi,” Chambers said.

  “Don’t go French on me.”

  “That’s Latin.”

  “Talk English.”

  “Honey, you said you didn’t need protection. He’s just demonstrated that you do. What I mean about modus operandi. When there’s no need for protection the putative protector creates that need.”

  “You mean he’ll keep knocking off my girls?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Jesus, then maybe it pays me to pay him the fifteen hundred per.”

  “Madame, you’ll do nothing of the kind.”

  “But, Pete!”

  “Madame, you hired me to turn this guy off.”

  “For free.”

  “Madame, to be hired for free is still to be hired.”

  “But Jesus, Peter …”

  “Madame, your problem is mine now. Madame, you just leave this bastard to me.”

>   With four and a half brandies in her, Goldie Dorn was entirely recovered. Stoutly she said: “Don’t call me madame!”

  FIVE

  CARRYING his package, Tony Starr, in the company of tight-skirted Lois Maxwell, entered the seedy hotel and steered her to the left toward the automatic elevator. It pleased him that the elevator was far to the left and thus out of sight of the desk clerk, and it pleased him that the elevator was automatic because that resolved any possible problem of specific identification by an elevator man. Whatever he had to do he would do, but whenever he emerged from what he had done he would be unseen by any desk clerk or elevator man. The escape route was perfect. He would walk out unseen.

  Upstairs Lois said, “This is nice. You musta paid good. It’s a real nice room.”

  “I asked for the best.”

  “You got it, kid. In this shithouse, this is the best.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I like you, honey baby.”

  “I like you, Lois lovely.”

  “Honey, you sure are the salesman. Honey, you sure got a sweet mouth.”

  “Wait you taste it.”

  “I can wait till you open up the package, baby. I am very thirsty.”

  He opened the package. She turned on the radio, and turned the dial until she got jumping music, and then turned the volume down low. He poured bourbon in a glass, and Scotch in another glass. She drank, dancing to the music. He did not drink.

  “Honey,” she said, “I’m stoned. I am stoned.”

  He took her in his arms and danced with her.

  “Honey baby,” she said, “your cock is busting right into me. Man, you have got something there.” And they danced.

  He kissed her, his tongue in her mouth.

  When she could talk she said, “Wanna know something?”

  And they danced. “What?” he said.

  “I don’t kiss. I mean on the mouth. I don’t kiss customers.”

  “You kissed me.”

  “Baby, I don’t feel you like a customer. But business is business. Where’s the filthy lucre, man?”

  He broke from her, and she danced alone.

  He took a hundred dollars from his wallet and gave it to her.

  “Thankee a great big bunch, honey baby.”

  He took out another hundred and gave it to her.

  “Why?” she said and danced around him, waving the money.

  “Because I love your ass.”

  “Honey baby, that’s where I love it. Up the ass. Like that I’m sick.”

  “Me too.”

  “Lover, I’m going to fuck you to destruction.”

  “I’ll destroy you.”

  “Destroy me, lover. Man, you sure got the wang for it.” And she danced to her pocketbook. And, dancing, put the money away.

  “If you’ll pardon me,” he said. “Got to go.”

  Dancing, wriggling, her arms upraised. “If you got to go, you got to go. Come back quick, lover baby.”

  In the bathroom he pinched white powder from the snuff box and sniffed it. And pinched again and sniffed again. And put away the snuff box and glided from the bathroom. Gliding! God, I’m flying!

  She was dancing. She was drinking direct from the bourbon bottle. And dancing. And drinking. And putting away the bottle. And dancing.

  He smiled and she danced.

  He took off his clothes and she danced.

  Nude, he put away his clothes in the closet.

  Nude, he took her and danced with her. Her left arm was around him. Her right hand held his penis. “God, you’re so big! You’re monstrous!”

  “I told you I’d kill you.”

  “Like that I’m willing to die.”

  He slid away from her. Knees spread, he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Get naked,” he said.

  “I’m going to do that.”

  “Do it,” he said.

  “Like graceful,” she said.

  “Like any way you want,” he said.

  “Like a striptease,” she said. “Remember I told you I used to be a bellydancer?”

  “Just do it,” he said.

  To the rhythm of the music, she opened her blouse and flung it off. To the rhythm of the music, she unzipped her skirt, let it drop, and kicked it away. And kicked out of her shoes. No stockings. A pink bra and pink panties around the big, broad, round, marvelous ass, and the musky odor of her encompassed him.

  “Jesus, you are something,” he said.

  “Merchandise?” she queried. “I didn’t lie to you? You didn’t buy a pig in a poke?”

  “You’re no pig, baby.”

  She unhooked the bra and dancing tossed it to him and he tossed it away. And wriggled out of the pink panties and tossed them to him and he smelled them, bit them, kissed them, and tossed them away. And now stark naked she was wildly dancing, arms upraised, breasts bobbling, stomach heaving, pubis churning.

  “Turn around!” he ordered. “Jesus, turn around. Gimme that ass!”

  She turned, rhythmically dancing, presenting oscillating buttocks.

  He grabbed. He seized. He kissed her over each hip, kissed her spine, kissed down along the cleavage of buttocks, drove his tongue deep into her anus. She shivered.

  “Jesus, lover, you’re killing me!”

  He pulled her to the bed, turned her prone, mounted her and plunged his phallus at the orifice but could not get in. “Jesus, baby,” she sobbed, “Oh, Jesus, fuck me. Fuck my ass, lover.” He spit on his hand and applied the spittle to his penis as lubrication and was able to insert the head and pushed and his staff entered into her. “Oh, dear God, yes,” she moaned. “Oh God, your wonderful big fat prick. Oh man, lover, hold it in there like that. Oh, fuck me easy now, lover. Please, I beg you, just a little minute, just for me, I want to come, let me come first, honey baby. I can come and come after that. Now ride me easy, baby. Please, my come. First my come. Then I’m all yours. Whatever you want. But, please, easy now, baby. This one, just this one, for me. Please?”

  “Move your lovely ass, sweetheart. I’ll hold it. This one for you.” And he held it in her, moving slowly, the sphincter muscle of her anus throbbingly milking him, and she screamed, she howled, “Oh Jesus, yes! Oh God! Oh, lover, you got me! Oh, I’m coming! Oh, I’m creaming! Jesus, that wonderful cock of yours!”

  And still he held it.

  And she moaned, “Oh, lover. Lover!”

  “Move up on your knees.”

  “Yes, lover.”

  And now it was going all the way, in and out, deep in and out, and she moaned and screamed and came and came, and then he did, flooding his semen into her, and her body flattened, and he remained in her and over her, and she whispered, her head sidewise on the pillow, “Jesus, it’s still big in there. Jesus, don’t it ever go down? Jesus, Frankie, a guy like you, you can kill me to death.”

  “Yeah, baby, I’ll kill you to death.”

  “Jesus, don’t it ever go down?”

  “It’s you that’s doing it, Lois.”

  “Me?”

  “You and your gorgeous ass. You’re wild, baby. That’s a wild ass.”

  “Well, thank you very kindly, sir.”

  “Talk!”

  “I’m talking.”

  “Dirty. Talk to me dirty. Say dirty words. Talk it up, bitch.”

  “Yeah, honey baby. Oh yes, sir, salesman fucker. Up shit creek, lover boy. Up the old dirt road. Up my gorgeous asshole. Jesus, your wild prick, your big fat wild prick. Fuck me, honey baby. And don’t ever stop. Fuck … fuck … fuck … fuck …”

  And he didn’t stop. On and on, turning her, twisting her in positions she had never been in before. God, this kid was out of this world. God, a lunatic! God, what a lunatic lover! God, this kid was the best. Jesus, I want this one. Jesus, I want this one to stay with me forever.

  Finally he let her up and she staggered from the bed. Staggered to the bottle of bourbon. Drank from the bottle, staggered, dancing to the music.

  “
Honey baby …” She laughed, dancing.

  He was lying on his back, smiling.

  Jesus, look at his eyes. Black. Shiny. Crazy black shiny eyes.

  “Man, you’re a handsome man, honey baby.”

  Grinning. “Well, thank you very much.”

  Look at him. The lean, well-muscled body. The tremendous balls in the firm scrotum. That marvelous cock, even now limp, lying long and heavy like a snake in repose between his thighs. And look at that face, all innocent, smiling, youthful, no lines, no cares, a boy’s face. Only the eyes. Only the eyes gave the clue to the lunatic-lover he was: the weird, shiny, black crazy eyes.

  And sucking the bottle, she danced.

  Dancing, staggered. Sucked the bottle.

  Laughed. “You never do it in front?”

  “Front?” he asked.

  “You know what I mean. In the cunt, lover.”

  “Sure. Why not? I do it all over. Thought you loved it in the ass.”

  “Love it in the ass. Like it elsewhere. Do you always eat steak?”

  “Wherever you like it, I’ll do it.”

  “Jesus, this salesman, he’s got all the answers. Listen,” she said. “Listen to me. Frisco and all. Do you have to be a salesman, Frankie?”

  “That’s the way I make my living.”

  “Well, listen to me. What I mean.” Danced to the music, drank from the bottle, staggered to the bed and stood over him. “I dig you. But I dig you, honey baby.”

  The sweet smile. The crazy eyes. “I dig you.”

  “Listen, I got nobody. I got no man. Fuck Frisco. Fuck the salesman bit. Fuck making a living.”

  Lazily. “If you don’t make a living, you don’t eat. Nor can you afford to spend for the likes of a Lois Maxwell.”

  And she sucked the bottle. And wispily wavered, rocking to and fro on her bare feet. And sucked again, bourbon drolling down her chin. But then said fiercely, “Jesus, honey sweet, will you listen?”

  Meekly smiling. “Okay, okay, I’m listening.”

  “I ain’t had a man, a real man, my own man, for one hell of a long time, but years, honey baby. This Lois, this is one tough bitch to please. You please me, Frankie. Man, do you please me. So … what I mean, you’re for me. You be my guy, you be my sweet guy. I make a lot of dough. I earn big. I give you everything; I give it all to you. You will live like a fucking king, Frankie. Like a king with a slave, Frankie. I do the work, I turn over the money, and you hand out to me what you think I need — all the rest is yours.”