Don't Call Me Madame Read online

  Now she was sitting on the bed. Her body was glistening with perspiration. The hand holding the bottle was trembling. “This ain’t nothing new, kid. It’s an old story with girls like us — when we really like a guy. Sweetie, I’m drunk, I’m stone-ass drunk, but I ain’t yelling down the drainpipe, you believe it. Skip the Frisco bit, skip the salesman bit — you be Lois’s sweet man. Now how’s about it, honey baby? Do you like what I’m telling you?”

  “I like what you’re telling me.”

  “That’s my boy.” She leaned over his body. Her tongue licked along his penis and it reacted. “Jesus, what a man!” And she lay out on the bed. “Do it,” she whispered. “Do it to me. Fuck your Lois, honey man.” And her eyes closed, and the bottle fell out of her hand and thumped to the floor, and she was snoring, gurgling.

  He touched her lips. No reaction.

  He grasped her jaw and swung her face.

  She snorted, spluttered softly. She was passed out cold.

  He smiled his boyish smile and got out of bed. Good! Oh, this was so very good! There would be no need to entice her into peculiar games, no need to tie her down, no need for trick or device. Sweating, naked, he padded to the closet He extracted the knife from a pocket of his jacket and back in the room he pressed the little button in the hilt.

  The blade sprang clean. It gleamed. The gleam was hypnotic. He stared at it, his smile fixed on his face. His breathing was rapid, shallow, noisy. His erection was massive.

  He climbed on the bed. He straddled her, one knee on either side of her. He cut her throat, and as the blood burst from her, the ejaculation of his orgasm burst from him. Then, still straddling, he crawled on his knees down her body, plunged the knife deeply over the ridge of her pubis, viciously slashed upward, and had his way with her …

  He showered, cleaning the blood from himself. He dressed carefully. He left the key in the room and walked quietly through a corridor. He took the elevator and went out to the street unmolested and unseen. He strolled for several blocks, hailed a taxi, and rode home to his apartment in Kips Bay. There he showered again and brushed his teeth. He donned a pair of crisp clean pajamas and slipped into bed. Before putting out the light, he looked at the clock on the bed table. It was ten minutes after two.

  SIX

  SANDI Barton’s Commodore John was a charming old gentleman, portly, fleshy, and florid, with twinkling blue eyes and a ready, cheerful, deep-throated laugh. He had a merry face, a bulbous nose, a bulging paunch, and a pink bald pate surrounded by a halo of frosty hair. He looked like Santa Claus out of uniform and without whiskers, Santa in mufti as it were. His name was Wilson.

  “Yours?” he asked.

  “I’m Sandi.”

  “You’re very pretty, Sandi.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Goldie’s a lovely woman, isn’t she?”

  “Lovely,” Sandi said.

  “I’ve been in town for four days,” he said. “Business. And this is my first evening free.” He sighed gently. “And tomorrow night I go home.” He had a pleasant, paternal, courtly, courteous manner of speech. “Goldie used to send the lady Barbara to me — Barbara White. Now Goldie informs me the dear girl got married.”

  “Yes. Last week.”

  “Good. Good for her. I’m a great advocate of marriage and hearth and home.” He shook his head, jowls flouncing wistfully. “Must admit, though, I shall miss her. She … well, she knew my ways.”

  “I’m sure I’ll learn your ways.”

  “I’m certain you will, my dear. I’m not difficult to please.” A smile. “Let’s get crass commercialism out of the way, shall we?” He opened his wallet and gave her a hundred and fifty dollars. “You share that with Goldie, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you needn’t share this, need you?” And he added another hundred dollars.

  “You’re very generous, Mr. Wilson.”

  “You’re very beautiful, my dear.” He ran a paternal hand down her back and pinched her rump. “Please put the money away, my dear. Let’s pretend for the rest of the evening that we’re … affectionate old friends.” She put the money in her bag. He gently pinched her rump again. “Do you like champagne?”

  “Love it.”

  “We’ll go downstairs. They’ve a fine room down there, dancing and all. Would you like that, my dear?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Wilson.”

  Downstairs, in the softly lighted cafe, the maitre d’ led the decorous old gentleman and the charming young lady (his daughter, or a niece perhaps, with whom he was spending an innocent evening) to a table befitting them, a fine table not too near the bandstand. The maitre d’ accepted the discreetly folded gratuity and took the gentleman’s order which was, of course, champagne of excellent vintage year.

  The waiter brought the cooler of iced champagne, popped the cork, and poured. He retired and they drank.

  “Ah,” said Sandi, bubbles tickling.

  “Good, my dear?”

  “Beautiful.”

  He talked. He was a talker. He was an amiable old man, a garrulous old man, and an awful bore. He told her all about his one wife, his two daughters, his three grandchildren. He urged her to drink and she drank and so did he. He took her to the dance floor and he turned out to be a hell of a good dancer, nimble, light on his feet.

  They returned to the table, drank, and he talked, and ordered another bottle of wine, and they drank and she was beginning to get tipsy and then she had to go.

  “Excuse me,” she said lightly. “The powder room.”

  “No.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Hold it. I want you to hold to it.” And for the first time the amiable voice was peremptory.

  She understood. She had had this kind before and was willing to grant his wish if it was only that: number one, not number two. If he wanted number two she would have to reject him, return his money, and get the hell out. Some girls can. Some cannot. She couldn’t.

  “Yes, Mr. Wilson,” she said. “But don’t try me too long. I really got to …”

  “Of course, my dear.” The deep voice was tender again, compassionate.

  He waved to the waiter and paid the check and in the elevator she did a little mincing jig and he chuckled softly, and then inside his suite they exploded into action like a film running wild, double-quick time. He tore at his clothes, and she tore at hers, and she didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at her, and then, both naked, he had her by the wrist and hustled her into the bathroom. He clambered into the tub and took her in with him. He stretched out on his back and had her squat over him, her head facing his feet. His hands gripping her ample hips, her back to his face, he pulled her, adjusted her over him.

  “Now,” he breathed. “Now! Let it go!”

  She urinated. She did not know exactly where on his person she was urinating but it was somewhere in the vicnity of his head, and whether or not his mouth was open or closed she did not care. Whatever his perversion, it was his not hers. She was relieving herself and if in the process of relieving herself she was also relieving him, so be it. And then she was done and she heard him splutter, “Ah, good, excellent, my dear,” as though she had performed some wondrous feat of skill. “And now, please, if you’ll wait for me in the bedroom …”

  She waited in the bedroom. She heard him shower. And then, smiling and gracious, he joined her in the bedroom, and for the first time she really saw him. He was pink and pudgy with no hair and huge overlapping breasts and a big round Buddha-belly. And he saw her: tall, lissome, a white-skinned beauty with firm white hips and small high breasts, not a flaw or blemish on the smooth, youthful, glistening body.

  “Must say,” he said, “Barbara couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re absolutely exquisite.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We can do with some more champagne, my dear. I’ve some bottles chilling in the refrigerator.”
/>   He waddled out and came back with an open bottle and two glasses on a tray. He set the tray on the dresser, poured into the glasses, gave one to her, took the other.

  “Your health,” he said.

  He drank thirstily. She sipped. She put down her glass.

  He finished his drink, poured more, drank it, set away the glass.

  “Getting a wee bit drunkie,” he said.

  He went to the closet and took out a little black bag, and her heart jumped in panic. What in hell did he have in there? Surgical instruments or something? What kind of kook was this guy? But she thought about Goldie, and a modicum of reassurance returned to her. Goldie’s customers were all fine, rich, respectable, solid citizens, and golden Goldie had a full dossier on every one of them — name, address, family connections, the works — and none of them, the inside coterie which was the core of Goldie’s business, figured to recommend a loony-bird. Of course, there was always the possibility, the one shot in a thousand. Goldie’s business was not limited to the inside coterie. They recommended others, and on those Goldie did not have a dossier.

  Wilson put the black bag on the bed.

  He smiled and drank champagne.

  More reassurance entered into Sandi Barton. She remembered that Barbara had been his favorite, and Barbara White was not the type to subject herself to weird indignities. Hell, a guy wants you to piss on him, that’s indignity to him, not to you. (But what’s he got there in the little black bag which looks like the surgical bag that doctors carry?)

  Wilson chuckled, drank champagne. A filmy sheen was on his eyes: the old boy was getting stoned on the wine. But his expression was one of amusement: the old boy was getting a boot out of her ill-concealed fright, her patent indecision. Look, she said to herself, easy does it. So the old bird has his kooky kinks, but all men have their kinks once they let their hair down, and a guy with a call girl figures to let his hair all the way down. And why the hell not? That’s what he’s paying his money for.

  “My dear,” he said, “I imagine you realize I have certain slight sado-masochistic tendencies. Slight. I’m afraid I don’t have the courage for anything more than slight. In effect, rather, a symbolic sado-masochism. Do you understand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How’s your pitching arm?”

  “I beg your … pardon?”

  Again the rumble of a chuckle. He poured and drank champagne.

  “Please open the bag.”

  She crossed to the bed and opened the bag.

  It contained golf balls.

  Golf balls!

  She whirled in astonishment.

  He smiled. He bowed courteously. He wobbled in admirable drunken dignity to an armchair and settled his big flabby body into it.

  “Now, my dear, what I want you to do. Please take the bag and stand … let’s see now … about five-six feet from me. Yes, that’s it. Yes, just stand there.” He swallowed. His tongue wet his lips. “My dear Sandi. There are thirty golf balls in the bag. I should like you to throw them at me.” A chuckle. “One at a time, of course. Not too hard, but not too softly either. The object is to inflict a thud of pain, but not to overwhelm me with pain, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir. I think I do.”

  “Let’s try one. Please remember — not a soft girlish toss. But not a he-man heave either. And not at my head, please. At my body. Now let’s have one, my dear.”

  She threw a golf ball at him.

  It struck his chest and bounced off.

  “Perfect! My dear, you’re not only beautiful you’re a damned intelligent girl. You’ll continue to throw just like that. And you will count to four between each throw. Am I coming through?”

  “I read you, Mr. Wilson.”

  His penis emerged from under the flap of the overhanging belly, a long, slender, quivering prong, and he enclosed it within a pudgy fist and rubbed as she threw the golf balls, silently counting to four between each throw. His eyes were closed. His fist resolutely jerked the spindly protuberance extruding from under his belly, he compressed, released, squeezed, delicately but spiritedly, like a man milking the teat of a cow, as she rhythmically threw the balls, but golf balls are not ping pong balls, they have weight and substance, and they left their marks bouncing off him, round red welts on the pink body, and then, at precisely the thirtieth throw, he achieved his orgasm, a viscous stream shooting high in the air, and she was immediately reminded of a proverb of her childhood: There can be snow on the roof but the house can be hot Despite the white halo of hair upstairs, downstairs the old boy had powerful testes. It was a puissant, potent, copious ejaculation, and she had to duck away from the spray coming down, and then she just stood there.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Brilliant. Exquisite. You’re marvelous, my dear.”

  What in hell do you say to that? She just stood there.

  “My dear, you’re still holding the bag.”

  “That’s me.” She grinned. “Always left holding the bag.”

  “Very good. Hah hah.” Drunkenly chortling. “An excellent witticism.”

  “I made a funny, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Name’s Clinton.”

  “I thought it was Wilson.”

  “My dear, would you gather the balls back into the bag? Then we’ll do it all over again.”

  Jesus, how much heat was there in his house?

  She shrugged naked shoulders, bent to a ball.

  “No!”

  “Oh?” She straightened.

  “I want you on your hands and knees, my dear. Plucking the balls from the floor and depositing them in the bag. On all fours. That way I can observe you fully, every ripple, every movement of your beautiful body.”

  This old bastard was something else! Outrageous demands, but always in the gentle, paternal tone; never once an obscenity; no four-letter words. Go down on your hands and knees, Sandi old girl. The old boy has paid two hundred and fifty bucks and has not laid a hand on you. He wants you to crawl — crawl. You’re a call girl whose job it is to answer to the whims of the customers as long as they aren’t hurtful.

  She went down on her hands and knees. She crawled, collecting golf balls into the bag. When she stood up, the old boy was peacefully asleep. Goldie had said all night. Forget it. Chubby old Santa Claus, drunkenly slumbering, was finished for tonight. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Libido had been vanquished by encroaching old age and too much champagne. God rest you, merry old man. Sleep well.

  She zipped the bag and put in on the bed. She looked at herself and smiled. Her hands, forearms, elbows, and knees were dirty with the dust of the carpet. She went into the bathroom and showered. She came out and dressed. She looked at him and made a curtsy. Good night, Mr. Wilson. Or is it Mr. Clinton? And female curiosity prompted a wrongful act (but without wrongful intent). His wallet was on the dresser near the tray with the bottle of champagne, and she opened it and looked. It was stuffed full of money. She by-passed the money and found an identification card. His name was Clinton Quentin Wilson. She looked further and found a business card. He was Clinton Quentin Wilson, president of Wilson Spark Plugs. Jesus Christ, even she had heard of Wilson Spark Plugs, whatever the hell a spark plug was — Wilson Spark Plugs were constantly sputtering their incomprehensible commercials on the TV, sponsoring the best of the stupid shows. He was a big shot. Her pissed-upon hand-job customer was a real big shot. She went to the nice old guy, looked down upon him, and kissed his forehead. He did not move. He slumbered peacefully. She tiptoed to the door, went out, closed it quietly, and in the corridor realized she was hungry. God, she was famished. She looked at her wristwatch: twenty-five after two. She hated to eat alone. She took the elevator to the lobby and thought about whom to eat with. There was Mark Montague and there was Peter Chambers and both were night people. She liked Mark, who was the threshhold to her career as an actress, but she adored Chambers, the stubborn bastard, who was a threshhold to nothing. She walked across the lobby to the b
ank of telephone booths.

  Chambers had had a long night of drinking with Goldie Dorn. He had assured her he would give full attention to her matter. He had consoled her on the loss of Dorothy Steel and had pledged, for free without fee, that no similar loss would be inflicted on her and that her worries about Barry Burnett were over. He had no idea where Burnett lived, but he knew how to find out. Barry was a junkie with a big habit and Mark Montague was his supplier. He made no mention to Goldie of what his methods would be, but he informed her the job would take time. After a hit, the hitter disappears. That is par for the course. The hitter gets rid of the weapon and then gets himself out of town for at least a week. Today was Tuesday. Barry Burnett would slip out of the city and work out an alibi going back to at least the past weekend. He wasn’t likely to come back to town until next week. Starting next Monday then, Peter Chambers would be working for Goldie Dorn.

  “You leave it to me,” he said.

  “Jesus, Pete, I’m scared. I’m really scared!”

  “That was the guy’s object, Goldie. He’s shaping you up to shake you down.”

  “He’s shaped me all right. Who needs this kind of trouble? I’ll pay the bastard what he wants. Hell, I can afford it.”

  “First let me have my run at him.”

  “Whatever you say, Pete.”

  “That’s what I say. Now let’s close up shop for tonight.”

  He took her home and he went home and the phone rang and it was Sandi Barton. He looked at his watch. Two-thirty.

  “How about buying me breakfast, Peter?”

  “Love it,” he said.

  “The Brasserie?”

  “When?”

  “Ten minutes, if you can make it.”

  “I can make it.”

  “I’ll meet you there, lover.”

  “That’s a date,” he said.

  They had bacon and eggs and coffee. She chattered gaily. She was bright, engaging, well-read, well-versed, an absolute delight. And so damn beautiful. He loved the tiny tilted nose, the limpid blue eyes. He loved the excitement that bubbled out of her, the animation, the … the innocence of her, despite her avocation.