After a while the musicians took another break. Kitty leaned across the table and spoke to him. “You’re not really enjoying this, are you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your mind is somewhere else. You’ve been smoking an unlit cigar for ten minutes.”
Driscoll took the cold cigar out of his mouth and examined it. “So I have. To tell you the truth, I’m not all that crazy about this group.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Kitty said, “because they’re giving me a headache.”
“Then what do you say we get out of here?” Driscoll suggested.
“I’m for it. Would you mind very much driving me home? I hate to break in on Rick while he’s talking to Dean Hardeman.”
“Sure, where do you live?”
“I have an apartment in Palms. Do you know where that is?”
“Down by Culver City. It’s right on my way.”
They left the noise, the people, the smoke and the dancing lights of Waldo’s and walked down the stairs to Sunset Boulevard. They savored the cool quiet of the evening for a moment before entering the coffee shop.
Inside they walked back along the counter and found Rick and Hardeman deep in conversation in a small booth at the rear. Kitty interrupted them just long enough to tell her brother that Driscoll was taking her home. Rick did not act pleased.
When they were back out on the street Driscoll said, “I don’t think your brother likes me a whole lot.”
“That’s just his way,” Kitty said. “Rick has always been protective of me. He thinks men are all after just one thing.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got a point.” Driscoll was only half-listening to the girl. A big part of his mind was back in the Westwood apartment with Joyce Hardeman.
They were silent for several minutes as Driscoll drove south on La Cienega past the big restaurants and through the machine shop area as they neared the Santa Monica freeway.
Finally Kitty spoke. “Are you connected with show business, Conn?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Why glad?”
“I don’t much like the people in the business that I’ve met through Rick.”
“Well, performers are a pretty insecure lot.”
“It’s not only that. There’s a shallow attitude toward everything, a falseness in the life. It’s all frosting with no cake.”
“You’re generalizing, you know.”
“I know, and no doubt some of your best friends are in show business, but the scene makes me uncomfortable.”
“Most girls think it’s exciting.”
“I’ll bet they do.”
Driscoll pulled onto the freeway for the short stretch before getting off again at Overland.
“What is your connection with all this?” Kitty asked.
“I’m a publicist. A PR man.”
“Do you work for Al Fessler?”
“Right now I do. I’m for hire, I work for anybody who will meet my price.”
“Do you like what you do?”
“Hell, yes, I like it. Why would I do it if I didn’t like it?”
“I know a lot of people who work at jobs they can’t stand.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not one of them. Publicity and public relations are legitimate and necessary fields. I happen to be good at it, and I enjoy it. There is nothing immoral or illegal about what I do.”
Kitty answered him softly. “Conn, I didn’t say there was anything wrong with what you do. I only asked whether you really like it.”
Driscoll gripped the wheel and drove on for a while in silence. Slowly his frown relaxed. He looked over at the girl and grinned. “Sorry. I guess I’m too ready to defend my profession. ‘The guilty flee where no man pursueth,’ right?”
Kitty smiled back at him. It was the first time Driscoll had noticed her smile, and he liked it.
“I was in advertising for three years after I got out of college,” he said. “I seldom admit it, but I enjoyed that too. The trouble was, I had too many bosses. So five years ago I used some of the contacts I made through the ad agency and went into business for myself. Now I work when I want to, and I give myself long vacations between assignments.”
“It sounds marvelous,” Kitty said.
“I may be over-selling a little now,” Driscoll admitted. “When I do work, it’s a 24-hour job, and sometimes it involves doing things I’m not proud of. I have to be enthusiastic selling the person or the idea or the cause whether I believe in it or not. It’s not a good line of work for an idealist.”
Though he kept his eyes on the road, Driscoll could sense Kitty studying him. She said, “Do you believe in what your selling now?”
“You mean Billy Lockett and the big memorial concert? I suppose so. I haven’t really thought about it. That can come after it’s over. My job now is to put it across.”
When she did not respond, Driscoll went on. “What about you, Kitty? Do you like what you do? And what is it you do, anyway?”
“I’m a secretary,” Kitty said. “I know that’s an unfashionable thing to be in these days of liberated women, but that’s what I am, and I like it just fine. My boss appreciates what I do for him, and he treats me accordingly.”
“How long have you lived in California?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Driscoll recognized that he was slipping into the automatic question-and-answer game of the singles bars.
The girl caught it too. “Do you really care?”
He laughed shortly. “I’d like to know.”
“I came out here a year ago. That was when Rick broke up the partnership with Billy Lockett. Rick was always a moody, impulsive boy, and I got a letter from him that sounded so depressed it scared me. I was living in Philadelphia at the time, and I was afraid if no one were here with him, he might do something crazy.”
“So you dumped everything and came out here to look out for your brother?”
“It wasn’t as noble and self-sacrificing as that. Moving from Philadelphia to Los Angeles isn’t that tough to take. I had no roots back there, and I was in a deadend job. If it hadn’t been for Rick, I might have spent the rest of my life there out of sheer inertia.”
“I doubt that,” Driscoll said. “What were you like as a little girl? And yes, I really care.”
“I was very normal and dull,” Kitty said. “My parents were divorced when I was ten, but there’s nothing unusual about that. Rick took it a lot harder than I did. I was always able to cope better. Rick never did get along with Daddy, and our mother never understood him. Rick was terribly shy when he was a boy. I think taking up music and going out in front of crowds of people to entertain was a way of fighting his shyness. He still keeps to himself and doesn’t make friends. The breakup with Billy Lockett was a real blow to Rick, coming just when he was starting to get somewhere. Now he’s back professionally to where he was five years ago.”
Driscoll noted that Kitty had quickly switched the focus from herself to her brother Rick, but he made no comment.
As they drove into the section of Los Angeles called Palms, Kitty directed him down a street lined on both sides with apartment buildings. She lived in one called La Golondrina. Out in front was the usual tropical shrubbery illuminated by the usual colored lights. Driscoll pulled up at the driveway.
“I’d ask you in,” Kitty said, “but you might feel obligated to make a pass at me, even though you’re not really in the mood.”
“Do you read minds a lot?” he said.
“It’s an occupational hazard. I forget to tell you I work for a clinical psychologist.”
“That must be entertaining,” Driscoll said. He was a little irritated by the girl’s self-assured manner, and even more by the fact that she had read him correctly.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, letting herself out of the car. “See you.”
“Sure, see you.” He watched until she was safely into the building, then pulled away.
&n
bsp; Driving home alone, Driscoll oddly felt the absence of Kitty Girodian more strongly than he had felt her presence. The light floral scent of her perfume lingered in the car. Usually, when he was deeply involved in an assignment, Driscoll could channel his sex drive into energy for the job. However, the physical nearness of the dark-eyed girl tonight had stirred up his desire for a woman. The problem was that the woman he wanted was Joyce Hardeman.
Angry with himself, he snapped on the radio and punched the button tuned to KFAC, the “good music” station. The rhythms of one of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances filled the car. Driscoll turned up the stereo speakers and tried not to think about going home to an empty bed.
CHAPTER 14
Iris Ames stood in the center of her living room and turned slowly in a circle to check out her apartment. It looked pretty good, she decided. Housecleaning was definitely not one of her favorite things, but she had worked at it several hours today to make sure the place was presentable when Oscar Pincus came up for the first time.
As Iris had expected, Pincus called her early Monday after getting the message she left with his answering service. He had wasted no time getting to the point. Thursday he said was the soonest he could see her. Thursday was his wife’s backgammon night. That was perfectly all right with Iris. She didn’t care how seldom the little record executive came around, just so he helped out with the rent.
The Billy Lockett posters were all gone from the walls now, leaving only a framed 8-by-10 glossy that Iris kept on an end table. She had scented candles burning around the room and had dabbed her body in strategic spots with perfume after taking her bath.
Iris went into the bedroom for a last look at herself in the full-length mirror. The white hip-hugging jeans were taut and flat across her stomach, and the silky blouse clung to her body, leaving her breasts nicely prominent. She went back into the living room and put a Rod Stewart record on the player with the volume turned way down. Everything was as ready now as she could make it.
Oscar Pincus arrived right on time. He wore a too-tight pair of polyester slacks and a choking turtleneck that made his round pink face look bloated.
Iris let him in. She was happy to see that he was carrying a flat box of the type expensive clothes came in. Iris loved presents. If Pincus had the taste of most men, she figured he would buy something she could not possibly wear. No problem, though; you could always exchange clothes.
“Sorry to hear about Billy,” Pincus said, as though in a hurry to get the formalities out of the way. “He wasn’t a bad kid compared to some of them.”
“Yes, too bad.” Iris hoped they wouldn’t have to do a whole number about poor Billy. That was over. Billy was dead and she was alive and that was the way of the world.
“I’m just glad I unloaded his contract to that hoodlum Al Fessler when I did,” Pincus went on. “Made a bundle for Gamma on the deal. And now Fessler has a dead singer to worry about, not me.”
“That was very smart of you.”
“Mostly luck,” Pincus admitted. “Look, I haven’t got a lot of time. I want to be home before my wife gets back from her backgammon.”
“I’m ready any time you are, honey,” Iris said. “Let’s get it on.”
Pincus set the box on the coffee table and began to undo the cord that bound it. About time, Iris thought.
When he removed the cover and pulled away the tissue paper, Iris was disappointed to see that it was not a gift after all. At least, not the kind she had in mind. Instead of the furry or frilly piece of woman’s clothing she expected, the box contained several neatly folded articles, all black. Iris lifted them out and examined them one by one.
There was a brassiere in thin, leather-like vinyl, constructed so it would push her breasts together and up, creating a deep cleavage. Next, a garter belt of the same simulated leather material, with black elastic garters attached. There was a pair of long stockings in black net. At the bottom of the box was a pair of black patent leather pumps with four-inch spike heels.
Pincus did not look at her directly. “Will you wear it?” he asked.
Iris smiled at him and shrugged. “Why not?” She recognized what the outfit was, of course. Pincus was a punishment freak, one of the men who liked to be dominated by a woman. It was a fairly common perversion these days, and there were surely a lot kinkier scenes than that going down among the Hollywood crowd. Iris had tried most of them herself and heard about plenty of others. She would go along with anything that didn’t involve knives or lighted cigarettes. A girl had to draw the line somewhere.
“Where’s the whip?” she asked.
Oscar Pincus began to perspire. He pointed to the layer of tissue paper that remained in the box. Iris lifted the paper and found a narrow bamboo rod twenty-four inches long, split halfway down its length. She gripped the unsplit end and slapped the rod into her palm. It made a solid whacking noise and left the skin across her hand tingling.
The little fat man licked his lips, unable to keep his eyes off the rod.
“Do you want me to change into these things out here?” Iris asked.
“No, go into the other room and get dressed. Call when you’re ready for me.”
Iris picked up the box with the costume and carried it into the bedroom. The room was dominated by a king-size bed covered with a spread of fake leopard skin. Billy had wanted to buy her a waterbed, but Iris had a fear of one springing a leak.
She wriggled out of the jeans and took off the silky blouse, draping them over a chair in the corner of the room. She tried on the black bra first. It was a tight squeeze, stuffing her big round breasts into the little restraining cups. They overflowed at the top and squashed against each other. Iris took a practice deep breath, and the bra did not burst. Next she pulled on the garter belt. It stretched tight and sleek across her belly. No G-string was included with the costume, so the triangle of pale hair was left open and accessible.
The garters were only for effect, as the elasticized net stockings stayed up quite easily by themselves. Iris fastened them anyway, knowing little details like that could be important.
Last she put on the spike-heeled shoes. It was not easy at first standing up in them and keeping her balance, but she soon got the hang of it. She walked carefully across to the mirror on the back of the door and looked herself over. Pretty damn sexy, she decided. The bra and garter belt were a couple of sizes too small, but that only made it tighter and shinier below and pushed out more boob at the top. Iris shook the tawny blonde hair down loose around her shoulders. She stuck out her lower lip in an arrogant pout. I could almost go for you myself, she told her reflection silently.
Iris walked back to the bed and picked up the bamboo rod. She put the box down on the floor out of the way. “All right, honey,” she called through the door. “I’m ready for you.”
The door opened slowly and Oscar Pincus came into the bedroom. He was completely naked. The round little head on the fat pink body, supported by the chubby legs made him look like a cartoon character drawn with circles. His pathetic little penis, dangling from the scrubby patch of pubic hair, looked like the severed finger of a rubber glove.
Iris was very careful not to smile. She knew that would ruin everything.
Pincus moved toward her tentatively, holding one hand a little in front of his body. Iris understood what he wanted. She grasped him firmly by the wrist and pulled him toward the bed. He made a soft whimper of protest, but let himself be pulled easily along.
Iris propelled him forward until he fell stomach-down across the bed, his fat white buttocks exposed and quivering. The pale flesh bore faint white scars of previous canings. Iris wondered if he ever had his wife do it to him. Probably not. People like him, when they were married, usually had super-straight wives.
“Please … please …” the fat little man cried in a piteous voice.
Iris raised the bamboo rod and brought it down with a sharp smack across the pale buttocks. Pincus gasped. A thin pink line appeared on the flesh where
the split bamboo had struck.
“Do it harder,” he said. “Call me names.”
Again Iris hit him, putting more of her strength into the blow.
Whack!
“Prick,” she said.
Pincus moaned in pleasure-pain.
Whack!
“Asshole.”
Pincus writhed on the leopard spread, but made no move to avoid the blows.
Whack!
“Cocksucker.”
The little man’s backside glowed red with the mark of the rod. He rolled his head to look up at Iris with feverish eyes. “Yes, that’s right,” he gasped. “Make me do it now. You know.”
Iris grasped him by the wrist again and pulled him easily up from the bed. Pincus fell immediately to his knees in front of her. She spread her legs wide apart and planted her feet. Pincus was breathing in fast little puffs, staring straight ahead at the patch of skin and golden hair below the taut black garter belt.
With her hands on the back of Pincus’s head, Iris pulled him firmly toward her. He offered only a makebelieve resistance.
With a little snuffling sound, he buried his round little face in the cleft between her legs. Iris felt the pulsing tongue dab at her, then slip inside. The sensation for Iris was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was just there.
She kept her hands on the back of his head, pressing his face into her. From that position she could see how large the bald spot was that he tried to conceal with carefully combed hair.
Oscar Pincus grew steadily more excited as he licked and nibbled at the girl. At last he pulled his head back and looked up into her face.
“Now,” he said.
Iris moved to the bed and lay down on her back, spreading herself to receive him.
Pincus rose unsteadily to his feet. The flesh of his body was moist and mottled red. His little penis, thin as a pencil, was stiff and erect. When he fell on top of her, he felt like a hot, overstuffed sausage.
Half a dozen sweaty little jabs and it was all over. He lay on her for several more minutes until his breathing returned to normal. Then he got up and walked back into the living room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Billy Lives Page 11
