The Lady Has a Scar

by Hank Janson

  ‘Another six points, Dorothy,’ called Burden, and his black eyes were gleaming wickedly.

  ‘I’m aware of that!’ she snapped. She slipped her blouse off her shoulders, and I realised why she had sacrificed her stockings and girdle instead of her skirt. She was wearing a brassiere and a slip. The slip was made of fine black georgette that was as transparent as a veil. Beneath it you could clearly see the tautly-drawn brassiere.

  Dorothy earned herself quite a lot of admiring looks. But she wasn’t in the mood to appreciate them. Her eyes were lowered shyly. Everyone looked at her and she seemed to be the only one who was uncomfortably conscious she was only partly dressed.

  When the dice got around to the coloured maid she threw a ten. She giggled, rolled her eyes and said expressively: ‘Ah’m gonna get around to it next throw for sure. Might as well settle now.’ Her white linen dress buttoned all the way down the front. She shrugged it off her shoulders like it was an overcoat, and the whistles were really appreciative then because she wore nothing beneath that dress except a triangle of white material tied around her loins like a G-string. Her haunches were starkly revealed.

  She got a lot of applause from the men. and some of the dames began to look mean. When the dice started throwing for the second time round you could see some of the dames were hoping to throw high numbers and give competition to the coloured girl.

  By the time the dice cup worked its way to me again, most of the dames were in their undies and lots of the guys had lost their shirts. There were many showing bare thighs and bare chests and excitement was soaring high. I rolled and scored the best yet. Double one. I grinned, took off my shoes and passed the dice to the next guy in line.

  There were lots of sixes and sevens being thrown. But it must have been Dorothy Burden’s unlucky day.

  She threw another double six!

  Her cheeks were crimson as she looked at the dice. She stared at them for a long while. So long that nobody thought she was gonna move.

  Hugh Burden spoke then in a voice that reached everybody clearly. ‘It’s 12, Dorothy. You’ve got to account for 12.’

  She looked at him and the hatred was burning in her eyes. Then she fumbled at her side, let her skirt slip around her ankles and stepped out of it.

  Beneath the slip she was wearing black, frilly panties. They were made of some airy-fairy material and you could see her skin gleaming through them.

  ‘Still more, Dorothy,’ said Burden. His voice was soft and gentle. But his eyes were hard and menacing.

  Dorothy fumbled behind her, released the fastenings of her brassiere. When she pulled it clear, through the transparent slip you could see her breasts standing out taut and firm. There were many whistles of admiration and one or two of the guys gave wolf-whistles.

  Dorothy had been unlucky. She’d thrown two double sixes. It had cost her a lot of clothing. Moreover, she had the disadvantage of wearing that transparent slip. Apart from the coloured girl, she was the only dame showing more than a swimsuit would show. And she came in for most of the ogling.

  The trouble was, the other dames were Atomised and in the mood for this kinda thing, whereas Dorothy was stone cold sober.

  The coloured girl missed her throw. A clause in the game stipulated that anyone unlucky enough to lose all their clothing might retain a minimum of one garment. The coloured girl had kicked off her shoes, and since she now wore only that white G-string she had nothing else to lose.

  The dice started circulating for the third time. By this time the dames were so incensed by the attention Dorothy and the coloured girl were getting they were falling over themselves to get attention diverted back to them. By the time the dice got around to me there were as many bare-chested dames as there were bare-chested guys. There was an entertaining display of frothy underclothing and sleek thighs to go with them.

  It really was my lucky day. I threw two more singles. I took off my shirt, which rated four, because I was hot, anyway. As long as I was able to retain my trousers I was happy. One of the guys there had got a laugh when he stripped off his trousers to show mauve-striped underpants!

  By this time there was so much laughter, ogling, slapping and joking that Dorothy had dropped out of notice. She plummeted back into the public’s eye very quickly, however, by throwing for the third time in succession a double six.

  She stared at it as though hypnotised. ‘It can’t be!’ she protested. ‘It can’t be!’

  There was a sudden tense silence as everybody looked at Dorothy expectantly. This was the last time round, and while most of the folk there were showing something, none of them would be quite so low down the scale as Dorothy. Everybody knew that georgette slip of hers rated nine points. Then, after that, she’d have left only the single garment that she was entitled to retain. But we could see through the slip that her panties were made of the same material as the slip, and once the slip was removed …

  I guess Dorothy had it all figured out as well. ‘I can’t do it,’ she protested. She looked around appealingly.

  They laughed at her, encouragingly. Said she’d have to do it, said that it was all part of the game.

  There was so much going on I didn’t notice Hugh Burden until I saw him standing just behind her. There was a grim smile lurking around his face as he said clearly:

  ‘Twelve points to make up, Dorothy.’

  ‘I can’t, Hugh,’ she appealed. ‘You know how I feel about these things.’

  They were calling to her: ‘Come on, Dorothy. Twelve points to pay. Peel it off.’

  She turned back to them appealingly. ‘Please!’ she pleaded. ‘Not now.’

  Hugh Burden’s action was so swift I hardly realised what he was doing until it was all over. He stepped up close behind her, pulled both her arms up behind her back, held them there with one hand while with the other he jerked the slender strap of her slip down over her shoulders. He cupped her right breast in his hand, pulled it from its scanty covering, and said loudly and cruelly: ‘Here she comes, folks. Watch the last veil slip.’

  He was baring her other side now, and she was screaming a protest. I’d been drinking too much. My reactions were slowed down. Everyone was shrieking with laughter by the time I got moving, and by that time Dorothy’s slip was sliding over her hips.

  I might have been slow off the mark. But there was one guy who hadn’t been drinking. That guy was Charles Skinner. And quiet, tall, thin guy that he was, he couldn’t stand by and see Hugh Burden behave that way.

  He got to Burden first, tore him away from Dorothy and gave him a shove that sent him staggering back a coupla paces. Dorothy slipped down to the floor, trying to cover herself with her hands and crying at the same time.

  But if Charles Skinner had been quick off the mark, he was like a tortoise compared with the jet propulsion of Burden.

  I caught just a glimpse of Burden’s maddened red eyes, his flushed and anger-contorted face, before he sprang at Skinner. There was the meaty sound of knuckles meeting flesh, and Skinner skated backwards on his heels a coupla yards before he hit the floor. His head and shoulders hit the carpet like he was trying to knock a hole through the floorboards.

  Most guys would have been content with that. But not Hugh Burden.

  He gave a fiendish, leopard-like spring. He hurled himself at Skinner full length. He hit Skinner like a diver hitting the water, and his fingers crooked like steel talons around Skinner’s throat.

  For just a second there was stunned, motionless silence, and then everybody was shouting. Mostly they were shouting to stop him.

  A wedge of four guys went in together. By sheer brute force and weight of numbers they dragged Burden clear of Skinner. Dane was there levering desperately. He yelled to me: ‘Give me a hand, will ya, Hank? This fella’s crazy. He’ll kill him.’

  There were six of us holding down Burden. I figured five could manage it quite nicely. I went to the cocktail cabinet, got the soda siphon and went back with it. I
enjoyed myself. I gave it to Burden in the face, drummed it against his eyes so that he couldn’t open them, and when his lips parted to yell, I switched my aim and filled his mouth.

  They had to hold Burden for ten minutes before he’d cooled off sufficiently to be let loose. And, like the clever guy he was, he carried it off well.

  ‘Okay, you fellas. You can let me up. I’ve worked it off now.’ He grinned. ‘I guess you guys know how to deal with me when I’m blowing my top.’

  We let him up and he was grinning widely. Maybe he couldn’t control his temper. But he did his best to make up for it in the eyes of his guests afterwards. He looked around for Skinner. A coupla guys had carried Skinner to a chair and cleaned him up a bit with water. His lips were still bleeding and he’d lost a tooth. He was white-faced, too. But he wasn’t hurt all that bad. Dorothy was kneeling by the side of him, holding his hand and saying sweet, loving things to him. She was so worried about Charles she’d forgotten about the striptease. She’d just tied the slip around her waist anyhow.

  Burden went over to Charles and his face was all anxiety and apology. ‘Gee, Skinner,’ he said. ‘I sure have gotta apologise for that. I shouldn’t have behaved that way. I guess I deserved to be knocked down. How are you, pal?’

  Charles opened his mouth. There was a look in his eyes that suggested he was going to utter some home truths. But Dorothy took his hand quickly, pressed it meaningfully, and all he said was: ‘Bit of a misunderstanding, Burden.’

  ‘Sure it was,’ said Burden heartily. ‘And I’m real sorry. Will ya forget it? After all, I didn’t escape scot-free myself. He tenderly fingered his chin. There was just a slight trickle of blood from the corner or his mouth.

  ‘Sure,’ said Skinner. ‘It’s all over now.’

  ‘That’s the boy,’ said Burden. He reached out and clasped Skinner’s hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically.

  Stella came up alongside Burden, linked her arm in his. ‘Naughty boy,’ she chided. ‘You might have got hurt.’

  ‘Not me babe,’ he assured her, patting her arm. ‘Not me.’

  ‘You’re so strong,’ she sighed, looking up into his face. ‘Nobody could hurt you, could they, darling?’

  ‘I guess not,’ he said. He slipped his arm around her and steered her across to the settee in the corner. She was one of the lucky dames who’d thrown low numbers. She was still wearing everything except her skirt and blouse. When I glanced over in their corner five minutes later, it looked like she’d thrown another double six in the meantime.

  It had been an unpleasant little interlude but it quickly blew over. Someone put on the radiogram again. The maids came round with more drinks and the basket of clothes was taken outside by a coupla guys and hidden somewhere. It seemed it was too young in the evening yet for forfeits to be made in payment for the return of the clothes.

  Things were going with a swing now. They were jiving again, lights were being turned out in the corners by necking parties and another little group were trying out acrobatics, balancing on each other’s shoulders.

  A hand tugged at my arm and a soft, husky voice said: ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s you again,’ I said.

  ‘Look what I found.’ She was holding a gold fountain pen. But I wasn’t looking at that. I was looking at her. She was wearing elastic-waisted briefs and a tightly-drawn hammock-for-two.

  ‘I mean look at this,’ she said, brandishing the gold fountain pen.

  ‘Say,’ I said. ‘That’s valuable. You find more of those things and you’ll get real rich.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ she said. ‘A fella dropped it.’

  ‘What fella?’

  ‘The one that got socked.’

  ‘You mean Skinner?’

  ‘Is that his name?’ she said uninterestedly. ‘What’ll I do with it?’

  ‘Give it to him back.’

  ‘He’s gone to the bathroom.’

  ‘Shove it on the mantelpiece,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when he comes back.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she suggested. She took my arm, steered me across to the mantelpiece. She put the pen on the mantelpiece, looked at my chest, impishly reached out and plucked one of my hairs.

  ‘Hey,’ I protested.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you took your shirt off,’ she confessed.

  ‘Let’s get a drink,’ I suggested.

  We drifted across to the bar. I poured some more Bourbon and we stood there chatting. I was keeping my eyes moving around. There was plenty to see!

  There were a lot more folks dancing now. There seemed to be a lotta competition to dance with those dames who’d thrown the high numbers. The coloured maid had really let herself go now. She was dancing like a Dervish and her almost nude body was slick with perspiration. There were about three guys wanting to dance with her. But she kept slipping through their clutches. They seemed to like that. And from the way she rolled her eyes and showed her teeth in a wide grin, she seemed to like it, too.

  Dane was sitting out with Pearl. She was wearing a pretty, satiny kinda petticoat, and it was cut so low in front you could tell she’d lost her brassiere in the game. It looked like they were hitting it off all the way along the line. They were just sitting there, her hand resting in his as they talked. Only occasionally now did Dane glance across towards Burden and Stella. You couldn’t see much of Burden at that. He’d turned the lights off in that corner. But I knew and Dane knew that Stella was there with Burden.

  Leslie Fuller recovered from the effects of his cocktail experiments. He climbed up from behind the bar just long enough to mix himself another drink. And then he slumped back into his position behind the bar, sitting with his knees under his chin and his head lolling on his shoulders.

  The hand tugged at my arm again. ‘Hey! You can look at me, too.’

  I grinned into her black eyes. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘Hank. What’s yours?’

  ‘Lulu.’

  ‘And what a Lulu!’

  ‘What say we go places?’ she suggested.

  ‘Where, for example?’

  She winked artfully. ‘Some place alone where we can throw more dice.’

  There came a loud roar from behind me. I spun around quickly. An argument had developed between two guys. They looked like quarrelling kids, because both were wearing their underpants and sock suspenders. But there was more than a childlike anger in their voices and demeanour. The row was over a dame. Both guys were wanting to dance with her. The expression on her face and the sulky look in her eyes indicated she didn’t care which one she danced with and would probably like dancing with both. They were both pulling at her. Each had one of her wrists and each had an arm around her. She was wearing stockings and panties, and that was all. They way they were pulling her around it looked like pretty soon she might be wearing just the stockings.

  Another dancing couple barged into them. One of the men pushed them away angrily and carelessly. His fist caught somebody’s chin and it wasn’t liked. And that was all that was needed. Ten seconds later, four of them were fighting it out, swinging mad, savage punches at each other while the dames screamed and dived in and out of the scrum trying to stop it.

  It was what I had been expecting all the evening, and I sat back and watched to see how far it would go. A couple more guys joined in the fight and the struggling went on across the room and back again. Lots of the other folks stood back and watched, offering useful comments.

  And then one guy went staggering backwards. His wildly out-swinging hands caught a large earthenware vase that stood on the mantelpiece. The vase fell on the hearth and smashed into a thousand pieces. I doubt if the guy even noticed what he’d done. He dived back into the scrum with blood streaming down his nose and the gleam of battle in his eyes.

  But that vase was probably extremely valuable. It probably meant a great d
eal to Hugh Burden. His attention had been fully occupied elsewhere until now. But suddenly he was there in the struggle with them – a raging lion, the red glint in his eyes again and his face flushed and angered. This wasn’t a fight any longer. This was a mad, outraged onslaught, with Burden slugging out all around with a killer’s ferocity.

  It took a dozen to hold Burden down this time. And by then the place was a shambles and lots of guys had smashed and bleeding faces.

  When Hugh Burden had calmed down sufficiently to be released, the spirit had somehow gone out of the party. Folks were getting tired. The fight had an element of beastliness about it that left folks with a bad taste in their mouths. It was getting late, anyway.

  The laundry basket was brought back and no forfeits were asked.

  People sorted out their clothing, re-dressed themselves, and a kinda universal drift homewards began.

  Dane came over to me with Pearl. He asked me if I’d seen Leslie Fuller.

  Between us we fished Fuller up from behind the counter, thrust his head in cold water and got him conscious.

  ‘He isn’t fit to drive,’ said Dane. ‘I think I’d better take you home.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Pearl. She gave him a soft, lingering look. ‘I’ll take Leslie home. The butler will put him to bed.’

  ‘But how will you get home?’

  ‘I’ll borrow Leslie’s car,’ she said. ‘He won’t mind that. Perhaps you’ll help me get him out to the car?’

  Dorothy and Charles Skinner was leaving, too. They both shook hands with me and went out to the car with Dane.

  I rummaged through the laundry basket, found my shoes and sat down to put them on. There was a dame sitting next to me putting on a brassiere that was three sizes too small. She tried about six times to get herself manoeuvred into position, and when she didn’t quite manage it she looked at me and giggled. I helped her out finally while she did a lot more giggling.