Annette was unsure whether the old lady was angry with her. She said nothing as she pushed the second set of registration forms across the desk.
“I’ll just sign for Jean-Paul,” Miss Shaw said. She scribbled busily. “I’m sure we’ll have a simply glorious time here. But there is one small matter I should like to clear up first.”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“This hotel is rather isolated …”
“We have a doctor, and complete services of all kinds.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that, but … do you have a good supply of bananas?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Bananas. Do you have a good supply on hand?”
Annette struggled to keep her face blank. “I believe so, I’ll check for you, if you like.”
“Ah, there’s a good girl,” Miss Shaw said, pressing a 100 peseta note into her hand. “I adore bananas,” she said, in a low conspiratorial tone.
The bellboy came up, and took Miss Shaw’s key. “Dinner at eight,” Annette said.
“You’re so kind,” Miss Shaw replied, and followed the boy to the elevator.
Funny little woman, Annette thought. The way she talks about bananas, you’d think they were heroin.
The minute Jencks saw her, he wanted her. She was in the bar, sitting on a bar stool, wearing a scoop-neck, emerald-green dress with a flounce on the skirt. Her knees were crossed, hiking the hem above her knees. She wore no stockings, but her legs were deeply tanned. Above the dress, the tops of her lavish breasts bulged enticingly. Her face, framed by short, honey blond hair, was almost childish and sweet; the eyes were a gentle blue beneath long lashes and the dimples that creased each cheek were endearing.
She was a big girl, tall and full bodied, and she was surrounded by five or six panting men, including one sick-looking, pimply college kid who seemed to be her escort. Jencks felt abstract sympathy for the kid; this girl was obviously too much for him to handle.
One of the men said something, and she laughed, throwing back her head and opening her mouth to show even, brilliantly white teeth. It was a calculated gesture, and the men responded, their eyes widening, their breath quick. She uncrossed her legs, and stretched one foot, clad in a sling-back high heel, to the floor. The movement bared a slim, firm young leg to mid-thigh. The men squirmed. The kid looked sicker than ever.
Jencks watched the entire proceedings with growing interest. His logical mind told him that he had several alternatives, and he briefly reviewed each. In the end, it was the sight of that outstretched leg which convinced him—this was a direct, brazen girl. He walked right up to the group and took her hand in his.
She had been sipping her drink and looked at him, startled.
“Alice,” he said, in a breathless voice. “Thank God! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
For a long moment, she hesitated on the brink of action. Her eyes ran over his face, coolly surveying him, judging his motives. She knows, he thought. She knows exactly.
“Henry,” she said. “I’m so glad you arrived. Please take me away from these frightful bores.”
The men looked green. The kid stood up, clenching his fists.
“Of course, darling,” Jencks said. “Come with me.”
He gave the men a polite nod, and threw the kid a warning glance. The fists unclenched, and the kid sat down again. Well-trained little thing, he thought.
Jencks steered her to a corner table, aware of the way she was swinging her hips, aware of the stares of the men at the bar. They sat down, and he ordered two scotches. Jencks did not drink scotch, but he would see that she drank his as well. She looked at him, then over to the group of astonished males she had just left, then back to him.
“Steven Jencks,” he said. “Very glad to meet you.”
“Jenny Cameron. Where do you get off?” She was trying to seem angry, but it wasn’t very effective.
“Nowhere. I just came along for the ride.”
She was staring at his face, which he knew was hardly handsome. His eyes held her. She was caught. Now he would slowly reel her in. Jencks, though not a conceited man, was self-assured, and he knew his abilities. He would have this girl.
“Cocky bastard, aren’t you?” she said.
“You’re not speaking from experience.”
“I’m not sure I want to.” She picked up her purse and made small motions indicating that she intended to leave the table. She did it absurdly slowly, making sure he had plenty of time to react. He did not react. She faltered and finally opened her purse, withdrawing a cigarette.
“Do you have a light?”
“No, I don’t smoke.”
For a moment, she looked puzzled, then she shrugged, and lit her cigarette with her own lighter.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“Various things. What do you do?”
“I’m a student. Wellesley.”
“Is he a Wellesley student, too?”
“Peter? Almost.” She laughed bitterly.
“Are you friends, or just acquaintances?”
“What does it look like?”
A real bitch, he thought. A perfect, incredible bitch. He felt the beginnings of desire stir him. “It looks,” he said, “as if you are barely acquaintances.”
“Good enough,” she said, blowing a plume of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. She held the cigarette archly. “Why did you pick me up?”
“I didn’t pick you up. I merely gave you the opportunity to escape from a dull situation. You took advantage of it.”
Don’t give her an out, he thought. Keep the burden of action and initiative on her. And slowly, ever so slowly, reel her in.
“That’s your opinion,” she announced.
The drinks came, and she downed hers with a quick swallow. Showing off, he thought, but in such an obvious way. He realized then that she was young and wondered if he had made a mistake. She might simply be a little girl trying to act grown up.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Old enough to know what I’m doing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Twenty. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighty-seven,” Jencks said.
“Very well preserved,” she said.
“I fight alligators with my bare hands.”
“It sounds like interesting work.”
“I’ve learned to handle thrashing creatures,” he said.
“Is that a challenge?”
“That’s a statement of fact.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” she said. “You don’t look like the believable type.”
“Very sensible of you.”
She paused, now completely confused. It was the moment he had been waiting for. He pushed his untouched drink across to her.
“You don’t want it?”
“I don’t drink.”
“You don’t smoke, and you don’t drink. It seems that there are a great many things you don’t do.”
Jencks sighed, as if exasperated. “I do what interests me.”
“What interests you, Mr. Jencks?” Her eyes were wide, mocking him.
“High-energy quantum physics.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Are you very good at it?”
“Unusually.”
“And are you normally obnoxious, or is this a special occasion?”
“I try to tell my patients what I think they want to hear.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Psychiatrist.”
“How fascinating. I had a psychiatrist once, a bald, funny-looking man with a crooked nose—like yours—who always used to ask me about my sex life. Are you going to ask me about my sex life, too?”
“No. I’m not interested in your sex life.”
That hurt. She leaned across the table, giving him a generous view of the smooth mounds of her breasts. “Why not?”
“Because I imagine it�
�s very dull.”
“You’re wrong.”
“That,” he said, “is perfectly possible, but I doubt it. Particularly if you’ve had anything to do with Wellesley over there.”
“He’s very rich.”
“Money doesn’t buy a stiff prick.”
She gulped the drink. “Listen, if you think I’m going to sit here and let you insult me, you’re—”
“Dinner?” he asked, mildly.
She hesitated, then smiled a sweet angelic false smile. “I’d love it. Then I can tell you more about my psychiatrist. He had a queer little chin, just like yours. In fact, there’s a remarkable resemblance between the two of you.”
“How interesting,” Jencks said, standing.
She looked up at him. “Are we going to dinner now?”
“Yes,” he said.
He did not touch her as they left the bar and went in to the dining room.
At 10:30, Miguel, sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper, looked up and saw the last arriving guest of the evening. He nearly choked on the spot.
The new guest was a big man, heavy, florid, in a wrinkled suit. Shortish, with balding head and a leering grin, but very nimble hands. The fingers quivered slightly as he held his hands at his sides, and checked in.
Big Brad Allen.
What the hell was he doing here?
Allen looked around the lobby, and Miguel ducked behind his newspaper. A moment later he peered around. There was no doubt about it. Brad Allen. When had he last seen him? It must have been Nassau, when Big Brad was up on charges of running a phony real estate office which sold land on islands that didn’t exist. He’d gotten off that one; he got off anything. He was the greasiest, slickest operator Miguel knew.
The buffoon was Allen’s natural role; nature and temperament had suited him to it. Physically sloppy, extroverted, and dimwitted in manner, he could fool anyone into thinking he was a fool. It was his stock in trade, his one great talent, and in a reasonable way, it had made him rich.
What was he doing here?
Again Miguel returned to the question. Several answers occurred to him, none of them reassuring. He would have to speak to Jencks about this first thing in the morning.
It was almost midnight when they came out of the nightclub. Jencks was pleased; it had been a satisfactory evening. She had thrown everything at him during dinner, and he had parried each move. By the time they went to the nightclub, her initial anger had deepened into frustration, but still he gave her no opening, no opportunity. Slowly, she had become more docile, more yielding—but he knew that she wasn’t finished. It was only the temporary effect of exhaustion and too much alcohol. In the morning, she would have something new planned.
Jenny said, “Where do we go from here?”
“To bed,” Jencks said.
“You think you own the world,” she pouted. She slurred her words in an exaggerated southern drawl. She was quite drunk.
“No,” he replied, “but I own my own bed. Good night.” He smiled at her. “Can you find your way to your room?”
Her eyes were wide with disbelief and confusion. “What? You’re just leaving me here?”
“Well, I’ll take you to your room if you prefer, but you’re a big girl now.”
“I am,” she agreed, grinning lasciviously.
“Good. Then you won’t have any trouble by yourself. Good night.”
He left her, noticing that she had been about to say something more, but had stopped herself.
He was almost to the end of the corridor when she said again, “You think you own the world!”
THURSDAY, JUNE NINETEENTH
JENCKS WAS AWAKENED IN the morning by the ring of the telephone. He rolled over and groped for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Steve, honey.”
Instantly he was awake. “Good morning, Miss Cameron.”
“Call me Jenny.” Her voice was a soft, insinuating purr.
“Whatever you wish.”
She paused. “I’d like to see you today.”
I’ll bet you would, he thought. The losing gambler wants to recoup her losses in another round. Well, good luck to her.
“Wonderful,” he said.
He heard her inhale on a cigarette. “Do you have a car?”
“Of course.”
“Has it got any gas in it?” Before he could answer, she seemed to reconsider this remark, and said quickly, “I thought we might take a ride.”
“That sounds fine. Any place in particular?”
“No, I just want to be taken for a ride. Can you arrange it?” Her voice was now frankly seductive. He could imagine her sitting by the phone, smoking and thinking out each line before she said it. He had to give her credit; she was doing a good job.
“I think so. Name the time.”
“Is ten minutes too soon?” She seemed apologetic and eager at the same time.
Damn you, he thought. “Not at all,” he said, already looking across to the closet, deciding what to wear. He would miss breakfast, but that couldn’t be helped. The hard hours that teachers work, he thought. But he was determined to be well paid for his efforts.
“I’ll meet you in front,” she said. “See you then, Steve.”
Her voice lingered invitingly, and the line clicked dead. Jencks got out of bed, and dressed swiftly in a pair of slacks and light sweater. He finished by running an electric razor across his face. As he stared in the mirror, he considered what Jenny might have planned. His habit of anticipating events carried over into his affairs with women, and he found it valuable. He had little patience with men who claimed that they would never understand women. Jencks always understood women.
He finished shaving, left the room, and took the elevator to the lobby. Jenny was waiting for him outside, wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a powder-blue skirt which matched her eyes. She looked golden and healthy and very sexy—tawny was the word, he thought. The blouse was thin, and through it he could see her large breasts, restrained by a lacy half-bra. He was careful not to stare.
“You’re looking good this morning,” he said.
“I’m feeling good this morning.” she said, in a low voice. Her eyes lowered demurely, and she rubbed one thigh through the skirt.
She wasn’t wasting any time.
The attendant brought the car from the garage; it was a Caravelle convertible, white. They rolled the top back.
“Pretty car,” Jenny said, “but feminine and underpowered.”
“I don’t really mind,” Jencks replied, “and besides, it’s rented.”
He shrugged, climbed in behind the wheel, and they started off across the bridge and onto the twisting mainland road that hugged the rocky coast. It was a beautiful day, hot but clear, and the air was redolent of pine. Jenny kicked off her sandals and threw her head back, letting the wind catch her hair. She looked proud, sensual, and stunning, and for a moment he wondered if he would be able to wait until her cure treatment had been finished.
“Sleep well?” she asked, smiling slightly. Her cheeks dimpled.
He knew he could wait.
The road curved in long, twisting hairpins, giving them magnificent views of clear blue water meeting the reddish cliffs of the coast. A gentle wind blew in from the sea, producing small whitecaps. Offshore, a pleasure boat moved south toward Tossa del Mar and Barcelona.
“Where shall we go?” he asked.
“You’re driving. I don’t really care. I wouldn’t have accepted your invitation, except that I had to get away from that idiot Peter.” She paused, remembering her conversation of the morning. “I mean, I—”
“That’s all right,” Jencks said. “I understand your position.” He did, too. She wanted to be seductive, but was unable to keep to her line.
Jenny puffed on her cigarette in silence. The car came around a bend, and a deserted cove lay visible below—a short stretch of white beach, nestled between rocky walls.
“I feel like a swim,” Jenny said. “Why don’t
we go down there?”
Jencks knew that she had not brought a suit. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t really feel up to it. But I’ll be glad to stop while you take a dip.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road.
Jenny hesitated, then said, “Never mind. I’ll wait until we get back to the pool.”
Without commenting, he slipped the car into gear and continued down the road. She tossed her cigarette into the wind and shifted restlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her unbutton one button of her blouse. The material sprang open, revealing the tops of her breasts. She shifted again, raising her legs and placing her bare feet on the dashboard. Her skirt slid down around her full, brown thighs.
“It’s very warm today,” she said.
“You should dress in lighter clothing.”
She took a deep breath, and her blouse opened further. She reached inside and rubbed one breast, slowly.
“Do I have a good body?”
“Very nice.”
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“Of course I have. I’ve been looking at it ever since I met you.”
“And what do you think of it?” The skirt slipped still further back, baring the edges of blue lace panties.
“Very nice.”
“Doesn’t it interest you?”
“It would interest any male up to the age of ninety or so. Maybe older.”
She was pushing very hard, he thought. Unbecomingly hard, though it was a good sign. She would crack soon.
“And how old are you?” Her hand ran absently over the firm flesh of her thigh.
“Thirty-eight.”
Go on, he thought. Giggle and say you are, too. But Jencks was surprised. Her approach was different; her voice remained cool.
“Not nearly ninety, are you?”
“I’m wise beyond my years.”
She thought for a moment, then asked innocently, “Are you a queer?”
For shame, he thought. “Would you like to find out?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He reached over and patted her shoulder paternally. “I’ll wait until you’ve made up your mind.”
She fumed silently.
He decided to take the pressure off. “Are you free for dinner?” He asked the question directly, but his tone indicated that she could refuse if she wished. He knew that he could have been much rougher, could have simply informed her that she was dining with him. By relaxing with her now, he was allowing her to become bitchy again if she wished; he had given her an opening which she might take advantage of. He waited for her answer with interest.
Odds On: A Novel Page 11
