by Ken Follett
"I figured that out," he said. "Who are you?"
"Jacky Jakes." She held out her hand. "I'm an actress."
Greg shook hands with the second beautiful actress in an hour. Jacky had a playful look that Greg found more attractive than Gladys's overpowering magnetism. Her mouth was a dark pink bow. He said: "My dad said he got me a gift--are you it?"
She giggled. "I guess I am. He said I would like you. He's going to get me into the movies."
Greg got the picture. His father had guessed he might feel bad about being friendly with Gladys. Jacky was his reward for not making a fuss. He thought he probably ought to reject such a bribe, but he could not resist. "You're a very nice gift," he said.
"Your father's real good to you."
"He's wonderful," Greg said. "And so are you."
"Aren't you sweet?" She put her purse down on the dresser, stepped closer to Greg, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his mouth. Her lips were soft and warm. "I like you," she said. She felt his shoulders. "You're strong."
"I play ice hockey."
"Makes a girl feel safe." She put both hands on his cheeks and kissed him again, longer, then she sighed and said: "Oh, boy, I think we're going to have fun."
"Are we?" Washington was a Southern city, still largely segregated. In Buffalo, white and black people could eat in the same restaurants and drink in the same bars, mostly, but here it was different. Greg was not sure what the laws were, but he felt certain that in practise a white man with a black woman would cause trouble. It was surprising to find Jacky occupying a room in this hotel; Lev must have fixed it. But there was certainly no question of Greg and Jacky swanning around town with Lev and Gladys in a foursome. So what did Jacky think they were going to do to have fun together? The amazing notion crossed his mind that she might be willing to go to bed with him.
He put his hands on her waist, to draw her to him for another kiss, but she pulled back. "I need to take a shower," she said. "Give me a few minutes." She turned and disappeared through the communicating door, closing it behind her.
He sat on the bed, trying to take it all in. Jacky wanted to act in movies, and it seemed she was willing to use sex to advance her career. She certainly was not the first actress, black or white, to use that strategy. Gladys was doing the same by sleeping with Lev. Greg and his father were the lucky beneficiaries.
He saw that she had left her clutch bag behind. He picked it up and tried the door. It was not locked. He stepped through.
She was on the phone, wearing a pink bathrobe. She said: "Yes, hunky-dory, no problem." Her voice seemed different, more mature, and he realized that with him she had been using a sexy-little-girl tone that was not natural. Then she saw him, smiled, and reverted to the girly voice as she said into the phone: "Please hold my calls. I don't want to be disturbed. Thank you. Good-bye."
"You left this," said Greg, and handed her the purse.
"You just wanted to see me in my bathrobe," she said coquettishly. The front of the robe did not entirely hide her breasts, and he could see an enchanting curve of flawless brown skin.
He grinned. "No, but I'm glad I did."
"Go back to your room. I have to shower. I might let you see more later."
"Oh, my God," he said.
He returned to his room. This was astonishing. "I might let you see more later," he repeated to himself aloud. What a thing for a girl to say!
He had a hard-on, but he did not want to jerk off when the real thing seemed so close. To take his mind off it, he went on unpacking. He had an expensive shaving kit, a razor and brush with pearl handles, a present from his mother. He laid the things out in the bathroom, wondering whether they would impress Jacky if she saw them.
The walls were thin, and he heard the sound of running water from the next room. The thought of her body naked and wet possessed him. He tried to concentrate on arranging his underwear and socks in a drawer.
Then he heard her scream.
He froze. For a moment he was too surprised to move. What did it mean? Why would she yell out like that? Then she screamed again, and he was shocked into action. He threw open the communicating door and stepped into her room.
She was naked. He had never seen a naked woman in real life. She had pointed breasts with dark brown tips. At her groin was a thatch of wiry black hair. She was cowering back against the wall, trying ineffectually to cover her nakedness with her hands.
Standing in front of her was Dave Rouzrokh, with twin scratches down his aristocratic cheek, presumably caused by Jacky's pink-varnished nails. There was blood on the broad lapel of Dave's double-breasted white jacket.
Jacky screamed: "Get him away from me!"
Greg swung a fist. Dave was an inch taller, but he was an old man, and Greg was an athletic teenager. The blow connected with Dave's chin--more by luck than by judgment--and Dave staggered back, then fell to the floor.
The room door opened.
The broad-shouldered hotel employee Greg had seen earlier came in. He must have a master key, Greg thought. "I'm Tom Cranmer, house detective," the man said. "What's going on here?"
Greg said: "I heard her scream and came in to find him here."
Jacky said: "He tried to rape me!"
Dave struggled to his feet. "That's not true," he said. "I was asked to come to this room for a meeting with Sol Starr."
Jacky began to sob. "Oh, now he's going to lie about it!"
Cranmer said: "Put something on, please, miss."
Jacky put on her pink bathrobe.
The detective picked up the room phone, dialed a number, and said: "There's usually a cop on the corner. Get him into the lobby, right now."
Dave was staring at Greg. "You're Peshkov's bastard, aren't you?"
Greg was about to hit him again.
Dave said: "Oh, my God, this is a setup."
Greg was thrown by this remark. He felt intuitively that Dave was telling the truth. He dropped his fist. This whole scene must have been scripted by Lev, he realized. Dave Rouzrokh was no rapist. Jacky was faking. And Greg himself was just an actor in the movie. He felt dazed.
"Please come with me, sir," said Cranmer, taking Dave firmly by the arm. "You two as well."
"You can't arrest me," said Dave.
"Yes, sir, I can," said Cranmer. "And I'm going to hand you over to a police officer."
Greg said to Jacky: "Do you want to get dressed?"
She shook her head quickly and decisively. Greg realized it was part of the plan that she would appear in her robe.
He took Jacky's arm and they followed Cranmer and Dave along the corridor and into the elevator. A cop was waiting in the lobby. Both he and the hotel detective must be in on the plot, Greg surmised.
Cranmer said: "I heard a scream from her room, found the old guy in there. She says he tried to rape her. The kid is a witness."
Dave looked bewildered, as if he thought this might be a bad dream. Greg found himself feeling sorry for Dave. He had been cruelly trapped. Lev was more pitiless than Greg had imagined. Half of him admired his father; the other half wondered if such ruthlessness was really necessary.
The cop snapped handcuffs on Dave and said: "All right, let's go."
"Go where?" Dave said.
"Downtown," said the cop.
Greg said: "Do we all have to go?"
"Yeah."
Cranmer spoke to Greg in a low voice. "Don't worry, son," he said. "You did a great job. We'll go to the precinct house and make our statements, and after that you can fuck her from here to Christmastime."
The cop led Dave to the door, and the others followed.
As they stepped outside, a photographer popped a flashgun.
vii
Woody Dewar got a copy of Freud's Studies in Hysteria mailed to him by a bookseller in New York. On the night of the Yacht Club ball--the climactic social event of the summer season in Buffalo--he wrapped it neatly in brown paper and tied a red ribbon around it. "Chocolates for a lucky girl?" said his mother, passin
g him in the hall. She had only one eye but she saw everything.
"A book," he said. "For Joanne Rouzrokh."
"She won't be at the ball."
"I know."
Mama stopped and gave him a searching look. After a moment she said: "You're serious about her."
"I guess. But she thinks I'm too young."
"Her pride is probably involved. Her friends would ask why she can't find a guy her own age to go out with. Girls are cruel like that."
"I'm planning to persist until she grows more mature."
Mama smiled. "I bet you make her laugh."
"I do. It's the best card I hold."
"Well, heck, I waited long enough for your father."
"Did you?"
"I loved him from the first time I met him. I pined for years. I had to watch him fall for that shallow cow Olga Vyalov, who wasn't worthy of him but had two working eyes. Thank God she got knocked up by her chauffeur." Mother's language could be a little coarse, especially when Grandmama was not around. She had picked up bad habits during the years she spent working on newspapers. "Then he went off to war. I had to follow him to France before I could nail his foot to the goddamn floor."
Nostalgia was mixed with pain in her reminiscence, Woody could tell. "But he realized you were the right girl for him."
"In the end, yes."
"Maybe that'll happen to me."
Mama kissed him. "Good luck, my son," she said.
The Rouzrokh house was less than a mile away and Woody walked there. None of the Rouzrokhs would be at the Yacht Club tonight. Dave had been all over the papers after a mysterious incident at the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Washington. A typical headline had read CINEMA MOGUL ACCUSED BY STARLET. Woody had recently learned to mistrust newspapers. However, gullible people said there must be something in it, otherwise why would the police have arrested Dave?
None of the family had been seen at any social event since.
Outside the house an armed guard stopped Woody. "The family isn't seeing callers," he said brusquely.
Woody guessed the man had spent a lot of time repelling reporters, and he forgave the discourteous tone. He recalled the name of the Rouzrokhs' maid. "Please ask Miss Estella to tell Joanne that Woody Dewar has a book for her."
"You can leave it with me," said the guard, holding out his hand.
Woody held on firmly to the book. "Thanks, but no."
The guard looked annoyed, but he walked Woody up the drive and rang the doorbell. Estella opened it and said at once: "Hello, Mr. Woody, come in--Joanne will be so glad to see you!" Woody permitted himself a triumphant glance at the guard as he stepped inside.
Estella showed him into an empty drawing room. She offered him milk and cookies, as if he were still a kid, and he declined politely. Joanne came in a minute later. Her face was drawn and her olive skin looked washed out, but she smiled pleasantly at him and sat down to chat.
She was pleased with the book. "Now I'll have to read Dr. Freud instead of just gabbing about him," she said. "You're a good influence on me, Woody."
"I wish I could be a bad influence."
She let that pass. "Aren't you going to the ball?"
"I have a ticket, but if you're not there, I'm not interested. Would you like to go to a movie instead?"
"No, thanks, really."
"Or we could just get dinner. Somewhere really quiet. If you don't mind taking the bus."
"Oh, Woody, of course I don't mind the bus, but you're too young for me. Anyway, the summer's almost over. You'll be back at school soon, and I'm going to Vassar."
"Where you'll go on dates, I guess."
"I sure hope so!"
Woody stood up. "Okay, well, I'm going to take a vow of celibacy and enter a monastery. Please don't come and visit me, you'll distract the other brethren."
She laughed. "Thank you for taking my mind off my family's troubles."
It was the first time she had mentioned what had happened to her father. He had not been planning to raise the subject, but now that she had, he said: "You know we're all on your side. Nobody believes that actress's story. Everyone in town realizes it was a setup by that swine Lev Peshkov, and we're furious about it."
"I know," she said. "But the accusation alone is too shameful for my father to bear. I think my parents are going to move to Florida."
"I'm so sorry."
"Thank you. Now go to the ball."
"Maybe I will."
She walked him to the door.
"May I kiss you good-bye?" he said.
She leaned forward and kissed his lips. This was not like the last kiss, and he knew instinctively not to grab her and press his mouth to hers. It was a gentle kiss, her lips on his for a sweet moment that was over in a breath. Then she pulled away and opened the front door.
"Good night," Woody said as he stepped out.
"Good-bye," said Joanne.
viii
Greg Peshkov was in love.
He knew that Jacky Jakes had been bought for him by his father, as his reward for helping to entrap Dave Rouzrokh, but despite that it was real love.
He had lost his virginity a few minutes after they returned from the precinct house, and the two of them had then spent most of a week in bed at the Ritz-Carlton. Greg did not need to use birth control, she told him, because she was already "fixed up." He had only the vaguest idea what that meant, but he took her at her word.
He had never been so happy in his life, and he adored her, especially when she dropped the little-girl act and revealed a shrewd intelligence and a mordant sense of humor. She admitted she had seduced Greg on his father's orders, but confessed that against her will she had fallen in love. Her real name was Mabel Jakes and, although she pretended to be nineteen, she was in fact just sixteen, only a few months older than Greg.
Lev had promised her a part in a movie but, he said, he was still looking for just the right role. In a perfect imitation of Lev's vestigial Russian accent she said: "But I don't guess he's lookin' too fuckin' hard."
"I guess there aren't many parts written for Negro actors," Greg said.
"I know, I'll end up playing the maid, rolling my eyes and saying lawdy. There are Africans in plays and films--Cleopatra, Hannibal, Othello--but they're usually played by white actors." Her father, now dead, had been a professor in a Negro college, and she knew more about literature than Greg did. "Anyway, why should Negroes only play black people? If Cleopatra can be played by a white actress, why can't Juliet be black?"
"People would find it strange."
"People would get used to it. They get used to anything. Does Jesus have to be played by a Jew? Nobody cares."
She was right, Greg thought, but all the same it was never going to happen.
When Lev had announced their return to Buffalo--leaving it until the last minute, as usual--Greg had been devastated. He had asked his father if Jacky could come to Buffalo, but Lev had laughed and said: "Son, you don't shit where you eat. You can see her next time you come to Washington."
Despite that, Jacky had followed him to Buffalo a day later and moved into a cheap apartment near Canal Street.
Lev and Greg had been busy for the next couple of weeks with the takeover of Roseroque Theatres. Dave had sold for two million in the end, a quarter of the original offer, and Greg's admiration for his father went up another notch. Jacky had withdrawn her charges and hinted to the newspapers that she had accepted a cash settlement. Greg was awestruck by his father's callous nerve.
And he had Jacky. He told his mother he was out every night with male friends, but in fact he spent all his spare time with Jacky. He showed her around town, picnicked with her at the beach, even managed to take her out in a borrowed speedboat. No one connected her with the rather blurred newspaper photograph of a girl walking out of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in a bathrobe. But mostly they spent the warm summer evenings having sweaty, deliriously happy sex, tangling the worn sheets on the narrow bed in her small apartment. They decided to get marr
ied as soon as they were old enough.
Tonight he was taking her to the Yacht Club Ball.
It had been extraordinarily difficult to get tickets, but Greg had bribed a school friend.
He had bought Jacky a new dress, pink satin. He got a generous allowance from Marga, and Lev loved to slip him fifty bucks now and again, so he always had more money than he needed.
In the back of his mind a warning was sounding. Jacky would be the only Negro at the ball not serving drinks. She was very reluctant to go, but Greg had talked her around. The young men would envy him but the older ones might be hostile, he knew. There would be some muttering. Jacky's beauty and charm would overcome much prejudice, he felt: How could anyone resist her? But if some fool got drunk and insulted her, Greg would teach him a lesson with both fists.
Even as he thought this, he heard his mother telling him not to be a love-struck fool. But a man could not go through life listening to his mother.
As he walked along Canal Street in white tie and tails, he looked forward to seeing her in the new dress, and maybe kneeling to lift the hem up until he could see her panties and garter belt.
He entered her building, an old house now subdivided. There was a threadbare red carpet on the stairs and a smell of spicy cooking. He let himself into the apartment with his own key.
The place was empty.
That was odd. Where would she go without him?
With fear in his heart, he opened the closet. The pink satin ball dress hung there on its own. Her other clothes were gone.
"No!" he said aloud. How could this happen?
On the rickety pine table was an envelope. He picked it up and saw his name on the front in Jacky's neat, schoolgirl handwriting. A feeling of dread came over him.
He tore open the envelope with shaky hands and read the short message.
My darling Greg,
The last three weeks have been the happiest time of my entire life.
I knew in my heart that we couldn't ever get married but it was nice to pretend.
You are a lovely boy and will grow into a fine man, if you don't take after your father too much.
Had Lev found out that Jacky was living here, and somehow made her leave? He would not do that--would he?
Good-bye and don't forget me.
Your Gift,
Jacky
Greg crumpled the paper and wept.
