The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

  "I think I do."

  "Awright. Here's my proposition to you. I need a cashier —sure, a smart one, honest one, sure—but I also need a live-in friend. Somebody nice to keep me company. I'll take care of her if she takes care of me. Know what I mean? But there's one rule. She's got to be faithful to me one hundred percent. No fucking around. No cheating. Think you can take care of me like that?"

  Nan was a little afraid and more than a little mixed up. She wasn't sure how much she really liked him—or if she liked him at all. He was crude, rough, maybe even mean, but maybe not. He was, in his way, being kind, too. He was offering her everything in the world she needed. He was offering security, safety, companionship, a home. He was also telling her he liked her and wanted her to belong only to him. There were virtues there.

  "Whatdoya think, kid?" he was asking.

  "I—I think I can take care of you the way you want."

  His face broke into a satisfied grin. His teeth were yellow and uneven. "Good girl. Then you got nothing more to worry about. You got a home. You got a job. You got a boyfriend. You can move in tomorrow."

  "I—I appreciate that, Mr. Zecca."

  "Tony, from now on."

  "Tony."

  "What was your name?"

  "Nan."

  "Okay, and you better know you got yourself a real loverboy, Nan."

  Rereading this meeting, trying to make it come alive in his head, Freeberg turned a page of Nan Whitcomb's case history and was arrested by the report of her initial sexual encounter with Zecca.

  Nan had moved into Zecca's ten-room, two-story house with her few effects and been shown to her room by the housekeeper, whose name was Hilda.

  It had been exciting, all this luxury, this wonderful cocoon that was now partially her own. She wanted to hold on to it and be as attractive as possible for her first dinner here.

  Zecca had come home at seven forty-five, greeted her with a wave, seemed to be pleased with her well-worn tight-fitting jersey dress and long legs. He told her to be ready to eat at eight sharp.

  Zecca had two drinks at the outset of the meal and buried himself in a newspaper. Except for a few words to inquire if she was settled and satisfied, he did not speak.

  During the dessert, she wondered what would be next, what was expected of her.

  After dinner, he beckoned her to follow him into the gaudily decorated modern living room. Settling down into an upholstered easy chair, he patted the footstool nearby for Nan to sit on, then aimed his remote control at the television set.

  "There're two one-hour programs I got to watch every night—great action stuff. You'll like them."

  She hated them. The violence was unremitting. Between shows, he ordered Scotches for her and himself. He finished his drink and called to Hilda, the housekeeper, for another. Nan made an effort to drink but couldn't. He paid no attention.

  As the second show ended, her apprehension grew. What next?

  He swallowed his last drink, stood up, stretched. "Okay, kiddo, let's get down to it. Time for bed. I don't like staying up late. Come on, Nanny girl."

  She knew that this was it. First payment on security and comfort. She trailed him to his darkened bedroom.

  She had expected him to kiss her, caress her a little, get her ready. He didn't bother.

  As he began to remove his shirt, he called over his shoulder. "What are you waiting for? Get out of your things. We're getting into the sack."

  Hesitantly, she kicked off her pumps and began to unzip her dress. "Should I—should I put on a nightgown?"

  "Naw." He snorted. "Who needs that kind of stuff? I like my ladies bare ass."

  As she slipped out of her dress she turned to see him walking toward the king-size bed. At the edge of the bed, he stopped to throw back the blanket. He was naked, and she had her first real look at the man she would live with. He was muscular, all right—and not leastwise in the genital area. She couldn't make out if he was soft or hard yet. It looked like he was hard, but she guessed it was still soft and only looked the other way.

  He crawled into bed, peered at her, then snapped, "What's holding you, baby? Let's get going."

  With fumbling fingers, she unhooked her bra.

  She heard his voice. "Not bad in the tit department."

  Almost breathless, she pulled down her cheap nylon panties and pushed them aside with her foot. She had a large thatch of pubic hair and wished that it would cover everything, but it wouldn't and she knew that soon he would see the pink folds below. With wooden legs, she made for the bed.

  He was on an elbow, his eyes riveted on her private parts. "Nice gash," he grunted. "Maybe I guessed right. Okay, let's find out."

  She pushed herself up on the bed and wriggled toward him.

  "Better, that's better," he said.

  Momentarily, she closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss, his hug, his hands, the beginnings of foreplay. But opening her eyes, she could see there would be no foreplay.

  "Tony," she implored, "put out the lamp."

  "No way. I like to see what I'm doing. I like my money's worth."

  She sighed, embarrassed, as he knelt over her, his hairy hands yanking her knees apart.

  He had her legs wide apart, and she could not take her eyes off what was pointing at her. Now he had a hard-on. It resembled a blunt instrument.

  As he came down between her legs, she prayed that it might be good, after all.

  It wasn't.

  His entry stunned her. She was still dry, but he shoved it in hard and brutally. He shoved it deeper and then began his thrusts. The pain made her try to pull away, avoid the pain, but he mistook her movement as cooperation. The thrusting became more savage and relentless. He was going on like an automatic pile driver. Her insides ached. Her thin buttocks ached.

  It was endless, the punishment, and she thought it would never stop. Later, in the bathroom, she tried to tell herself that his mindless performance was due to his intense excitement. After this time, in other times to follow, he would be aware of her and considerate, and possibly in his manner a bit more gentle.

  Reading the scene in Dr. Quarrie's case history, animating it in his own mind, Freeberg had found it not entirely unfamiliar. There were human beings in the world, and there were human beings who were still animals.

  Freeberg resumed his reading of the case history, then Dr. Quarrie's summation of what followed.

  This went on, the same Pattern, for six weeks. Not only was Zecca insatiable in his desire for intercourse, but in each episode that came after the first, he was as thoughtless as before and increasingly brutal. According to Nan, the pain suffered during these couplings was almost unbearable. As the couplings grew longer, as they inevitably would, Nan was forced to bite her lip to smother protests, and she bit her lip until it bled. Finally, during each coupling, she began to scream. Given Zecca's utter insensitivity, he misinterpreted her screams for sounds of arousal, and he was as pleased as a child receiving a gift. He showed his pleasure by giving Nan a modest raise in salary, and after a month, he gave her an imitation gold necklace.

  Recently, according to Nan, after finishing with her, he lay back puffing and mused aloud to her, "I like you. I sure do. I'm going to keep you for good. I wouldn't want you messing around with anyone else. None of that. I mean, if you did, I'd find out. I could easily kill you. I killed plenty of gooks in Nam. Killing is easy if someone tries to do you in. If I was ever double-crossed, I'd kill again. So you just behave."

  Nan claims she said, "Of course, I'll behave. I'm with you, Tony. I'm yours."

  He said, "Good girl."

  Reading this, Freeberg reached out on his desk for his box of cigarillos, managed to free one, and lighted it. Smoking, he read on, waiting to come across the scene that he was sure would happen. Then he found it. He read and reread it. He dramatized it in his mind . . .

  Two weeks ago, less than two weeks ago, it happened.

  They were in bed together at night. He tore her legs apart, and wi
thout any preliminaries, he drove his rigid instrument at her, ready to go into her as usual—only this time it didn't go in.

  Shoving as strongly as he could, he tried to enter her. No luck.

  "Hey, now, what the fuck's going on?" he wanted to know. "What's wrong there? I got it in the right place, ain't I?"

  "Yes, yes, go ahead, Tony . . . Please, go ahead."

  Once more he tried, and again he was unable to enter her. He swore at his frustration. "You're locked up like a steel vault down there. What's going on?"

  "I don't know. I'm not doing anything. I'm trying like always."

  Determined, for the fourth time, he rammed himself between her legs. No luck.

  "Lemme see what's going on," he muttered. He lifted her pelvis, his hands clenched under her buttocks, high toward him. He took one hand and dug three fingers into her. "Seems okay now. Let's find out."

  He dropped her on the bed and tried for a fifth time to force his way into her. He couldn't enter beyond an inch. "Something is sure haywire. How does it feel?"

  "It feels tight, real tight. And it hurts a little. Maybe it's something organic."

  "Something what?"

  "Organic. Physical. Anyway, something is wrong with me. Maybe I can go see a doctor tomorrow."

  "You got a doctor?"

  "A gynecologist in town. He'd know."

  Zecca humored her. "Yeah, baby, you do that. Find out what's ailing you. Get it set right." He looked down at his drooping instrument. "Now, what about tonight?"

  "I—I can still make you happy."

  "Yeah, you do that."

  She reached out between his legs, to get hold of that thing and make him happy. But before she could take hold, one of his hands reached up behind her head and pushed it down between his legs.

  Shutting her eyes, she opened her mouth and went ahead.

  Finishing the page, reliving this scene from Nan Whitcomb's case history, Freeberg murmured to himself, "Poor woman."

  He completed reading the last of the case history and put the blue folder on his desk to await Dr. Max Quarrie's return. To his surprise, Dr. Quarrie had already returned and was seated opposite him.

  "Well, Arnold," said Dr. Quarrie, "what do you think?"

  "Definitely a case of vaginismus, in an extreme form. I doubt if she's phobic about coitus. She's getting muscular spasms in the region to avoid any more intercourse with him."

  "Confirms my own diagnosis and the gynecologist's," said Dr. Quarrie. "Question is, Think you can do something about it? I can't talk her into getting better. I suspect it will take more."

  "Yes," Freeberg agreed. He thought of his one male sex surrogate, Paul Brandon, awaiting his first patient. Now he would have her. Freeberg nodded. "It's made to order for us, for a surrogate and myself working with her. I'm sure we can help. When can I see her?"

  "Right now," said Dr. Quarrie, rising. "She's waiting in my car. I'll send her up."

  Chet Hunter had been unable to get an appointment to see Otto Ferguson, editor in chief of the Hillsdale Chronicle, until late this morning. Ever since Suzy's great tip last night, the big story—and big break—had been forming in Hunter's mind, and he was eager to pitch it to Ferguson. Bland as Ferguson seemed, cynical and negative as he was, Hunter was positive he would go for this news lead.

  After cooling his heels outside Ferguson's glass-enclosed office, Hunter was finally shown in.

  He could see Ferguson's bald pate as he bent over some copy, marking it, and at last he lifted his head and focused his baggy St. Bernard eyes on his visitor.

  Nervously, Hunter had set himself on the edge of the straight chair across from Ferguson.

  "Well, Chet," said the editor, "what brings you here this time? Want to sell us an exclusive lead from your police friends? Or the Reverend Scrafield? Or on a poll you've been taking?"

  "I don't want to sell you any research," said Hunter. "This time, I want to sell you a story, a complete story."

  "It had better be something bigger than the stuff you've been feeding us so far."

  Hunter was emphatic. "It is bigger—this is bigger than anything I've ever had. It's the biggest."

  "Oh, yeah?" Ferguson's mask of skepticism remained. "All right, young man. Go ahead. I'm from Missouri." Hunter braced himself, then raised his voice as if it were a boldface headline. "Exclusive in the Chronicle: SEX SURROGATE OPERATION TAKES OVER HILLSDALE!"

  "What?"

  "Exactly. Found out about it last night. Unimpeachable source. Trained sex surrogates from around the country have gone to work today for a new sex clinic that just opened in our fair city. You know what sex surrogates are?"

  "Knew about them while you were still wetting your pants." A flicker of interest had crossed the editor's face. It was as if he were talking to himself. "Sex surrogates in L.A., Chicago, New York, to be expected. In pure little Hillsdale, never. Are you sure you're sure?"

  "I'm positive, Otto. And I can prove it."

  "Tell me about it."

  Excitedly, without revealing Suzy Edwards's name or position, Hunter told him about it, told Ferguson about the new Freeberg Clinic, Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the six sex surrogates from around the country who had gathered here and been assigned to work. "Right now in Hillsdale. They're loose in Hillsdale. I say that's not a lead—that's a super story."

  "Could be," Ferguson conceded, "could very well be. Depends. How would you go about getting such a story?"

  "From the inside, by joining up. Becoming a patient. Rapping with Dr. Freeberg as a patient. And rolling in the hay with one of his paid female sex surrogates. Then I'd expose the whole mess. You'd have headlines for weeks."

  "A sting operation," said Ferguson, half to himself. "Yes, that would be the way to do it. It could be big, no question." He considered it, then frowned. "Only I see some problems . . . one in particular. If you applied as a patient, a professional therapist like Freeberg would see right through you. You'd never get away with it if you faked it." He narrowed his eyes on Hunter. "Or would you be faking it? Maybe you know you'd qualify for treatments?"

  Hunter's cheeks reddened ever so slightly. "Never mind about that, Otto. Don't make me spell it out for you. Let's say I could qualify. But frankly, I don't have the ready cash to ante up and get treatments from a sex surrogate."

  "What are we talking about, Chet?"

  "Five thousand dollars on the line."

  "That's a hefty amount for a fuck," said Ferguson.

  "It's for our story, Otto. HIGHEST-PAID PROSTITUTES IN COUNTRY NOW IN HILLSDALE! How does that sound?"

  "Anyway, money isn't an issue when there's a really big story."

  "Well, then, let's go."

  But Ferguson was hesitant. He fell back against the slats of his chair, thinking. "There's one more thing—another problem . . ." he began. "You know, Chet, that's a pretty raunchy story for a family newspaper like ours . . . unless—"

  "Unless what?"

  "—unless we could turn this from a smirking expose into a newspaper's civic duty—a political issue and crusade to clean up fair Hillsdale." He mused aloud. "Prostitution is the world's oldest profession. Now we have the world's newest profession, the sex surrogate, who is also paid to give a piece of ass in the guise of a cure. If we could just make this into a community campaign. Maybe get your friend the Reverend Josh Scrafield interested, part of his ongoing cleanup campaign . . ."

  "I could get Scrafield for you in a minute, Otto. Once he learns about this, he'll grab it and run with it."

  "And then there's one more element, the wrap-up element that would make it possible for us to print this. If you could get Scrafield to storm in on the district attorney, Hoyt Lewis, and have him reveal the whole secret operation, and get the D.A.'s office to indict this Dr. Freeberg for illegal pandering under state law and grab one of his female surrogates for practicing illegal prostitution under existing state law—and then put them on trial—we could run with it from there. We'd have a criminal story, a political story, a vi
rtuous civic story. Copies of every edition would race off the newsstands. But first, Chet, you've got to get Scrafield and Lewis behind you . . . and behind us. Then you've got to infiltrate that Freeberg operation and get the goods firsthand. Think you can do all that?"

  Hunter was on his feet, pumping Ferguson's hand. "Can I? Otto, watch me do it. Faster than a speeding bullet. Watch me move. And start setting my byline in type!"

  Not until early this afternoon, as he listened to Chet Hunter in the computerized office at the rear of his Church of the Resurrection, had the Reverend Josh Scrafield looked upon his part-time researcher with any real respect.

  Until this afternoon, Scrafield had always regarded Chet Hunter with mild contempt, something of a frail grub and intellectual nerd, sallow and frightened of life.

  About a year ago, when Scrafield had been planning to undertake his campaign against the insidious sex education then invading the public schools, Darlene had discovered Hunter and advised Scrafield that the young researcher might be useful in digging up facts. Reluctantly, Scrafield had taken on the library mole, the ferret.

  But early this afternoon Scrafield had heard and seen another side of the grub. For Hunter, in revealing his knowledge of the pandering Dr. Freeberg and the sluts he sent out to corrupt the purity of Hillsdale, had shown a human side to himself. Like Scrafield himself, young Hunter had shown some understanding of lust and how it might come to destroy paradise.

  Once he had understood what Hunter had in mind, and what his own role might be, Scrafield had been quick to arrange a meeting for both of them with Hoyt Lewis, Hillsdale's clever district attorney.