by Sol Stein
“Okay,” he said, figuring thirty seconds of that chick and he’d be back in form.
“What’s the quid?” Phyllis asked.
“Quid?”
“Quid pro quo. You give, you get.”
He wasn’t about to get involved in affectionate foreplay with a Jewess. He made that clear.
She laughed, which didn’t help his rigidity any.
“What the hell do you want?” Clete said angrily.
“Out of this place,” she said.
“Nobody gets out of here.”
Phyllis went into the john and started washing her face, ignoring him.
Clete tapped her on the shoulder.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“You do what I say and I’ll get you out afterward.”
“You take me out and we’ll do it on the outside. That’s my condition.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I’d lose my job.”
“You’ve lost more than your job,” she said, pointing.
Clete wanted to shove a crowbar up her ass, the fucking Hebe!
“Why don’t you put your pants back on,” she said, “so neither of us has to look at it.”
“You bitch!” he said. If he struck her now the marks would show. There’d be an investigation. That stupid broad would tell them everything.
“There must be somebody on the premises who’ll put up with your droopy miniature,” Phyllis said. “Vamoose.”
He got his shorts and pants on, tied his sneakers. He would have slammed the door, but he didn’t want to attract attention.
When he left, Phyllis Minter lay on her bed, thinking. She’d encountered men who asked her if Minter was a Jewish name, adding that she really didn’t look Jewish. Was that anti-Semitism, curiosity, or just a compliment? She’d never taken the subject seriously till her door was bolted shut in Cliffhaven. Maybe whatever her father had run into in Europe had affected him the same way.
As for this place, Phyllis thought, she didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d get out, maybe using the orange-and-blue-uniformed putz she’d just humiliated. He’d be back. She wasn’t afraid of any man whose baton she could lower. Other women she’d met sometimes boasted of their ability to give a man a hard-on real quick. To Phyllis that was child’s play. Making a man lose his by talking him down, that was a skill she was proud of. What she found strange, as she lay with her hands clasped behind her head thinking, was that in all of the previous ruminations of her life, she’d centered her ambitions on succeeding financially, showing the orphanage and her crazed mother and dead father that despite their abandonment, she could make out. All that seemed behind her now. She wasn’t the once-poor kid, or the mark for lechers who’d turn the tables on them. She was, by the definition of others, a Jew. Okay, she’d show them. She’d not only get out of this place, she’d kill at least one of the bastards on the way.
*
Clete wished Charlotte hadn’t asked him about whether he’d ever fucked a Jewish girl. All it did was bring that brass-balled Minter woman into his mind. He was glad Charlotte wasn’t like that. He was on track with her, a really good two-way street. Maybe she’d asked the question because…
Clete looked at Charlotte. “You ever fuck a Jewish guy?”
Charlotte didn’t answer immediately. That was a mistake.
Clete sat up straight. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you. Take it easy.” Charlotte patted Clete’s crotch, not sensually as earlier.
“Yes or no?” He was standing.
“Come back down here.”
“Answer my question.”
“Come back down here and I’ll answer.” Clete sat down on the bed.
Charlotte pulled him down to her. With her face close to his, she said, “The only Jewish so-called person I ever got close to before Cliffhaven was a girl in my dorm. Arlene. Forget her last name. Itsky something, I think. She used to go around without a top a lot of the time. I don’t blame her. Fantastic tits. She once came to my room to ask me something about some course, I forgot what, and when she sat down on the edge of my bed, I couldn’t help myself, I reached down and touched her breasts.”
“You what?” Clete said.
“You would have, too,” Charlotte said, laughing. “It was nice. Don’t worry, I’m straight, it was just a thing of the moment.”
“Sometimes I don’t understand you.”
“Ditto. Like now. You going to get out of that uniform?”
Clete loved it when Charlotte sort of ordered him to undress in front of her. It reminded him of shows he had seen in Vegas, only he was on stage.
“Come on,” she said. “You’re keeping me waiting.”
He didn’t know what it was, but just her words, maybe the way she said the words, got him going. He could feel the tightening.
He got off the bed in a rolling motion. Then, standing close to her head, he lifted his T-shirt slowly past his face. He unbuckled his belt, first the flap, pulling it hard, then let the stem ease out of the hole. He unsnapped the top button of his jeans. He took the tab of the zipper and slowly pulled his fly down, watching her watching him. Next, the moccasins, kicking each off in turn. Letting his jeans fall, he stepped out of them, standing in his nylon brief that showed his now-hard equipment off to advantage. He took off one sock, then the other, then expanded the elastic waist of his brief so that when he quickly lowered them, his member would twang upward, something Charlotte always appreciated in a way he especially liked—getting on her knees and opening her mouth, never letting her eyes stray from his eyes as she licked, then sucked, feeling she had him in her power more in these moments than at any other time.
“Hey,” he said, meaning he didn’t want to come just yet, and he pulled her up and helped her take her clothes off. Her own nylon bikini panties matched his, one of their first conspiracies, since they were never allowed leave from Cliffhaven together.
*
Afterward, once Clete was sure Charlotte had also had hers, he almost always drifted off for a few minutes. When his eyes opened, she was on her elbow staring at him as if she owned him. He liked the feeling.
“Question. You ever ball Mrs. Clifford?”
Clete wondered what Charlotte was getting at.
“You go to their place,” she said, “when Mr. Clifford’s not there.”
Some things Clete did not trust Charlotte with, much as he liked her. His relationship with the Clifford woman was his relationship.
“You taking the Fifth Amendment?” Charlotte asked. She had never met Mrs. Clifford.
“She’s a terrific lady,” Clete said. “Real smart. Real class.”
“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said, stretching, letting her hand touch his shrunken member on its descent.
“Understand what?”
“Why you want to be Mr. Clifford’s gofer?”
“Who says that?”
“George Whittaker says that.”
Clete slapped Charlotte’s face hard. “Why’d you say that for?”
“George Whittaker said it!”
“Don’t you repeat any of his shit to me.”
Charlotte remembered the rabbit. Once, behind the pot farm, they’d seen a rabbit up close. Clete boasted he could run as fast as any rabbit. Charlotte dared Clete to catch the rabbit, which was parked, ears up, no more than thirty feet away. Clete gave her an angry glance, then bolted toward the rabbit, which took a second too long to figure out where to run, and Clete scooped it up in one hand, then twisted its neck around. He waltzed over to Charlotte, light on his feet, a mocking expression on his face, and dropped the corpse at her feet. “Satisfied?” he’d said.
Clete had the same crazy expression now, so Charlotte, frightened, said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She put her hand up to her red cheek.
“Well, okay,” Clete said, panting. “Whittaker’s just jealous. Clifford said I was his fair-haired boy right in front of George once. He said
he could always count on me. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Jesus.” Clete glanced at his watch, which was the only thing he had on. “My new ones have probably found they’re locked in by now. I’d better git.”
“Kiss me first,” Charlotte said.
For a moment, Clete stood his ground.
“Kiss me,” Charlotte said.
Obediently, Clete slid down lower on the bed and with parted lips kissed Charlotte where her legs met, but when she started moving her pelvis up and down in rhythm, he stopped. It would do her good to leave her hanging for once, he thought, as he hopped off the bed. She’d had one, that’s enough. He pulled his shorts and jeans and socks on, put on his shirt, slipped his feet into his moccasins, and brushing his hand through his hair, checked himself for a second in front of the mirror and was out the door. Women were just like Jews, he thought. You had to keep them under control or they’d give you trouble.
4
“Excuse me,” Clete said, stifling a yawn with his fist, “I meant to get a nap while you were resting.”
“Don’t you have other guests to look after?” Margaret asked, suddenly curious to know everything possible about this place before they were out and gone.
“Not till you’re fully briefed,” Clete replied. “This place,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “is one of the newest deluxe resorts in the United States. You have to admit the geographic location is exceptional. Now, is everyone ready for dinner, or would you care for a drink in the lounge first?”
“Why did you lock us in our room?” Margaret asked.
“A signal. Let’s call it a tip, from me to you. You gave me a tip. I gave you a tip.” Clete smiled. “Let’s discuss it over dinner, like civilized folks. Shall we have a drink first?”
“Are you suggesting,” Henry said, “that Dr. Brown and I have a drink before dinner?”
“I was thinking of all of us.”
“Oh. You’re allowed to socialize with the guests?”
“Please don’t be sarcastic, Mr. Brown. It’s part of my job.”
“I’ll forego a drink tonight,” Henry said.
“I agree,” Margaret said, who liked a predinner drink even more than Henry did.
“I see,” Clete said.
He seems hurt, thought Henry, as if we were being rude to him. He felt suddenly as if he were in a foreign country, trying to pick up the customs.
“Look,” Clete said affably. “Let’s be realistic. You have to eat, right?”
Henry’s gaze wandered. There was no fence that he could see. No guards, guns, nothing of that sort. Everything looked so normal.
“If you’re thinking of running away,” Clete said, “that’s perfectly okay with me, as long as it’s just thinking. You need energy to run away. You need energy to live. There’s no place else to get food than the dining room.”
One eyelid lowered, Clete looked at Margaret. “You are thinking you might rather skip the meal and go hungry.”
“Exactly,” Margaret said.
“Three squares a day, Doctor.”
“No harm in skipping a meal once in a while,” Margaret said.
“Ah, but if you thought that tomorrow you might not get any food at all…” Clete stopped to observe their reaction, then continued, “No breakfast, no dinner, no anything, you might not want to skip your meal tonight. It’s just logical.”
“Is that a threat?” Henry asked.
“Oh Mr. Brown, we don’t make threats around this place. Please be reasonable and come to dinner before the kitchen closes down. I intend to eat. If you don’t want to eat, you can just sit there and watch me.”
He went on ahead.
Why is he so cocksure that we won’t just walk out of here? Henry thought. He noticed Margaret’s shoes. If only she hadn’t changed from her walking shoes. “What do you say, Margaret?”
Clete was now well ahead of them.
“He’s certainly got self-confidence,” Margaret said.
“He knows a lot that we don’t yet know,” Henry said, remembering, as he did in times of stress, the words of his father, telling him that the role of a man was to keep his senses and intelligence tuned to the nuances of events so that in the event of danger he could walk faster, turn a corner, look up in time, do something that would by his conscious act avert catastrophe. Look both ways before crossing the street. Watch out for incompetent drivers, drive defensively.
“Coming?” Clete called.
Henry made up his mind. “We might as well eat.”
“If you say so,” Margaret said.
“You don’t sound as if you agree we should. We’ll be out of this place in no time.”
“I’m sure of that,” Margaret said, her voice less certain than her words. “It’s just that I can’t believe we are voluntarily following him.”
The path to the restaurant crossed the road they had come up on. Henry glanced to his right. He could see no one in the sentry box. Were they expecting no more guests this evening? Did they need no traffic control for the one-way road? When they had a new order-processing problem at the plant, a product that wouldn’t fit one of the standard shipping cartons, he’d pull together the available facts, consider the alternatives.
Clete had stopped. When they caught up to him, he pointed. “Over there’s the Olympic-size swimming pool. If you don’t give us any trouble, you can use it once a day.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Dr. Brown,” Clete said. “I think you’ll find sarcasm counter-productive around here.” He turned and walked ahead of them again.
They were a hundred yards from the entrance to the low, flat building that housed the restaurant. Henry noticed that the path leading to it was made up of small white stones that crunched under their feet. Was it that way on purpose, noisy, to betray the sound of running? Mustn’t get paranoid. When he’d seen hostages on a train on TV, he’d thought, what would he do if Margaret were held captive? He hadn’t thought of them both being trapped.
At the entrance to the restaurant, Clete waited for them to catch up, then beckoned for them to precede him.
Inside, they were immediately greeted by a maître d’ in a tuxedo—a tall man, handsome, with a trace of accent. “Ah, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Brown of New York,” said the maître d’, extending his hand. Why did Henry shake it? You didn’t get rid of civilities in an hour. “Welcome,” the maître d’ said, but Henry’s gaze was beyond him, taking in the splendor of the dining room with its many levels, each a few steps up or down from the next, aesthetically pleasing geometry. On all sides there were green-tinted picture windows looking out on the natural magnificence that surrounded Cliffhaven. But Henry’s attention was riveted on the other people.
There must have been more than a hundred guests seated at the tables, and every one of them had turned to stare at them. It wouldn’t have happened in a restaurant unless they were movie stars. Why were they looking? Because we are the newcomers.
The maître d’ led the way, Clete bringing up the rear. Very few of the tables had someone like Clete in attendance. The orange blouses of the waitresses fluttered through the dining room.
Henry stopped at a table where an older couple, in their sixties, were looking at them with sad eyes.
Henry bent to the man and, in a half-whisper, asked, “What is this place?”
Clete immediately stepped forward, touched Henry on the arm, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown, but conversation with the other guests is not permitted for the first three months.”
The old couple looked away, their faces reddening, as if the reproof had been for them. Gradually the other heads in the dining room turned back to their meals, and resumed their broken conversations.
“This way, please,” the maître d’ said, showing them to a table for four on one of the higher platforms. “You’ll have a good view of the mountainside from here,” he said, “even at dusk. This will be your regular table from now on.” He gesture
d for one of the busboys to remove the fourth chair.
Margaret sat on Henry’s side of the table, Clete opposite Henry. He moved his chair toward the middle so that he might be opposite both of them.
Clete said, “I’ll join you for meals during the break-in period, perhaps a week.”
“We’re only staying overnight,” said Margaret, her voice sliding out of her usual pitch.
Clete smiled. “Provided your conduct is exemplary. After three months another couple might be allowed to join you for the evening meal. Breakfast and lunch is served cafeteria style.”
This is insane, Margaret thought. She was moving to get up when she felt Henry’s constraining hand. Damned if she’d be quiet. “What the hell do you people think you’re doing here?” she said.
“I’ll be happy to answer that question,” Clete said.
“We’re on vacation,” Henry said. “We’d prefer to eat by ourselves.”
“I understand,” Clete said. “But that isn’t possible right now.”
“We can just leave.”
“I don’t recommend it. Why don’t we order?”
“I won’t pay,” Henry said.
“Oh, you don’t pay for my dinner, Mr. Brown. Just for the two of you, as you normally would. We’ll put it on your American Express card. Please let’s order. Very few guests really give us any trouble.”
“You locked the door of our room,” Margaret said.
“It’s a security measure.”
“You locked us in,” she said.
“I told you it’s a way of apprising you of your status.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
Henry interrupted her with his hand on her arm. Cool it, it always meant. You accomplish more if you’re cool.
“Henry, these people are committing a crime.”
“I beg your pardon,” Clete said.
“This is kidnapping.”
“Oh Dr. Brown, we haven’t taken you anywhere. I’m disappointed in you.”
“It’s a federal offense.”
