She won three straight rounds of owl. I told her that if she played my rules, she wouldn't find it so easy to win. She said she'd play anybody's rules and still win. I said my game was called naked owl. She said she would be delighted to show me. I was outclassed. We stacked the clothing on a chair. I won three straight rounds. She called me a dirty sneaking cheat, and said that if all I came around for was a bunch of kid games, I could go right back to Bonita. I said that the way this game had developed, it was no longer for kids. It was more like a game for the young adult. She said that if everybody would hold still for just one cotton-picking minute, she could win the final game and break the tie, because you couldn't play any kind of a game well if your attention kept wandering.
She was a joy. She won by disconcerting me. She slowly crossed her big blue eyes and crowed with triumph when I laughed and blinked. We laughed until she got hiccups, and then she had to find out, in an experimental mood, if making love would cure hiccups. She said that if it would, it could become a lot more popular than blowing into a paper bag or drinking out of the wrong side of a glass.
* * *
On Monday morning as she was scrambling eggs, all dressed for work, she turned to me and said, "Hey!"
"What, honey?"
"I just remembered. It did cure those hiccups."
"Yes, but can we patent it?"
She grinned like an urchin. "Maybe not, but we sure know what to do about the next attack."
I patted her and said, "Miss Nina, modern medical science thinks in terms of prevention rather than cure."
She pondered that for a few moments and said, "You know, sweetheart, it's sort of awe inspiring to think that I may never have another case of hiccups as long as I live. It's the least you can do for me."
She was my joy. She served the eggs and put the pan under the faucet. Then she whirled and with a look of small despair said, "Please tell me, am I too goddam elfin for you?"
"What?"
"Too utterly disgustingly kittenish and prancy and cutey-cute. You know what I mean. Elfin, for God's sake. I just can't be a dignified lady in love-all sighs and swoons. Except for when it's really happening, sex with you makes me feel like all games and riots and jokes and prancing. Does it bug you, darling?"
"Not at all."
"I could try to be sort of glamorous."
"Come sit down and eat your eggs before they get cold, you fool woman."
"You do things and it starts me giggling. It's just a sort of a kind of joy, darling. But I don't really want to be a silly child-bride to you."
"Clue me with giggles. Delight me with games. If you were my own device, girl, if I had invented you, geared you, shaped you, wired you for sound, I would have made you exactly what you are in every respect. Does that hold you?"
"Uh huh. But is love supposed to be... so much darned fun?"
"Until the prudes came on the scene, it probably always was."
She sat solemnly and ate scrambled eggs for a few minutes, glancing at me, wearing a slight frown.
"Trav?"
"Yes, dear."
"Then maybe what's wrong with me, I worry about enjoying it too much. I like every part of everything. Just even holding you while you sleep makes my heart turn over and over. I want to be you. I want us to be one creature, wearing one skin, knowing any pain or pleasure as if we were all of one part. Like once last night, a time when I couldn't reach you, I turned my head like this and kissed my own shoulder, and it made sense to me, and I laughed out loud, because it was our flesh I was kissing with one of our mouths."
I looked at her earnest and troubled face. "Nina, it isn't foolish or wicked to enjoy. Wickedness is hurting people on purpose. I love what you are and how you are and who you are. You give me great joy. And you make horrible coffee."
"I know. Isn't it foul?"
I walked her to work. As we parted she said, "I give you permission to sit on that railing and leer at the Snow Maiden while you wait for me."
"I have a thing about white sweaters."
"Then buy me one. Any fetishes you have, just let me know."
And she joined the throng pouring into the office building.
Eight
THAT MONDAY morning, after I had freshened up at my hotel I retrieved Howie's money, took a thousand dollars out of the envelope, taped it up again and had it put back in safekeeping.
Though I felt slightly helpless at penetrating the Currency Curtain the big rich erect around themselves-perhaps to guard them from such as me-I was considerably more confident of my ability to find my way around within the upper level call-girl circuits. Perhaps, though I have never sought such services, this confidence is a clue to the social status of McGee. Once upon a time I had to unravel a situation in Chicago, and I guessed that it could not be too different in New York.
I could assume there would not be too many very fancy and expensive setups. I was not too much concerned about the private entrepreneurs -those little setups where two or three girls are close friends and have enough of the right kind of visiting-fireman contacts to establish themselves on a semi-pro basis. There would be hundreds of those in the city, and they would be too risky for Baynard Mulligan to approve of them. Those girls, not subjected to any outside control, can prove to be neurotic, alcoholic, thieving or diseased. This would have to be a businesslike operation--discreet, reliable, trustworthy, thoroughly screened and paying adequately for all necessary protection. I could not imagine there would be more than three truly expensive circuits in the city.
I hit it on the first try. I tried the Convention Manager of the hotel where I used to stay, before I became so well-known there that I lost some essential freedom of movement. An assistant manager I knew introduced me to the Convention Manager. Even with an introduction he was very edgy and cautious. I told him I had three Venezuelan friends coming to town, and I wanted to line up three very superior girls-superior, entertaining, fashionable and cooperative-price no object. He hedged and dithered and pretended helplessness, and finally told me I might try Arts and Talents Associates on West 38th Street, and ask for Mrs. Smith, but I was on my own and I could not use his name.
I phoned the place and asked for Mrs. Smith. She had a dull, tired, doughy voice. "Model service, Mrs. Smith speaking."
I said I wanted to employ a model and she asked me if I had an account with them. I said I didn't, but that I wished to open an account. slae suggested I stop by and talk with her ahout it, and if I would be along soon, not to bother stopping at reception but come right to her office, Number 1113.
It was a big drab ugly rabbit-warren of an office building, with noisy elevators, narrow littered corridors. I saw enough of Arts and Talents to see that it was large and busy and very probably entirely legitimate. Kids who looked like theater bums were in groups outside the main entrance to the eleventh-floor offices, drinking Coke and jabbering.
I knocked at 1113 and went in. It was a ten-by-ten office with a single narrow window, a big scarred desk, three phones, a bank of file cabinets, and Mrs. Smith, typing. She was very fat and she had blue hair, stone eyes and a tiny mouth. She did not look evil. She merely looked tired and bored and clerical. She looked at me the way a butcher looks at a side of beef.
"I phoned about opening an account."
"Sit down, please. Excuse me one moment." She finished typing, her fat hands very deft, pulled the sheet out and put it into a manila folder on her desk She turned and faced me across the desk. "What is your name, please?"
"Maybe you could tell me what the routine is first."
She looked mildly pained. "Our client records are completely confidential. If we open an account for you, you'll be given a code number. There's no cross-index to actual names. But I do have to see identification and approve issuing you a code number."
"My name is Travis McGee," I said, and handed her my Florida driver's license.
"Where are you staying in town?"
I told her. She asked me to step into the hall until
she called me back in. I had about a four-minute wait. She opened the door and nodded and I went back in.
"We don't generally open an account for anyone unless we have some verification from one of our other accounts. And we also have to know who recommended us."
"The man who recommended you asked me not to use his name. So I'd rather you wouldn't check back with him." She asked who it was. I told her.
"Are you acquainted with any of our other accounts?"
"I believe so. But this is a situation where I would rather not mention names. Would an address be of any help?"
"It might be."
"One twenty-one East Seventy-first. Apartment 9A. I believe it is... a current account."
She swiveled around, turning her heavy back toward me. She opened a card drawer. In a few moments she closed it and turned back again.
"Yes, of course," she said, and there seemed to be a definite decrease in wariness. "Did that party recommend us also?"
"That party would not be likely to make a specific recommendation, Mrs. Smith. But there were favorable comments about... this organization, indirectly."
"We handle small accounts on a cash basis only. And our minimum model fee is two hundred dollars. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Perfectly."
"I believe we can open an account for you. Would you write this number down, please?"
I borrowed a pen and wrote it on the margin of one of my permanent credit cards: 90-17. Then she gave me an unlisted number to call, and I wrote that down too.
She rolled a five-by-eight file card into her typewriter and said, "The standard procedure is for you to call that number and give your account number and the time you wish to employ someone, and a number where we can call you back within the hour. I will now fill out your model card, and when you phone in we check this card and then determine availability, make the appointment for you and call you back and give you the details. I'll have to ask you questions about your preferences so that I can complete this card for our records."
"Certainly."
"First, will this be just for normal modeling services? By that I mean you will be the only one involved, and there will be no extremely unusual requirements?"
"Just normal by all means."
"Preferable age range?"
"Uh... twenty-two to twenty-six."
"Racial type?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nordic, Mediterranean, Asiatic, Exotic?"
"Nordic."
"Build?"
"Slim, reasonably tall."
"Any special requirements?"
"Well... reasonably bright and presentable."
"All the girls on our list are intelligent, very presentable, smartly dressed, and... with the exception of some of the Exotics... can be taken anywhere. Many of them have excellent jobs."
"Do you have a space on that card for a sense of humor?"
"You will find that our girls adapt themselves to whatever mood seems required of them. They are lovely girls. Did you say that you wished to employ a model for this evening?"
"If that's possible."
"We do prefer twenty-four hour notice, but there is no particular problem on a Monday night." She turned and rolled her desk chair over to a low filing cabinet. I could see that she was shuffling and sorting photographs, checking them against a list. She turned back to the desk and spread out four eight-by-ten semigloss prints for me to examine. I was expecting cheesecake, and was surprised to see that they were head and shoulder shots, studio glamour portraits by someone who knew how to use backlighting. Four very lovely girls, four blonde heads, four sensitive faces. Each portrait had a complicated code number inked in the top right margin.
"These match the information on your model card. If at any time you care to alter your requirements, phone the number I gave you and give your account number and either request a change verbally or come up here and see what we have on file."
"You are certainly beautifully organized here, Mrs. Smith."
"Thank you. We've been in business for a very long time. We can't afford to be slipshod. One of our accounts has been coming in once a year for eleven years to select one of our girls to take on a lengthy cruise-usually thirty to forty days. We handle that on a flat fee of five thousand dollars, so you can readily under stand that we must use the greatest care in both the selection of our accounts and the girls on our list. I must tell you that which ever of these girls you select will be asked to make a verbal report on any difficulties. If it is decided that you are not a satisfactory account, your number will be dropped. We owe that much to the girls."
"Of course."
"Which model appeals to you?"
"They're all beautiful. I was wondering, could you tell me if any of these were... employed on that other account I mentioned?"
"Why?"
"That's a good question. If one were, I thought I'd pick her. Because, as I said, that other client or account-or whatever you call it was so pleased. Could you check?"
"This is most unusual."
"I don't want to be a nuisance. I'd just feel better about it... this first time."
She looked at me with stone eyes and then shrugged. "It will take a few moments to crosscheck it." It took longer than a few moments. She sighed heavily from time to time. As she went back to the photo file she said, "Our models also fill out an account-preference card. But I imagine you would be satisfactory to any of them." She turned back to the desk. "Here. None of those original four have been out on that account. These two have, and they match up with your card."
One had a rather ordinarily pretty face and the other looked more interesting. Her face was more angular, slightly vulpine, the upper lids quite plump.
"That one," I said.
"You understand, of course, that you must have a place to take her to?"
"I understand."
"Would you wait outside again, please?"
It was a longer wait than before. When she called me in again, she said, "She will meet you this evening at quarter to seven at Satin House on West Forty-eighth. You'll recognize her from her picture. She would prefer it if you get there just a little earlier and sit at the bar so you can see her when she comes in. Her name is Rossa." She spelled it out for me. It was pronounced Raw-sah.
"Last name?"
"Our policy is to leave it up to the girls to give their last name if they so desire. If not, her name is Rossa Smith. She's an enchanting girl. Her model fee is two hundred and fifty dollars. We prefer that you have that amount ready, sealed in a small envelope, and give it to her whenever seems convenient. And I must ask you to leave two hundred dollars with me. It will be posted to your account. It's our protection in case at any time you fail to keep an appointment. Should that happen, we will have to ask you to post another deposit in the same amount before making another appointment. If you don't have the cash, you can bring it to me at any time before five today."
"I have it right here."
"Good. Thank you. If at any time you have any complaint about a model, we would appreciate your bringing it to our attention. I might say that such complaints are very very rare. You will be answered twenty-four hours a day at that number I gave you. Are there any other questions?"
"If I should like Rossa, can I ask for her again?"
"Yes, of course. Many accounts ask for specific girls." She curved her tiny mouth into a small smile. "I'm certain you'll find her most charming. Oh, I forgot to tell you, if at any time you wish to make up a party and require two or more girls, we will appreciate your stopping by and making arrangements in person rather than trying to do it over the phone."
"I understand. Uh... how high do the rates go?"
"Most are at two hundred and two-fifty. We have several at three hundred, a few at four hundred, and two at five hundred. But it varies, according to the size and quality of our list at any given time. There have been some at a thousand, but not recently."
"What makes it worth five hundred, Mrs.
Smith?"
Her expression told me she thought it a vulgar question. "Those are girls who are very well-known, due to television work usually. Some accounts prefer to be seen with girls who will be recognized in public. Generally they don't stay on our list long." Her smile was quite suddenly and surprisingly vicious. "They either go up, or they go down."
I bade her good day and walked out and found that it was raining, puddling the sidewalks with black city-glop. There were no empty cabs in sight. I went to a corner drugstore. I looked at the pretty girls on the streets, hurrying through the rain. Though I knew it was absurd, they all looked quite different to me. I kept wondering if they were on somebody's list. Behind one fat doughy woman in one small cheap office, I could sense the rest of the organization-the recruiters to bring them in, the suave muscle to keep them in line. It wasn't a sorority. Mrs. Smith wasn't a house mother.
John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 02 - Nightmare In Pink Page 10
