He was immediately taken by her appearance. She was barely five feet tall, thin, rather frail. Her face was narrow to the point of being gaunt and her sharply honed cheekbones seemed etched into her face. The result was an almost haunted look, an impression strengthened by large, saucer-like eyes that gleamed in the tiny light and seemed almost tear-struck. A simple, long black dress accented the aura of vulnerability that surrounded her. He had to strain to hear her name when the emcee introduced her. Jenny Gould.
She stood without speaking for a few moments, just long enough for Keegan to worry that perhaps something was wrong, that she wasn’t going to perform. Then she began to sing.
The voice startled him at first. It was low, throaty, a torch- song voice that tortured every word of the Cole Porter song she chose to interpret, not as a cynical dirge, but as a metaphor about love gone sour.
Love for sale,
Appetizing young love for sale,
If you want to try my wares,
Take a chance and climb the stairs,
Love for sale.
The crowd was ill mannered and inattentive. Chattering, laughing, clinking glasses, creating a constant babel that underscored every word she sang, and Keegan finally moved down the bar closer to the stage to hear better. He was mesmerized by her. When the song was over there was a smattering of applause, except from Keegan who wore out his hands clapping.
He thought she glanced over at him as he applauded, but couldn’t be sure, felt foolish in fact at how pleased he was that she might have noticed him. Then she began her second song and he was, once again, caught in the magical, sensual spell she was weaving.
In the darkened room, Vanessa suddenly decided it was time to make a break for it. The boys were trapped on the other side of the room. The singer was into her second song and Vanessa snatched up her purse and stood to leave. From the bar there was a smattering of wolf whistles mostly lost in the clamor. She stalked across the room, her dress swaying in sparkling waves as she walked. Deenie struggled to her feet, trotting after the haughty beauty. Then Vanessa stopped so suddenly that Deenie bumped into her.
“Oh my God,” Vanessa said half-aloud.
“What is it?” Deenie asked.
“Somebody I know,” Vanessa said, her mouth curling into a sly smile.
“From Boston?” Deenie asked wide-eyed.
“Oh yes, he’s from Boston all right.”
“Oh no!” Deenie cried out and turned her back to the bar.
“Don’t be silly. If there’s one person in Boston I’d prefer to be seen by, it’s him. C’mon.”
She grabbed Deenie’s hand and dragged her through the crowd, ignoring the looks and the comments. She stood ten feet behind Keegan, waiting for the song to end.
“Which one is he?” Deenie whispered.
“Shhh.”
* * *
The second song was a German tune Keegan was not familiar with. Then she sang “Someone to Watch Over Me” and every syllable was plaintive, every word a plea to be loved, every note a heartbreaker.
There was a smattering of applause, again except for Keegan. He looked around the room, wondering if all these people were crazy. Didn’t they know what was happening up on stage?
The set was over. He had barely been aware that she’d sung several more songs. Her voice had mesmerized him, hypnotized him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thrilled.
She left the stage rather meekly and, to Keegan, the rest of the room came back into focus. He caught Herman’s eye and urgently waved him over.
“She’s wonderful!” he told the damp little manager. He realized he sounded too excited but he didn’t care. “She’s absolutely—”
Herman rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately you are the only one who seems to think so.” Then, looking over Keegan’s shoulder, he saw the two American girls coming toward them.
As they walked down the length of the bar, Vanessa was aware that the little sweaty man in the soggy tuxedo was talking about them, his eyes darting toward them, then away. And she was also aware that the tall man with his back to them was staring at her in the deco mirror behind the bar. She led Deenie right up to him, standing behind him, less than a foot away, staring up at the back of his neck. He finally turned around and looked down at her.
Deenie caught her breath. Her impression was immediate:
he’s rich. That was always number one on Deenie’s checklist. The man was rich, fashionable, handsome and self-confident. With his shock of black hair and gray eyes and persistent, arrogant smile, he epitomized what, in her mind, was the classic continental playboy. Definitely dangerous, she thought.
“Something?” He asked it pleasantly, but he was annoyed. He wanted to rush backstage, to meet the singer.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
All he could remember was that voice, the sunken eyes. Love For Sale .
The girl reached up and pulled lightly on his lapel, interrupting his reverie, and when he leaned toward her, she whispered a name in his ear. His reaction was immediate and startled, although he quickly recovered his composure. He stared back at her, his gray eyes intent and inquiring.
It had been three years since anyone had called him that and this woman was perhaps nineteen, twenty at best. He made a quick study. She was tallish, maybe five-seven, slender and busty with turquoise eyes and jet black hair. Her face was angular, her features perfect. Her full mouth curved down at the corners except when she smiled and she wore very little makeup. The diamond choker around her long, slender neck was the real thing. A well-groomed, self-confident snob with money, he decided, and her long a’s pegged her from Boston. Who the hell was she? And how did she know that name?
And then she repeated it aloud.
“Frankie Kee.”
“My God,” he said finally, “you’re not Vannie Bromley!”
“Vanessa Bromley,” she corrected. “Nobody’s called me Vannie since my sixteenth birthday.”
“That makes us even. Nobody’s called me Frankie for a couple of years, either. Where did you hear that name, anyway?”
“Daddy,” she said. “I was eavesdropping after a party once and he was telling mother all about you. I gathered it was kind of his personal secret. He swore her to silence.”
“And you?”
“Never told a soul. Too good to share.”
“How are old David and Linda?”
“The same. Stuffy but nice.”
“What are you two talking about?” Deenie finally interrupted.
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Deenie Brokestone. Remember her?”
“Your father’s Earl, right? Merrill, Lynch?”
“That’s right,” she said brightly. “Should I remember you?”
“Probably not,” he said and let the subject die. “What are you two doing in this place?”
“We came to see the show. The one upstairs. Our dates are absolute dinosaurs. Personally I think they’re afraid to go up.”
“Hardly the place for proper Bostonians,” Keegan said.
“Who said anything about being proper?” Vanessa’s green eyes worked over every line in his face. There was no doubting her intentions.
Jesus, Keegan thought, here I am in the worst den of iniquity in Europe and the daughter of the president of the Bank of Massachusetts is sending out very definite signals. She had turned into a real dish. Big trouble, but a real dish. His dilemma ended abruptly with the arrival of their dates.
“What’s going on?” one of them demanded in a voice that sounded like it was pitched an octave lower than normal. Vanessa turned to him, linked her arm in Keegan’s and said, “We’ve just run into an old friend.”
“Oh?”
“Francis, this is Donald, this is Gerald. Donald has blond hair, Gerald has brown hair. That’s how you tell them apart.”
“Take it easy,” Keegan growled under his breath. He held out his hand.
“I’m Frank Keegan,” he said, “friend of the f
amily.”
Donald, the blond, shook hands, then stuffed his in his pockets and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Gerald, who was built like a football player, was more aggressive.
“We’ve decided to go to the Speisewagen for breakfast,” he said, ignoring Keegan’s hand. “A lot of the gang will be there.”
“I’m sick of the gang,” Vanessa answered. “We’re going upstairs.”
“C’mon,” Donald whined. “Your old man’ll nail us to the wall if he finds out we took you up there.”
Vanessa looked at Keegan for support. “Is it that bad?”
“Pretty risqué,” he said.
“How risqué?”
“About as risqué as it gets.”
“See?” Donald said.
“Well, we just won’t tell him.”
“No!” Donald said firmly. “They’ll find out. Parents always find out those things.”
“Donald,” Vanessa said firmly, “get lost.” And she turned her back on him.
As Donald started toward her, three burly Nazi youths in brown shirts walked by. One of them slammed into Gerald’s back. He turned angrily toward them.
“Watch it, buddy,” the football-type snarled. The brown- shirt bristled. He turned to his two friends, scowling, and said, “Buddy . . buddy. . Was ist los, buddy, eh?” He turned back to Gerald and leaning against him forced him back against the bar.
“Schweinehund,” he said viciously.
Gerald shoved back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said to nobody in particular.
“I think he called you a pig,” Deenie said without thinking.
“Just a minute Keegan started, but Gerald was already bristling from the insult.
“Well, tell him he’s a goddamn clown in that Boy Scout uniform,” he said. “1 can take all three of these assholes with one hand behind my back. We’ll just step outside and
Vanessa covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh my God,” she moaned, “he thinks he’s back on fraternity row.”
Keegan waved Herman over to the bar and whispered quickly, “Get these brownshirts away from here or you’re going to have a riot on your hands. Give ‘em a free pitcher of beer, anything.”
Herman flashed his most sincere smile and herded the three Germans back into the club, jabbering in German as he did.
“Let me tell you something, boys,” Keegan said coldly. “These guys have all the nickels on their side of the table. Do you understand the situation here?”
“We’re Americans,” Donald said with bravura, “we don’t have to take this stuff.”
Keegan kept talking.
“These people have the heart of a weasel, the soul of a
rutabaga and pure muscle between the ears. They work in packs.
You start something, there’ll be a dozen of them all over you.
Just ease on out the door and go on over to the Speisewagen.
Forget it. No face lost, okay, it’s a no-win thing.”
“You’re a real hero type,” Gerald said.
“Listen, kid,” Keegan said, and his voice became harsh and brittle, “I don’t like the odds. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night sitting beside you in the hospital or calling your folks to tell them you’ve just become part of the cobblestone walk out front. This isn’t football weekend at Harvard, these people are dangerous.”
Deenie’s tiny voice piped up. “Please,” she implored. “I’m frightened.”
“Ahh Gerald said in disgust.
“We’re going to the American diner,” Donald said as assertively as he could. “Are you two coming or not?”
“No,” Vanessa said.
“Then good night.”
“Vanessa ….. Deenie began.
“What, Deenie?”
“I think we better go.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“I want to go with them.”
“Then go. The key is at the desk. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“You really should come along, you know,” she said, her voice barely audible in the din.
“Good night, Deenie.”
Deenie and the two boys left the club. Vanessa turned to Keegan.
“Guess what,” she said. “You’re stuck with me.”
“You have a real stubborn streak, lady,” Keegan said.
“No,” she answered firmly, “I just know what I want. . . and I usually get it. Are you going to take me to Das Goldene Tor?”
He thought for a moment and shrugged. “Why not,” he said. “But I have something to do first”
When he got backstage, Jenny Gould was about to leave the club, having finished her last set for the night. She stood near the door, wrapped in a raincoat, waiting for a sudden downpour to clear.
“Miss Gould?” Keegan said.
She turned abruptly, startled to hear her name. She stared at him with her big eyes.
“Yes?”
“I’m Francis Keegan,” he said. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing.”
“Danke,” she murmured, looking away.
“I was wondering. . . if we.. . might have lunch tomorrow,” he said.
She seemed frightened by the suggestion, her eyes darting toward the door as if hoping the rain would suddenly stop.
“I don’t think so,” she said, managing a weak smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go.”
“It’s raining so hard,” Keegan said with a smile. “At least let my car take you home.”
She looked at him again, then shook her head.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said softly. “But I must refuse.”
And just like that she was gone, huddled against the rain as she scampered out the stage door and down the alley toward the street.
When he got back to the bar, Vanessa studied the look in his face. “It looks like my last obstacle has been removed,” she said. “Shall we go upstairs?”
They entered a room that smelled of perfumed body oil and candle wax. At its center was a carpeted circle perhaps twelve feet across and on it were two large mats covered with yellow satin sheets. Around its perimeter were a dozen head-high candlesticks, which provided the only light in the room. Behind them, three tiers deep, were the loges, each with a full-length, thick-piled couch big enough to seat four. Eight to each tier.
The price for the one-hour show was a hundred dollars a person, payable in either American dollars or British pounds, enough money to feed a German family for a month.
A tall, lean hawk of a man in tails strolled among the boxes, greeting the patrons, his long, aesthetic fingers caressing the hands of the women as he brushed his lips across them. Conrad Weil was the owner of the club and had spawned the show that was to follow, a manifestation of his own corrupt fantasies. The Gold Gate was a private club, by invitation only, and the man who extended the invitation was Weil. He also could waive the rules at the door if you looked prosperous or important—or if he did not have a full house, since there was only one performance a night.
Drinks were provided by three men and three women, their bodies oiled and glistening in the gloomy light of a half dozen blue spotlights. The women, although heavier than Americans preferred, were young, voluptuous and handsome. The men were built like Charles Atlas and looked like they had a combined IQ of twelve. All were blond and wore loincloths. The women were bare-breasted.
They took orders and delivered drinks without expression, their robotic attitude ingeniously designed to separate them from the audience, to assure their inaccessibility and heighten the erotic expectation of the show that was to follow.
Vanessa immediately responded. Her cheeks flushed. Her breath came a little faster. Mesmerized by the promise of the evening, she was the perfect spectator, an affirmation of Weil’s perverse creation. And she did not escape his eye. The moment they entered the arena, Weil saw them, watched her as she walked to the couch and sat down, her dress twinkling, reflecting the blue lights like stars on a clear
night. She sat with her chin up, accentuating the long, regal sweep o f her neck. She was keenly aware of her allure, flaunted it in fact, and Weil was hooked and reeled to her like a trout on line.
“Francis, an honor to see you again,”’ he gushed, without taking his eyes off Vanessa. And to her, “I am Conrad, your host,” as he kissed her hand.
“Conrad, this is Vanessa, a friend of nine from the States.”
“Ah, Fräulein Vanessa, what a marvelous distraction,” he said. “You will make life difficult for our performers. No one can take their eyes off you.”
She was properly dazzled by his schmaltz.
And Bert Rudman was dazzled by her. He sat across the room next to a heavy-set, Teutonic man with a thick mustache who slumped on the couch with his chin on his chest, nodding as if by rote as Rudman jabbered in his ear. Then Rudman saw Keegan. He looked at him with exaggerated surprise. And then he saw Vanessa and his mouth gaped.
Keegan smiled, first across the room at Rudman, then at Vanessa. When their eyes met, he realized the room and the anticipation of the show were having an effect on him, too. He wondered if the sudden hunger showed on his face.
The music began softly, built slowly’. It was Oriental, an eerie melody dominated by bells and drums. Its tempo, slow and sensuous, segued into a soft, steady beat and two blue spotlights faded on, each focused on one of the pallets. Three women and three men wearing yellow silk robes seemed to materialize from the shadows, emerging into the spotlight, standing back to back. They were all dark-haired, not an Aryan in the bunch. The women, more sensuous than beautiful, looked French. The men were more Mediterranean-looking, possibly Greek or Italian.
Weil had selected the cast of his erotic show personally. During a search that had lasted several months, he had assembled six women and six men for his show, rotating the members of the cast each night since only three couples were required for each performance. Weil himself had choreographed the exhibition, sitting in different places in the auditorium and giving directions as the sex-actors performed for him.
The Hunt Page 13
