She waited perhaps half an hour before the knob of the door turned and someone entered. She had never lit the lights, and now it was quite dark. The other could obviously make out the whiteness of her form on the bed, however.
He said, and there seemed an element of resignation in his voice, “Oh, there you are. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Loretta said nothing. She could feel her body going soft in growing excitement and anticipation. He went into the bathroom and returned in a few minutes wearig a bathrobe and obviously nothing else. He approached the bed.
“Moses!” he ejaculated. “What in hell are you doing here?”
She laughed at him. “Surprise!”
“Where’s Marcella?”
“Oh, I checked that,” she giggled. “She passed out an hour ago. I put her to bed in her own suite. She won’t bother us, dahling.”
Larry looked down at her. He had been too tight, the other time in the Mirasierra, to appreciate properly the tiny body of Loretta Alsace. Now, though it was night, there was enough light of moon and stars to reveal her in all her glory.
Loretta Alsace. Six months ago he had seen her in a film in which she bathed nude, only by the merest of margins escaping the censor’s code. Like probably every other male in the theater, this side of senility, he had been erotically stimulated, though usually sex did not stand high in Larry Land’s thoughts.
Only six months ago, and now here she stretched on the bed before him, her body the whitest of whites other than the dark triangle of pubic hair. He could feel the lust rising inside. He knew what she wanted. And he knew he couldn’t, must not, fail her. She wanted satiation such as she had never known before. Satiation to the point where she called for cease.
He brushed the bathrobe aside, and stood there rampant. She closed her eyes and shivered as though in feared anticipation.
He bent over her, spread her legs brutally and was on her, in her, plunging mercilessly.
And over and over again.
• • •
On their return to Torremolinos, Larry Land was to find the extent of the staff of Marcella Loraine. Or, at least, that part of her staff she maintained in Europe. He understood that she had other establishments in New York, Florida, California, Colorado and Hawaii.
Major-domo was Willis, who turned out to be a rare combination of steward, butler, financial secretary and genie. He was officer in command of two secretaries, two cooks and three others connected with the Loraine kitchen, two house men, six maids, two chauffeurs, two gardeners and a varying number of others who were brought down periodically from London, Paris or Geneva to fill in special needs.
Nor had Willis been idle during the week Marcella Loraine spent at Pamplona with the Cham’s party. On her return to Torremolinos, she found that a suitable villa had been located in an isolated spot in the hills behind town and rented, and that the greater portion of Marcella’s effects in Tangier had been brought up. Marcella and Larry moved into a house in full operation.
Larry would have been hard put to find anything other than it should be. Willis and the staff had performed wonders in the week’s time.
But that wasn’t Marcella’s style. She ranged back and forth through the house, raging about clods here, demanding changes there, castigating them all as she strode. She hovered on the verge of firing the lot and phoning London to have sent down another complete staff.
Willis gently reminded her that the last time she had resorted to that expedient it had been disastrous, and she had finally wound up recalling Willis and the others who had worked under him and for the Contessa di Loraine for years.
“Are you being impertinent?” she snapped at him.
“Certainly not, Contessa, and I shall make every effort to tighten up the staff’s efforts.”
“Well, see that you do. We plan a housewarming for next Saturday. As elaborate as local resources allow.”
“We could send one of the cars down to Gibraltar to augment, Madam.”
“Take care of the details, Willis. Don’t bother me. There’ll be approximately two hundred persons, I suppose. Have the girls check through whom we know here in Torremolinos. Just don’t invite that bitch Loretta Alsace.” She flung up a hand in disgust. “Allah! Do I have to do everything around here, damn it? Have one of those clod maids make up a drink tray and bring it out to the terrace. I’m dying of thirst!”
“Yes, at once, Contessa.”
Willis took Larry Land in his stride. There had obviously been Larry Land’s before, Larry decided wryly. Before, and there would probably be after. On his own initiative the major-domo sent to London for a valet, which Larry would just as well he hadn’t. Flunkies made Larry nervous and he hadn’t the slightest idea how the man was expected to fill his time. He wasn’t used to being waited upon, and although it was handy enough to have someone who saw to it that fresh clothing was always available and in the best of press, that shoes were shined and errands run, he didn’t feel it necessary to have a grown man running around doing such things as drawing his bath and helping him get dressed.
Well, it was all part of the game. And the theory was that he was learning the game. Doing a bit of on-the-scene research into the mores and customs of the Jet Set. Someday he’d write a paper on it. Yes, that was what he was doing.
Wasn’t he?
• • •
The party got on the far-out side.
For one thing, Marcella had originally thought in terms of there being some two hundred persons available in town whom she would deign to invite to her housewarming. But she had forgotten the nature of present-day international society. The Duke and Duchess heard about the soiree and decided to fly down from Paris; Baron Von Zwerdling, of the Rhineland, decided he needed a several days’ vacation and that spending it with his former wife, Marcella, might be amusing; the Archduke Maximilian, on his uppers in Lisbon, figured it an excellent opportunity for some high-level free-loading — and they were just the beginning.
The Torremolinos crowd, almost all of whom Larry knew by this time, attended en masse, including Loretta Alsace, invitation or no. And including Muley Khalid, who came because he assumed the film star would be present, and who at this stage of the game felt that time wasted when he wasn’t ogling her. Dorry Malloy was also present because Loretta was, although hardly for the purpose of ogling her.
Even Willis, no matter how efficient, couldn’t keep chaos from developing when the original two hundred guests swelled to double that number. He even gave up, eventually, trying to keep party-crashers from taking in the festivities. You can’t keep a party-crasher out when it develops that he’s the ex-king of a Balkan country, a ruling coffee king of Colombia or the sheik of some oil-filthy Arabian principality. Such celebrities don’t need invitations to parties.
By way of an amusement, Marcella had had rigged up on one of the terraces a full-sized stuffed cow which gave chilled champagne through its teats when milked. The difficulty was that so amused had she been by the gadget that she’d begun to experiment with it lavishly before the party proper ever began. Marcella was well along before the first guests arrived and was in poor condition to receive.
Which mattered never a whit.
The Jet Set can be informal in such out-of-the-way spots as Torremolinos. They took over the party with their usual vigor, and by the time the later arrivals showed up, some of the earlier ones were already beginning to be taken home, or tucked into available beds.
Larry Land gave up making even a pretense of being a host, or an emergency aide of the hostess. No one present needed to be informed of his relationship with the department store heiress. They knew. Some, indeed, might have wondered if Marcella was thinking of divorcing the queer Conte she was presently married to and marrying this comparative youngster, but they weren’t particularly interested. Marcella going through a new marriage was hardly a matter of great interest. It happened too often.
Eventually, he secured a half-bottle of champagne for himself, a
long with a glass, and wandered off into the gardens. He had been in this atmosphere for possibly three weeks now and was wondering if he was already getting tired of it. He knew one thing — he was getting damned tired of the perpetual hangover it involved. He wondered how people such as Big Bill Daly could stand the pace.
Thought of Big Bill came at almost the exact moment he began to hear the writer launch into one of his old-time hobo songs. Larry recognized it, even as he began to laugh. He’d gone through a period of folk music fandom.
Big Bill was roaring:
Things are dull in San Francisco,
On the hog in New Orleans,
Rather tough in cultured Boston,
Famed for codfish, God and beans.
On the fritz in Kansas City,
All through Denver it is still,
And there’s very little stirring,
In the town of Louisville.
• • •
Larry wondered how many of the guests had ever heard a Wobbly song before. The I.W.W., the most violent revolutionists the United States had ever produced, made the Commies look like an old ladies’ knitting circle. And he wondered why these people put up with Big Bill. Perhaps it was as the Cham had said, that the American writer’s wide popularity was due to the absolutely insulting view he had of the others.
The sounds of the party were beginning to go more shrill — the laughter of drunken women; the raucous laughter of men mixing the newest concoction of smut; the jabber, jabber, jabber of international gossip. Larry took a deep breath and poured himself the balance of his wine.
A voice said, “Cripes, you’ve come a long way since I first saw you there in Pogo’s.”
Larry squinted to make the face out in the dusk. The name came back to him — Jack Grinney, the real estate dealer. He doubted that the other had been invited by Marcella. He’d probably entered by some back garden gate.
The other was tight, Larry could see, but at this stage of the game he doubted that there were many completely sober persons, other than the staff, present. For that matter, Larry had had a few himself. He said, “How do you mean, Grinney?”
The florid faced man waved a freckled hand. “You know what I mean. Come to town less than a month ago. Not a pot to piss in. Making your way around taking shots with your Rollei. Now look at you.” The other laughed slyly.
The man was really drunk, Larry decided.
Grinney came closer. The liquor on his breath was Spanish cognac rather than any of the more exotic fare he would have received here at the villa. Larry decided he must have just entered the premises.
Grinney said, “How come I didn’t get any invite? Too good for me? I rented you the villa, didn’t I? At least to that snotty bastard Willis, whatever his name is. Besides, I’m the first guy that introduced you around. If I hadn’t introduced you to Big Bill Daly, you never would be where you are now.”
Larry wished the other would go off and cry on somebody else’s shoulder. He said impatiently, “It wasn’t up to me to make up the guest light, Grinney. I don’t run the place.”
The other grunted contemptuous amusement. “I’ll say you don’t. You’re just the male whore.”
• CHAPTER SIX •
ALMOST GENTLY, Larry Land tossed the remainder of his glass of champagne into the other’s face.
For a moment the other stood there, his moist eyes wider than usual. Then his mouth split in a gold-flashing grin. He hunched his shoulders and shuffled forward. The shuffle of the trained boxer.
There was no time to shed his jacket. Larry took a defensive stand before the older and heavier man. He had a sudden premonition that Jack Grinney had more on the ball than a quick estimation might have led one to believe.
The other’s left flicked out, in exploration, and Larry covered. It flicked again, hitting Larry’s right shoulder and jarring him beyond what he would have expected. He stepped back a double pace to reform his defenses.
Grinney bore in. He grunted, “Punks like you I can take with my eyes closed, fancy boy. Maybe it’s time you learned a lesson.” His left flicked out again, so fast that Larry failed to block it, flicked and flicked again. Jack Grinney was on his toes, moving with a grace that seemed beyond him. Larry took one blow, another, then, without knowing how he had got there, he was sitting down on the gravel of the walk.
He looked up in disgust. The larger man was standing back, waiting for him to rise. “Get up, fancy boy,” he growled. “We’ve just begun.”
Evidently the sounds of the conflict had drawn attention. Down the path from the villa could be heard the scurrying of feet.
Larry put his hands to the ground and came erect again. He moistened his lips and brought his hands up. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, tasting blood. Evidently the other had clipped him one on the mouth. He didn’t remember taking the blow.
Grinney came in again, faster this time. The older man was gaining confidence, having taken the measure of his opponent and finding it lacking. Larry attempted to block, attempted to get a right in himself, and failed. He took another stunning blow to the heart, but this time only staggered back, keeping himself from falling.
Grinney laughed. He was still drunk, but evidently not to the point where it slowed his reflexes over much. “How do you like them apples, fancy boy?” He again took the offensive.
Somebody yelled from the background, “Stop it. Stop this nonsense. That ex-pug will kill him.”
Larry Land had no more time than to sense the figures gathered around. There must already have been ten or twenty and more coming up.
“Shut up,” someone else rumbled drunkenly. “It’s a good fight.”
Jack Grinney must have appreciated the audience. He began operating more spectacularly. Larry suspected that the other man was stringing the massacre out, for the sake of prolonging his moment of glory.
Another voice roared from the sidelines, “Grinney, you bastard, you’ll take me on next. Picking on that kid.” But Big Bill made no attempt to interfere at this point, for which Larry Land thanked him, under his breath. Big Bill would let him take his punishment like a man.
Grinney moved in quickly, threw a clever left. Larry stumbled back. A crushing right landed smack on his mouth and he went down again, this time blacking out for the briefest of moments.
He shook his head and rolled over on his stomach and began using his hands to push himself erect. Offhand, he couldn’t remember ever having taken this much punishment before.
“What’d I tell ya?” Jack Grinney laughed. “A fancy boy. Next stop, he’ll go queer. I seen the type before.”
Big Bill started coming forward. “Okay, Larry’s had it. Now, Jack, you son-of-a-bitch, let’s see you make out with somebody else who’s been in the ring a little.”
But Larry was back on his feet now. He waved the big writer away, and snarled wordlessly at him.
Big Bill Daly looked at him worriedly, but shook his own hand and faded back again.
Larry spat out part of a broken tooth. He looked at Jack Grinney calculatingly. The larger man was standing back, evidently letting Larry get his wind so as to present a more apparent defense against the other’s trained brutality, a better show for the gathered crowd.
Larry growled, “Each man to his own game, Grinney. I was a fool to try to take you on in yours.”
He slipped into the Kokutsu-dachi layout stance, one foot forward with toes pointing straight ahead and knees slightly bent, hands slightly forward, knuckles up.
Jack Grinney stared at him, uncomprehending. “Put up your dukes,” he demanded. “If you still think you got any fight left in you, put ’em up, fancy boy.”
“Let’s go, Grinney,” Larry grunted.
The other needed no more, came rushing in, in his quick professional movements, the prizefighter’s dancing steps. His left flicked out, as before.
Larry blurred into the Kata twenty-three. He screamed, “Sut,” in a paralyzing Kiai yell, bent his body slightly to the right in a downward
motion as he threw a left-hand block hard against Grinney’s wrist, grabbed the outside of his wrist. With his own left he applied a quick wristlock and began twisting the other’s arm inward and outward. With his right fist, held Okinawa style, he struck the other hard on the right ear. He quickly released the wrist, stepped back with his right foot and kicked ahead with a left straight forward karate kick to Grinney’s groin.
As the older man began to crumble forward, Larry Land moved in and delivered a slashing judo chop with the edge of his hand across the ex-pug’s clavicle.
Big Bill Daly was the first to hurry forward and drop to his knees beside the fallen Grinney. He looked up at Larry, his face white. “Christ sakes, Larry, you’ve killed him.”
Larry shook his head, reaction setting in, as it always did after immediate danger and physical exertion. “No,” he growled. “Pulled my punches. He’ll be all right … in a week or two.”
Others were moving up now, women shrilling, men talking excitedly, some to pick Grinney up and carry him to the house. One of the women — it sounded like Marcella — laughed shrilly. Larry motioned away those who were pressing around him, and staggered back into the shrubbery.
He vomitted against a marble monument, retching sickeningly. Big Bill Daly had almost been right, much more nearly right than he should have been. In his blur of rage, Larry Land had almost committed that most forbidden of all sins to a holder of a karate Black Belt of the Third Dan. He had almost killed a man. Killed a non-practioner in an unworthy brawl.
• • •
He had by no means come through untouched himself.
In the morning, he stayed in bed, his facial cuts bandaged, his body aching from the blows he had taken from Jack Grinney, black and blue from his falls on the gravel walk. One eye was closed, and covered with a patch. The Spanish doctor Marcella had summoned had shook his head at the other’s condition. Larry had felt like murmuring, You should see the other guy, Doc.
The Jet Set Page 8
