“That’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Really beautiful.” She was silent for a moment, then her eyes began to overflow.
“Now, what the hell’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered.
“What about?” he said. “Everything’s okay. You and Stevie are getting married. Mama’s happy for you and she’s happy that I got a Four-F. What’s there to be frightened about?”
“Everything’s changing,” she said. “You’re moving out. You won’t be in the next room anymore.”
“It don’t mean a shit,” he said. “You’ll be able to meet me in New York. It’s only across the river, not across the world.”
“But I have no one to talk with here at home.”
He put his arm around her and brought her head to his shoulder. “Don’t be a crybaby,” he said softly. “We can talk all the time on the phone.”
“It’s not the same,” she whispered.
“Soon you’ll get married and it’ll be better,” he said. He stroked her hair softly, he felt her shivering against him. “It will be better, you’ll see.”
“No,” she cried, turning her face to him. “It won’t be the same.”
He looked down at her face, his eyes searching deep into hers. Slowly he moved his lips to her forehead, then to her cheek, finally to her mouth. He felt the heat from her body pressing heavily against him. His phallus sprang wildly toward her. He tried to push her away from himself. “This is crazy,” he said hoarsely.
She didn’t move, just falling even more heavily against him, her groin moving toward his searching need. Silently they moved to the bed, the towel falling from him to the floor. Quickly, he removed her robe, then the nightgown, and bent over her. “Motty!” he said.
“Don’t talk!” she said. “Just tear me apart and fuck me!”
10
THE SOUND OF the engine came up from the alley as Uncle Phil’s car backed into the street. Quickly she moved from her bed to the window. In the faint gray of morning she saw the car turning and moving away. Quietly she went back to the bed.
Joe was fast asleep, lying naked on top of the blankets. She stared at him. It was strange. It was as if he had always been there in her bed with her. She had always thought that if they ever did it she would feel upset and guilty. But it was not like that. Instead she felt annoyed at her stupidity. Why had she denied herself her desires for so many years? She touched him lightly on the shoulder.
He turned on his side slowly, still asleep. She felt the excitement beginning to move inside her as she saw his erection, full and strong in the morning. Gently she held his phallus in her hand. His eyes opened, sleep disappearing from his dark pupils. He looked down at her hand holding him, then up at her face. He was still silent.
A soft, quiet smile came to her face. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Why did we wait so long?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “I wanted to but you—”
“I was stupid,” she interrupted him. “But I was afraid.”
“But now that we did it, we’ll find a way to manage it,” he said.
She shook her head slowly. “No,” she said softly. “It was beautiful, and I want to keep it that way. If we try to make it any more than it has been, we’ll turn it into something sordid and it will destroy all of us. All of us in the family.”
He felt the beating in his pulse. “I’m beginning to juice.”
“I’m soaking wet too,” she said and looked down at him. “Damn!” she said in surprise. “The sheets are covered with blood!”
“What happened?” he asked nervously. “Beginning your period?”
She stepped from the bed. “No, you stupid jerk, I was a virgin.”
He stared at her, his mouth agape.
“Now I have to strip the sheets from the bed,” she said quickly. “If your mother finds out, she’ll know what has happened and she’ll kill me!”
Despite himself he felt a sense of pride. Even in high school he had never copped a cherry. “Mother doesn’t have to know. Just tell her you were surprised with the period.”
“Not your mother,” she whispered. “She watches my cycles better than I do.”
* * *
JAMAICA HAD ALREADY brought his typewriter and the boxes of manuscripts and typing paper from the store before Joe had arrived at the apartment. Quickly Joe began to unpack.
The apartment was not bad. The furniture was slightly tacky but serviceable. The living room contained an imitation-leather three-seater couch with a matching easy chair placed in front of a coffee table and lamps placed on end tables on each side of the couch. In one corner of the room was a small dining table with two chairs placed in front of one of the windows that faced the street. The kitchenette was a closet angled from the table. The bedroom was painted dark green; a three-quarter wooden bed in a lighter shade of green matched the dresser and a chest of drawers. A yellow imitation-satin bedspread covered the sheets and pillows. The bathroom was American Standard white fixtures, with a yellow curtain hanging from the shower rod and a matching curtain covering the small window. There were two lights in the bathroom, one on the ceiling, the other attached to the medicine cabinet over the sink.
In less than two hours, Joe had put away his clothing and placed the two valises on a shelf over the bedroom closet. He carefully placed the typewriter on the dining table so that the light from the window shone over his shoulders onto the typewriter, and placed paper and manuscripts on either side of it. He was still looking down at it when he heard a knock at the door. He crossed the room and opened it.
Jamaica was smiling. “How is it?”
“I’m unpacked,” he answered.
Jamaica came into the apartment. “I have a few more things for you. Fred’s bringing them up.”
Fred was one of the two handymen that worked in the apartment house. “What?” Joe asked.
“We’re bringing in a new combination electric refrigerator and tabletop stove. The one here is fucked. The telephone will be installed this afternoon. We have our own switchboard downstairs. All calls go through it.”
“Including the girls?” Joe asked.
“Especially the girls,” Jamaica answered. “The switchboard monitors them, and each morning will give you a list of their bookings.”
Joe nodded. “I understand that. Now who collects the money?”
Jamaica answered. “The girls have to turn in the money to you each morning. The switchboard service will let you know how much money each of the girls owes us.”
“Complicated,” Joe said.
“Not really,” Jamaica said. “The girls average about five hundred a night, that’s five tricks a night at one hundred a pop. Special services like group parties, shows and S and M are at the girls’ discretion for extra charges.”
Joe looked at him. “What are the girls like?”
Jamaica laughed. “The best-lookin’ chicks in the world. You’d think that each one of them came right out of Billy Rose’s Diamond Horseshoe. These kids are not Lolitas. Real ofay society class. You’ll probably fuck yourself to death in less than a week.”
“Not me.” Joe smiled. “I have to work. Writing and fucking don’t mix. Each takes too much time.”
“That may be.” Jamaica smiled. “But that’s your problem, not mine.” Another knock came from the door. “That’s probably Fred with the furniture,” he said.
But Jamaica was wrong. A young girl stood in the open door. Long straight brown hair, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, loose tan sweater over a brown skirt. She seemed more like a college student than a hooker. She looked at Jamaica. Her voice was soft and cultured. “I thought I’d drop downstairs and meet your new man and see if there’s anything I could do to help him.”
Jamaica nodded and gestured. “Joe Crown, Allison Falwell.”
Allison held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Joe.”
Jamaica stopped Joe’s hand
. “Mr. Crown,” he said disapprovingly to the girl.
Allison stared at Jamaica. “But he seems so young.”
Jamaica’s voice went cold. “Mr. Crown,” he repeated.
Allison turned to Joe. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Crown. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Joe said coolly but politely, taking his cue from Jamaica. “But if there is anything, I will call you.”
Jamaica closed the door behind her. “Bitch!” he said. “You’ll see more of them soon. All trying to get an edge.”
“So?” Joe asked.
“You can’t let them,” Jamaica said. “If you want to be a good pimp you treat all of them the same way. You don’t like what they’re doin’, just belt them.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Joe said.
Jamaica stared at him. “Jes’ think that every one of them wants to tear your ass out with their fuckin’ fingernails like Lolita did. Then you’ll fin’ it easier to belt them.” He paused a moment before adding, “Jes’ remember, no matter how great they look, they nuthin’ but whores.”
* * *
HIS MOTHER ANSWERED the telephone. “It’s already eight o’clock,” she said as she recognized his voice. “Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet, Mama,” he said. “I’ve just been straightening up. And I had to learn all the details about the job.”
“You have a kosher restaurant near you?”
“There’s two good delis within blocks of here,” he answered.
“The apartment is clean? Is the bed good?”
“Everything’s okay, Mama,” he said reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’m a big boy.” He changed the subject. “Papa home yet?”
“No,” Marta answered. “This is one of his nights he has to make collections.”
“Motty there?”
“Yes,” she said. “You want I should call her to the phone?”
“Please, Mama.”
His cousin’s voice came through the receiver. “Joe?”
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” she said. She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “The house seems empty.”
“I know what you mean,” he said.
“How’s the job?” she asked.
“It’s a job,” he said noncommittally. “It’ll be okay. Jamaica told me it’s only temporary. I should be out of this in about three months.”
“And then what do you do?”
“I don’t know. But this takes off my marker and I’m a free agent. I’ll keep on writing and looking around.”
“Your mother seems down. I think she misses you.”
He didn’t answer.
“I miss you too,” she said.
“Maybe we can meet one night,” he said. “I’ll take you to some chinks.”
“I don’t think so,” she answered. “I don’t think I can handle it if we spend some time together. Believe me, it will be better if you just stay away.”
He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “I guess you’re right.”
“But you will call me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too,” she said and hung up the phone.
He stared down at the telephone. He hadn’t said it, but he, too, felt lonely. This was really the first time he had ever lived away from home. There was a knock at the door and he rose to open it.
Allison was standing outside the door. “I tried to get you on the phone,” she said. “But the switchboard said that your line was busy.”
He nodded. “It was.”
She held out a bottle of champagne. “One of my Johns gave me this. I thought it would be fun if we shared it. Sort of like a welcome home party for you.”
He looked at her. “But I haven’t had time yet to get glasses.”
She smiled and with her other hand held out two champagne glasses. “I thought of that too.”
He hesitated a moment, then stepped back. “Come in.” He closed the door as she walked to the table.
“You open the champagne,” she said. “I’ll go into the bedroom and make myself comfortable.”
It was the first time he had ever opened a champagne bottle and finally the cork popped out and he quickly caught the champagne in the glasses.
“Bring the champagne in here,” she called from the bedroom.
He walked into the open doorway. One small light shone from the bed table. She was stretched out nude over the bed cover. She held her hand out for a champagne glass. She saw him staring at her. “Like what you see?”
He laughed. “What am I supposed to say? That you’re ugly?”
She sipped from the glass and then smiled. “Then why don’t you get out of your clothes?” He stood there silently. Quickly she reached and opened his fly. “What’s taking you so much time?” she asked. “You’re ready.”
“I’m always ready,” he said.
“So am I,” she laughed, then guided his erection to her mouth.
11
THANKSGIVING EVE AND the first snowfall of the season. Joe stood at the window looking down at the street. The snow was swirling down but the gutters were already muddy and brown from the traffic. He lit a cigarette and checked his Ingersoll—three-thirty in the afternoon. He knew the offices would be closing earlier. The holiday and the snowstorm would be an unbeatable combination. By nightfall the streets would be deserted.
The telephone next to his typewriter rang. He picked it up. “Crown.”
He recognized the voice. “Happy Thanksgiving,” Laura Shelton said.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Shelton,” he replied. Then he asked curiously, “Are you still in the office?”
She laughed. “I’ve been working and I wanted to pass along some good news to make your holiday a really happy Thanksgiving.”
“You sold another story?” he asked excitedly.
“That, too,” she said. “But also something even more exciting.”
“Don’t make me crazy.” He laughed.
“Collier’s bought your story ‘Coney Island Holiday’ for two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“That’s great,” he said. “What could be better than that?”
“Universal Pictures read ‘The Shoplifter and the Store Detective’ and want to make it into a movie. They want to make it with Margaret Sullavan and James Stewart. You remember they were a big success in The Shop Around the Corner.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“It’s for real,” she said. “They offered twenty-five hundred for the movie rights and they want to give you five thousand to go to Hollywood for twenty weeks to co-write the screenplay and pay all your expenses to go out there.”
“I don’t know anything about screenplays,” he said. “Do they know that?”
“They know it,” she said. “But they do it all the time. That’s why they put a screenwriter to work with you. But that’s only the first offer they made. I’m sure I can bring it up a little. Thirty-five hundred for the rights and seventy-five hundred for the screenplay.”
“Don’t scare them off,” he said nervously. “Maybe they won’t think it’s worth it.”
“I won’t scare them off,” she said reassuringly. “I’ve been through this before. We can always grab their offer and run.”
“You’re the expert,” he said. “I’m with you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your confidence.”
“No, Miss Shelton,” he said. “I thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We’ll have this sewed up over the weekend. I’ll talk to you on Monday for sure.”
He looked down at the telephone, and the news finally seeped in. “Hot damn!” he shouted into the empty room. He picked up the phone and called home. Maybe now they would believe that he really was a writer. But there was no answer at home.
He felt himself exploding with the news. He had to talk to someone. He called his cousin a
t work. “I’m just going into a meeting,” Motty said hurriedly.
“I won’t take a minute,” he said. “I have news for you. I just sold another story to Collier’s and Universal wants to make a movie out of ‘The Shoplifter and the Store Detective.’”
“Congratulations,” she said, but she didn’t sound excited. “I have news for you too.”
“What news?” he asked.
“I think I’m pregnant,” she whispered into the phone. “I’m three weeks late.”
“Shit!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid to check with the doctor,” she said. “Stevie is coming in next week. What can I tell him?”
“Tell him nothing,” he said. “The marriage is scheduled for the weekend. Five weeks means nothing. Many first babies are born early.”
“You’re a shit,” she said angrily. “Stevie is your brother. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Sure it does,” he said. “That’s why I’m telling you to sit tight. Open your mouth and everybody gets hurt. The whole fucking family.”
She was silent for a moment. “Do you think it will work?”
“Sure it will,” he said positively. “You won’t even be showing until three months.”
“My breasts feel heavy,” she said.
“That could be premenstrual too,” he said. “You told me many times that your tits swell before your period.”
“I’m nervous,” she said. “Stevie is a doctor. What if he figures it out?”
“Doctor or not,” he said, “Stevie is still an asshole. You just do as I tell you.”
“I have to run,” she said. “I’m late for the meeting.”
“We’ll talk later,” he said. “Just stay calm.” He heard the click of the phone as she put it down. He stared at the telephone still in his hand. “Balls!” he said to himself. “Who the hell was it that said a virgin never gets knocked up on the first time?”
* * *
PHIL CUT A big slice of the brust flanken on his plate and smothered it with red horseradish. He looked across the table at Marta and Motty, speaking through his full mouth. “We sold a hundred and twenty-one turkeys today.”
“That was good,” Marta said approvingly.
The Storyteller Page 8
