Candy

Chapter Eight

I’D HAVE FELT a lot better about the whole thing if she hadn’t been such a damnably attractive woman.

Black toreador pants were tight on her slender legs and tighter still on her hips and tail. She had the right type of figure to be wearing them as well as the right sexual outlook on life and they looked fine.

She also had the right build, or lack of it, to be wearing a man’s shirt. This particular man’s shirt would have been out of place on any man unless he was as queer as she was. It was pale green and it was tucked neatly into the pants which were secured by a yellow alligator belt. How the devil they got that belt will ever remain a mystery to me. When did you last set eyes on a yellow alligator?

The shirt had a button-down collar and I was willing to bet there was a button in the back as well. She came on real ivy league, even to the dirty tennis shoes on her little feet. Her eyes peered at me through severe black glasses. The eyes were a pale blue, the shade they call steel-blue. The look she was giving me was a steely one, too.

“Good afternoon, Miss—”

“Not Miss,” she said. “Mrs.”

That damn near floored me. I couldn’t picture the bloody dyke married to somebody. But you live and learn, so I said Mrs. and paused valiantly, waiting for her to come through with the last name.

She didn’t come through.

“Look,” she said, “whatever you’re selling, I strongly doubt that I want any.”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“Neither am I,” she said. “I’m neither selling nor buying, and if you’ll excuse me I’d like to shut the door. With you on the other side of it.”

I was beginning to get the idea that she didn’t like me.

“Hang on,” I said, “My name’s Flanders, Jeff Flanders. I’m a friend of Miss Cain.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I wanted to—”

“You’re not a friend of Miss Cain,” she said. “Not a friend at all. I don’t think she likes you.”

“I—”

“I don’t think she wants to see you any more.”

“I—”

“In fact,” she said, “I think I might tell you that I’d rather you didn’t see any more of Candy.”

I scratched my head. “Funny,” I said, hilariously, “but that’s what I came here to tell you.”

Her forehead squinched up and she didn’t know exactly how to react. The door opened wider and I entered the apartment; then she gave the door a shove and it closed. She waved me on inside and pointed a tired finger at a chair for me to sit in. Then she wandered over to another chair and plopped herself down into it.

On my way over to the chair I took a good look at the apartment, at least at the room I was in. This was what Candy had peddled herself to get and by the looks of things she hadn’t done badly. The room reeked of money. The carpet reached from one wall to the other wall and it was thick enough to get lost in. The furniture was so modern they must have designed it a couple of days before but it wasn’t poorly chosen. It was Swedish modern in design and it cost a fortune. That much was easy to see.

There were a few pictures on the wall, original oils that I didn’t want to recognize. Big splashes of helter-skelter color that looked like something out of a bad dream.

I didn’t recognize the pictures. But I did recognize the signatures in the lower corners of the pictures.

Mrs. Whoevershewas was rolling in dough.

“Mr. Flanders,” she said, pronouncing the name as if it was one she could easily learn to detest. “I have the feeling that you are going to pose a problem. I strongly doubt that the two of us are going to see eye-to-eye.”

I agreed with her in stoic silence.

“I’m not sure where to begin, Mr. Flanders.”

“You might tell me who the hell you are. That’ll do for a conversational opener.”

“I hardly see—”

“It’s just that I like to know who I’m shouting at.”

“Caroline Christie,” she said. “You may call me Mrs. Christie.”

That was decent of her.

“You’re here to make trouble,” she said. “Aren’t you, Mr. Flanders?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’ll cooperate.”

“In what manner?”

The conversation was beginning to get me down. “Mrs. Christie,” I said. “I want Candy back. Candy and I were together and I want her back.”

An eyebrow went up. “That’s touching.”

“I need Candy,” I said.

“You don’t need Candy,” she told me icily. “You need stuffing. You’re a unique specimen and you ought to be displayed somewhere. But you do not need Candy.”

“Look—”

She was amused now. “Do you love Candy?”

I only hesitated for an instant but that was enough for the bitch. She crinkled into laughter and smothered the laugh daintily with the palm of her hand.

“Of course not,” she said, answering her own question. “You don’t love Candy, Mr. Flanders. You couldn’t possibly love Candy.”

“But you can?”

“Hardly.” This time there was a trace of bitterness mixed with the amusement. “How in the world could I love Miss Candace Cain? She’s not the type of woman one loves, Mr. Flanders. She’s desirable and I desire her. She’s enjoyable and I most definitely enjoy her. She’s pleasant company and a tigress in bed.”

She didn’t have to tell me this.

“Enjoyable and desirable,” she went on. “But not lovable. Some people are capable of being loved; others are capable of loving. Some are capable of both. Candace Cain is capable of neither. That’s all there is to it, Mr. Flanders. You do not love her and neither do I.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Mr. Flanders?”

I gave up trying to figure out that subtlety and took refuge in lighting a cigarette. I offered her one but she took one of her own. I reached out to give her a light but she lit it herself.

“I want Candy, Mrs. Christie.”

“You want polishing, Mr. Flanders. You want polishing rather desperately because you’re quite rough about the edges. Haven’t you understood a word I’ve said?”

I must have looked blank because she didn’t wait for an answer.

“To Candace Cain,” she said, “who is of course the focal point of our conversation, only two things are of any real importance. One is security and the other is sex.”

This much I knew, too. “You figure you can give her more security than I can?” I asked. “I suppose you’re right, if you’re thinking of security in material terms.”

“Why not? That’s how Candy thinks of it.”

I nodded, agreeing in spite of myself. Caroline Christie was right on that score. Candy had strictly a dollars-and-cents mind and I couldn’t come close in that department. The furnishings of the apartment, hell, the furnishings of the living room alone would come to more than I earned in a good year.

“That’s security,” I said. “How about the other angle? You’re certainly not suggesting that Candy’s as satisfied sexually with you as she would be with me.”

Caroline Christie sighed. “Men,” she said sadly. “You’re all so stupid … and so proud of yourselves. If you had any idea of the pleasure Candy and I bring to each other—”

I had a good idea. I had a fire-escape memory to keep me warm.

“Men,” she repeated. “Do you actually think that simply because you possess a male organ you’re so much more skilled at pleasing a woman?”

“Why—”

“You’re a fool, Mr. Flanders. I am a woman and Candace Cain is a woman.”

I was beginning to get a little bit angry. Not everybody calls me a fool so readily. Not everybody belittles maleness so readily.

“Candy’s a woman,” I said. “I’m not so sure about you. For my money—”

“Your money? What money?”

While I was digesting that one she flicked her cigarette disdainfully at an ashtray and took up where she left off. “I am a woman and Candy is a woman,” she repeated. “Each of us knows just what caress will bring just what response. Each of us is able to bring the other to a complete and delightful fulfillment that no man could ever understand. Each of us truly understands the other’s body. Each of us … oh, let’s forget it, Mr. Flanders. You may want Candy but you don’t stand a chance in hell of getting her. Why don’t you leave now and stay away from both of us?”

I took another tack. “You said your name was Mrs. Christie,” I said. “What does Mr. Christie do?”

“He rots.”

“Huh?”

“He rots, Mr. Flanders. He rots in his grave. I assume this, that is, because I’ve never even considered exhuming his remains to determine what state of decay he is in. But it’s more than likely that he’s rotting.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t waste your sorrow on my husband, Mr. Flanders. It was his decision. He took an overdose of sleeping tablets and slept his way to his grave. You need not feel sorry for the man, no more than I feel sorry for him.”

I was beginning to get the picture. “I see,” I said. “You married him for his money and then he found you were a lesbian and it killed him.”

She laughed so hard I thought the terrible pictures were going to fall off the walls.

“Mr. Flanders,” she said finally, “while it’s hardly necessary to acquaint you with the facts, I can’t pass up the opportunity to give you a verbal face-slapping. To begin with, my husband and I were equally wealthy when we were married. My maiden name is Lipton, the Boston Liptons. So you need not say that I married Howard for his money.”

The Boston Liptons have more money than God.

A good deal more money than God.

“Secondly,” she went on, “Howard knew I was a lesbian when he married me. If I had not been a lesbian he would never have married me in the first place.”

I didn’t get it.

“I don’t get it,” I said, naturally.

“Howard,” Caroline Christie said, “was a fag.”

Nice people. Real nice people. A fag and a dyke and my little Candy. The apartment on 53rd Street was beginning to make my stomach crawl.

She stood up. “I could say it’s been nice, Mr. Flanders. But that wouldn’t be true, would it? It hasn’t been nice at all. It’s been amusing, but amusing and nice are not the same thing and it has most certainly not been nice. You do not like me and I do not like you and I hope we never see each other again.”

“Wait a minute, Mrs. Christie—”

“I’ve waited a good many minutes as it is, Mr. Flanders. I let you in here to begin with because I thought you might have something interesting to tell me. Instead you’ve taken up a good bit of my time and you have bored me stiff in the process. Now, if there’s nothing more that you want from me—”

“But there is.”

“What?”

“Candy.”

“You can’t have her, Mr. Flanders. She’s mine, and this is not merely my decision but Candace’s as well. We’ve discussed you, you know, and we both agreed that there’s no point in Candy wasting her time on you. If you pretend to understand Candy you could see that much yourself. Now it’s time for you to leave. If you were gentleman enough to wear a hat I’d hand it to you. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Mr. Flanders?”

“I’m not that thick.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “That’s irrelevant. Now if you’ll kindly get out of this apartment I’ll appreciate it no end. In an hour or so Candace will be returning and we’ll have a long talk about you. Then Candace and I shall retire to the bedroom where we shall prove quite satisfactorily that we are sexually compatible. Good day, Mr. Flanders. Don’t come again.”

I was out of the chair and I got almost to the door before I turned around. I don’t know and will probably never know just what kept me from going out that door and down the elevator and away from The House on Fifty-Third Street. But something did.

I whirled around.

She was a few feet away from me. If she had looked the least bit surprised or stunned or worried I would undoubtedly have turned once again and walked out that door.

But she didn’t.

She was as cool as a pickle. Her steel-blue eyes through the black-rimmed glasses were looking at me with a mixture of humour and contempt.

And that’s what did it. I had to take care of that amused reserve once and for all, had to show her that she couldn’t laugh or sneer or smirk at me.

But it was more than that. That breastless chest, those slim hips, that aristocratic face …

And that twisted psyche.

Damn it, I wanted her. I hated her and wanted her at once, and I could no more stop what I was about to do than I could hold back the flood by sticking my finger in the dike.

So I hit her.

I hit her in the stomach, naturally. If you’re going to be cad enough to hit a woman you might as well hit her below the belt and that is precisely what I did. I hit her as hard as I could and I am not a small man nor am I a weak man. I know how to throw a punch and I threw this one with all my strength.

She doubled up in pain. Her hands went to her stomach and her knees buckled.

Her glasses fell off and settled on the carpet. I stepped on them and ground the lenses to dust.

I tangled my hand in her short hair and jerked her to a standing position. I held her like that with one hand while I slapped the hell out of her with the other, slapped her across the face again and again until her cheeks began to bleed from the force of the blows.

Then I hit her again.

In the stomach.

She puked all over the carpet and it was messy so I hauled her a few feet further into the room. By this point I was getting confused. I didn’t know exactly what to do so I hit her again.

That did it. She crumpled up and fell on her face and she didn’t move.

I had to hand it to her. She didn’t utter a sound all the way through, didn’t moan or scream or cry or anything. She was a twenty-four carat bitch and I hated her from hell to breakfast but she had guts, even if I had been trying to kick them out of her.

I rolled her over onto her back and looked down at her. Her face was contorted in an expression of horrible pain and when she spoke she spoke through clenched teeth.

She said: “Just what do you propose to do to me, Mr. Flanders?”

So I told her.

You have to hand it to her. You really have to give the bitch credit. The old amusement and contempt came back into those steel-blue eyes and the old quiet fury returned to her voice.

“You may proceed,” she said.

I ripped the buttons getting the shirt off. But I did get it off and there wasn’t anything underneath it. Candy didn’t need a bra because her breasts were firm enough to get along without one; this bitch didn’t need one because she didn’t have anything to put in one. Her chest was as flat as a flounder.

I had a tough time with the pants. But I got them off and tore off the panties she was wearing under them. I tore off her tennis shoes and socks as well, although there wasn’t much point in it. They wouldn’t have gotten in the way. But I wanted her completely naked, naked and defenseless.

When she was naked I got my own clothes off. I hooked my hands under her armpits and pulled her to her feet, and when I let go of her she sagged against me like a rag doll with half the stuffing gone.

God alone knows where she got the strength, but when she came up off the floor this time she came up fighting. Her hand came at me nails first and her razor-sharp nails lashed my forehead and drew blood. She heaved a knee that would have played havoc with my virility but I swivelled a hip and dodged the blow.

She called me a nasty name.

So what the hell.

I hit her again.

This time she came off the floor like an irritated rhinoceros and gave me a poke in the jaw that sent me reeling. For a little bundle of fluff she packed a wallop.

I got a grip on her shoulders, put one foot behind her feet and gave her a shove. She obligingly flopped on her cute little tail and I fell forward and landed right on top of her. She made a nice cushion.

I almost couldn’t go through with it. She was fighting me, all right, but when you stop to consider the fact that I outweighed her by a good seventy pounds the fight didn’t seem too fair. I almost got up and left, but then I saw the whole incredible picture of her and Candy in bed together and I couldn’t hold myself back.

I had to even the score.

It was quite an experience. Technically I suppose it was a vaguely enjoyable ride; at least it was something different. But it was sick and sordid and when I was done I felt like cutting my throat with a rusted razor. I stepped away from her and fumbled my way into my clothing while she lay on the floor like a castaway napkin.

“You’re okay,” I said, hysterically. “We’ll have to have another go at it one of these days.”

And for what was possibly the first time in her life, Mrs. Caroline Lipton Christie did not have a snappy answer.

I didn’t ride the elevator because I didn’t want the operator to get a look at me. Not because he would be able to identify me later—that was one thing I wasn’t going to waste my time worrying about. I knew it was better than rubles-to-rickshaws that Caroline Christie would no sooner call the police than she would call me and beg me to do it again.

Hell, that much was elementary. Every juvenile delinquent with enough moxie to live up to the garrison belt dangling from his grimy paw knows that the easiest way in the world to pick up a quick buck is to beat up a faggot. The juvie picks up on one of the gay boys, leads him anywhere at all and pounds the crap out of him.

Now who is the fag going to bitch to?

No one.

And who was Christie going to bitch to?

No one.

No one at all.

So, among my other remarkable accomplishments, I was now a successful rapist. Somehow I wasn’t particularly proud of myself, and that is why I didn’t want the elevator operator looking at me. Hell, I didn’t even want to look at myself. I felt sick to my stomach.

At the same time I was not without a small glint of triumph. It was with considerable self-esteem that I wondered idly how long it would take Mrs. Caroline Lipton Christie to wash the blood out of her rug. Yes, blood—because Mrs. Caroline Lipton Christie had been a virgin until I altered her status once and for all.

Back in my room I washed off my cut face and took an opening slug from the bottle to dull the hate I was building up for myself. What had the afternoon landed me, all things considered?

Not much.

Not a hell of a lot at all.

I had raped a lesbian. Raped a virgin lesbian, to be precise. If nothing else, it was something I had never done before. I had had a virgin—my wife, Lucy—but I had never raped anybody, and I had never had anything horizontal to do with a lesbian.

It was a great afternoon for firsts.

But what else?

I was as far away from Candy as before and I letched for her as violently as ever. It was her face I saw at the peak of passion with little Miss Lesbo, and it was the memory of her that had occasioned the visit and the rape in the first place. So where was I?

I was up the creek. Not only didn’t I have a paddle, but I also didn’t have a great many other things.

A job.

A woman.

And on top of everything else the canoe had sprung a leak.

I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes and thought to myself what a bastard I was. I thought about the woman who was divorcing me, and the other woman who was putting out for the woman I had just gotten finished raping, and there seemed to be more reasons to hate myself than there were stars in the sky.

I let myself sink into a positive abyss of self-loathing which was masochistically delicious. After awhile I went outside and bought a magazine and went back to the room to read it.

And, after awhile, the damned phone rang.

Like a fool I answered it.