Carla

Chapter Three

As she turned the corner of Nottingham Terrace and pulled up in front of her home, something within her went limp and relaxed. The excitement of the affair in the service station finally had worn off and she was able at last to look at the whole thing rationally.

Well, she thought, you’ve pulled a cute little trick, Carla Macon. After living like a decent married woman for two years you throw yourself on the floor for the first rugged-looking guy you run into. What kind of a tramp was she?

Despite her childhood spent in a Polish slum, Carla had begun to think of herself as a member of the upper class. The wife of a crack corporation lawyer like Ronald Macon automatically held a great deal of social prestige, and even before her marriage Carla had felt superior to the other residents of her neighborhood. In school she was an excellent student, spending plenty of time reading and studying. After high school, two years at a business college had elevated her to the point where she could land a job as Ronald’s secretary. Marriage was an easy step ahead, and she adjusted to her new role with ease.

In a few years she had managed to change from a slum brat to a thoroughly respectable woman, and today she had chanced the loss of all she had gained. For a few passionate minutes on a filthy floor she stood the chance of losing everything. What kind of a damn fool trick was that?

The memory of the filthiness of the grease-room sent a shiver through her. She glanced at her face in the rear-view mirror and saw that it was streaked with grime and perspiration. Her hands, too, were dirty — and there was blood under several of her nails from when she had scratched him. She hunted frantically in her purse for a handkerchief and began the laborious process of getting herself clean once again. She certainly couldn’t walk into the house looking like that! Even if Ronald weren’t home yet, it wouldn’t do any good to let Lizzie see her in such a state.

When her hands and face were again clean she took her lipstick from her purse and applied it carefully. She surveyed the results in her mirror and was satisfied. No one could tell now by looking at her how she had spent the afternoon. No doubt there were bruises on her body from the rough embraces, but they wouldn’t show now.

But what a foolish thing to do! Still, it had been worth a good deal to her. The man was a magnificent animal, healthy and wild and strong. In the future she would be more careful, but she wouldn’t go two more years without a man’s love. There was a whole city full of men, crude and powerful men like her lover of this afternoon. It wouldn’t be difficult to find one of them willing to accommodate her. For that matter she could always return to the gas station in a few months. While she surely didn’t want a man like that on a regular basis, an occasional interlude with him would be time pleasantly spent.

Suddenly a feeling of guilt washed through her. Ronald loved her so much, and she repaid his love by rolling on the floor with a common brute! Well, she thought, she couldn’t be expected to live forever in a sexless vacuum. As long as Ronald never found out, everything would be all right. And she resolved that she would be careful to keep the truth from him. The gas-pump jockey didn’t even know her name, so there would be no trouble from that source. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell Ronald.

She alighted from the car and closed the door gently, walking swiftly up the path to the front door of the house. She slipped her key into the lock, marvelling at how much more relaxed and self-possessed she was now.

“Lizzie!” she called, closing the door behind her.

Lizzie appeared almost instantly from the kitchen. “Hello, Mrs. Macon,” she said. “Mr. Macon called while you were out.”

“Oh?” For a split-second she felt guilty again but the guilt passed easily. “What did he want, Lizzie?”

“He said to tell you he was bringing a friend with him for dinner and they’ll be home around six-thirty.”

“He’s bringing a friend?”

The girl nodded. “That’s what he said. He just called about a half-hour ago, Mrs. Macon. I was lucky I was making shrimp paella for dinner — it’s easy to make extra with a dish like that.”

Carla smiled. Ronald’s friend was in for a treat; Lizzie made paella better than any she had ever tasted, even better than the Spanish restaurant in New York where she and Ronald had dined once. “Did he mention the friend’s name?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. He said his name was Mr. Charles Butler.”

“Charles Butler.” Carla repeated the name to herself, trying to remember if she had ever been introduced to the man before. Charles Butler — the name didn’t ring a bell, but Ronald had so many friends and business associates that it was tough to keep them all straight. She knew that the Butlers were an important family in Buffalo, but this gave her no clue as to who Charles Butler might be.

With a little shrug she hurried to the staircase. There would be time later in the evening to find out more about Mr. Charles Butler. Now there was something more important: it was a few minutes to six, and she had time to take a shower and wash the smell of the grease-room from her skin. Hurriedly removing her clothing, she wondered briefly whether Lizzie had an inkling of how she had passed the afternoon. She was almost sure she had given no sign of it, but the Negro girl was sharp as a tack, and Carla wasn’t an old hand at cheating on a husband.

She would have to be very careful from here on in, careful to cover her trail at every step.

Stepping into the tub, she realized that this was her second shower of the day and laughed. If nothing else, leading a double life would keep her good and clean!

She was sitting in the living-room with a cigarette when the door-bell rang. She answered it herself, pausing on the way to take a quick look at herself in the hall mirror. The house seemed to be filled with mirrors, she thought suddenly.

Her black cocktail dress was just the right thing for the evening, she decided, pleased with her choice. It contrasted vividly with the golden glow of her hair and the milky whiteness of her skin, while the sophisticated styling of it gave a contrasting impression of aloofness and reserve. But not too reserved, she thought, noticing the way her breasts pressed against the front of the dress. Not too reserved, but a mixture of respectability and downright sexines.

When she opened the door Ronald smiled at her, and his appearance belied his age. His eyes were a bright blue and he still had all his hair. Although he was almost sixty, his hair was still a glossy black except for a slight greying at the temples.

But Carla barely noticed Ronald and scarcely heard the words he was speaking. All her attention was focused at once upon the man at Ronald’s side, a man she took to be Charles Butler. She couldn’t take her eyes away from him.

He was not at all as she had expected him to be. She had anticipated an evening with one of Ronald’s typical friends — short, bald, old, and pot-bellied. But Charles Butler possessed none of these qualities.

She estimated his age at anywhere between 35 and 45. His blond crew-cut made him look young, as did the sparkle that was always present in his eyes and the half-smile that formed frequently upon his lips. He was tall and slender, moving gracefully and easily. She watched him constantly while they had drinks in the living-room and continued watching him over the dinner table. She had never met anyone quite like him in her entire life.

“I guess you could call me an overgrown playboy,” he explained at one point. “My grandfather made a fortune, my dad made a good try at losing the whole bundle, and I’m content to merely amuse myself with what money is left.”

“But what do you do?” she asked, fascinated.

“Travel, read, whatever I want. There are always things for a man to do and new places to see.” Then he changed the subject quickly, seemingly unwilling to talk about himself.

In spite of this, she managed to discover quite a bit about Charles Butler during the remainder of the evening, and everything she learned served to stimulate her interest in him. He was decidedly attractive — not in the brutish way of the gas station attendant, but with a polish and suavity which appealed to her strongly.

She learned that he lived alone, in a bachelor’s apartment at the Tiffany, one of Buffalo’s most luxurious residential hotels. He had the touch of the connoisseur about him, a deep interest and appreciation for quality and taste in everything from food and wine to clothing and home furnishings. Carla guessed immediately that the same appreciation for quality carried over into his love life. It was easy to see that he was a man of extensive experience. Although he never gave her the frank and hungry stare she had come to expect from men, she knew that he found her desirable. Several times at the dinner table his glance found hers and held it for a split-second, and once or twice she noticed his eyes surveying her figure casually.

She wondered what it would be like, being possessed and loved by such a poised and smooth person as Charles Butler. The thought bothered her, but she couldn’t force it from her mind.

It was late in the evening before he took his leave. He took her hand in the doorway and held it just a little bit longer than necessary. The subtle but insistent pressure of his fingertips upon the palm of her hand set her trembling against her will. She was actually afraid of him, afraid of a man who could excite her so easily.

What was the matter with her? Perhaps it was true, as her mother had said years ago: she must be a tramp, an insatiable slut who never got enough in the way of loving. Here she was, married to a wealthy and loving husband, coming fresh from the embraces of a rough boor and ready for a fresh go with a friend of Ronald.

What was the matter with her?

No, she decided firmly, she couldn’t let Charles make love to her. With a man like the gas-station attendant she was safe: he didn’t know who she was and she would never see him again, at least not for a good long while. But Ronald and Charles were friends, and if anything started in those quarters it would be bad for her.

Usually when she made a decision her mind was able to relax. Now, however, things didn’t seem to work that way. Although she told herself repeatedly that she wouldn’t have an affair with Charles, there was a nagging doubt in the back of her mind as she recalled the look in his eyes and the touch of his hand on hers.

For the second night it a row, it was a long time before she drifted off to sleep.

In a far less imposing room on the other side of town, Danny Rand had his own troubles sleeping. He tossed feverishly on his creaking army cot, trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.

The problem was money.

While he made a good salary running the gas station, Danny knew there was no future working for somebody else, especially in his business. If he could only save up some dough he could buy the station on time from his company, and then the money would start to come in. He lived frugally enough, paying six bucks a week for the hole-in-the-wall of a room he had and taking his lunches with him. But whenever he got a little pile together, something always came up and he blew the dough on some damn thing he hardly wanted in the first place.

It was time for him to settle down and save his money. Christ, in another year he would be thirty, and what did he have to show for it? No money, no home, no wife and no kids. A fat string of zeroes.

The problem was money, and he had to find a way to keep from spending what he managed to save. But he couldn’t manage to concentrate on his problem. His mind kept returning to the woman he had met that afternoon, the woman who liked her loving on a grease-room floor. At first, smarting from the way she had left him and patronizingly advised him to keep the change, he had dismissed her as a rich little bitch hunting for kicks.

But she was more than that. The bit in the greaseroom was no act; he ran his finger across his throat and could still feel the tooth-marks where she bit him in a moment of heightened passion. Closing his eyes, he could recall perfectly the shape of her perfect breasts and the slope of her thighs. He remembered the way her skin was all satiny beneath him. She was a beautiful and passionate woman, and although he was no raw schoolboy when it came to dames, this one had him knocked for a loop. He had to admit it — he was pretty hung up on her.

But what kind of a chance did he have? Those clothes cost plenty of money, and the MG wasn’t a toy. She was used to luxury and he sure as hell couldn’t give her that. He was just a game for her, someone to satisfy her when she needed loving. She didn’t care any more about him than about a meal she had already eaten and digested.

Forget her, he advised himself. Keep on working and save your money and marry one of your own kind, a gal who doesn’t expect a mansion and servants.

But he couldn’t put her out of his mind. Christ, he didn’t even know her name! He had to find out who she was, had to get some idea of the kind of person he had enjoyed himself with so completely.

He had to see her again.

He sat up suddenly and turned on the overhead light, blinking at the sudden brightness. He found what he was looking for in the pocket of his slacks — a tiny scrap of paper with a hasty scrawl on it. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Then, resolutely, he put on his bathrobe and stalked into the hallway to the pay phone. He dropped a dime into the slot and began to dial a number.