So Willing

Six

It was a very strange vacation.

There was only one place in New York where they spent any time, and that was the hotel. And there was only one place in the hotel where they seemed to spend any time, and that was the bed. There were the mornings, and there were the afternoons, and there were the evenings. Some girls, Vince knew, had a time clock built into a very important part of their anatomy. Some could only do it properly in the morning, and others in the afternoon, and most of them at night.

Saralee wasn’t the time clock type. She wasn’t even the time bomb type. She was built more along the lines of a hundred-gallon drum of nitroglycerine, always ready to go off.

In the past, when Vince had gotten started in the role of a dungaree Don Juan, he had learned that you could get pretty sick of the same woman. That had happened with Rhonda. It was great, even if it did leave him feeling thoroughly conned by her mock virginity. It was great, but after a while it was the same damned thing over and over, and then all of a sudden it wasn’t so great anymore.

Saralee was different. With Saralee it wasn’t the same damned thing over and over. Far from it. Saralee was imaginative, and inventive, and insatiable. They had started off in the good old way, and after a while Vince had taught her a few things that he had always considered very advanced, and then she had taught him a few things that were absolutely unbelievable. If he had heard them described he would have sworn they were biologically impossible, but they weren’t. Not with the two of them carrying through so successfully.

So he wasn’t bored with Saralee. You couldn’t be bored with Saralee, any more than you could be bored with sex in general. She just wasn’t the boring sort.

Exhausting... That was more the word for it.

Vince was exhausted. He ate eggs all the time, and plenty of nearly raw meat, and drank buckets of milk, and even bolted down a dozen raw oysters once in desperation. But it didn’t work. In fact, the more fit he was for horizontal games (or vertical games, depending upon Saralee’s particular state of mind at the moment) the more games they played.

In fact, if he had been out of condition it would have worked out a lot better. Then he could have said that he was too tired, which he did from time to time. It didn’t seem to make much difference, though. She would find something to do that would make him untired again. She found a lot of things.

And they always worked.

Some of them were things that nice girls didn’t do, and some of them were things that nice girls didn’t think about, and some of them were things that nice girls didn’t know about. Some of them, for that matter, were things that nice whores didn’t think about.

But they always worked.

By the evening of the third day Vince realized that his time limit wasn’t limited enough. He’d thought that four days with Saralee wouldn’t be enough. He was wrong. Four days with Saralee would be enough. Enough to kill him.

It was eight o’clock now and he was mercifully alone, eating a plateful of fried potatoes and washing them down with black coffee. Fried potatoes and black coffee did nothing at all for your virility, and this was the main reason he was eating them. What he really wanted was a blood-rare steak, but he was afraid that if he had a blood-rare steak he would find it a good deal more difficult to run out on Saralee.

Which was precisely what he was planning to do.

He stirred the coffee and took a sip of it. It was simple — Saralee was out shopping, the only other activity she found enjoyable. The stores were open until nine and she was getting in her licks. She wouldn’t be back until nine-thirty at the earliest, which gave him an hour and a half at the very least.

He was in a restaurant just a block from the hotel. He would go back, get the car which Saralee had moved to the hotel’s parking lot, and get the merry hell out of New York. It would be too bad about Saralee, of course, but if it was too bad about Saralee that was just too bad. He couldn’t feel particularly sympathetic toward her at the moment. She was a nice kid, and she meant well, and she was sweet and good and kind, but if he didn’t get away from her soon he would be dead.

Besides, Saralee would make out okay. If worse came to worse, she could always get a job. He’d heard how rough it was for an inexperienced girl to get a job in New York, but fortunately Saralee had plenty of experience in two areas. She could get a job in a drugstore behind the counter, because of all her experience in Brighton. Or she could get a job in a cathouse because of all her experience, period.

He laughed an evil laugh. It was going to be easy now. Back to the hotel. Pack the suitcase. Get the car. Drive off into the night. Stay the hell away from New York because a man could get killed if he stayed in New York long enough.

The check came to a dollar and ten cents, which was too much, but he paid it and left the waiter a forty cent tip, which was ridiculous. What the hell. It was her money, not his. He couldn’t take it along, because that would be stealing. But he could tip his head off, and that would be all right.

He no longer believed old Bradley Jenkins was over forty, the way Saralee said he was, and the way he looked. It seemed that way on the surface, but after you knew Saralee the way he knew Saralee, you got a different picture.

The way he figured it, Brad Jenkins was around twenty-three. When he married Saralee, Brad was big and broad-shouldered and hungry for sex. Being married to Saralee, Vince knew, would be a pretty debilitating experience. If three days with her could demolish a guy, a year could turn him into an old man before his time. More than a year was impossible to imagine.

Poor Brad Jenkins, fainting all over the place like that. The way Vince looked at it, Brad was fainting from sheer unadulterated joy. He was fainting because he couldn’t believe he’d actually managed to unload Saralee on some poor goof.

Named Vince.

The elevator deposited him on his floor and Vince walked to the room. It was simple now, very simple. He opened the door with his key, closed it behind him, and started throwing things into his suitcase. There was very little to pack and it didn’t take him long.

With the suitcase closed, he went to the door again, ready to ride back down to the main floor and get his car from the garage. And just about then something profound occurred to him. It was going to be difficult, very difficult indeed, to drive that car without the key. And he didn’t have the goddamned key.

Saralee had it. Saralee moved the car from the original lot to the hotel garage, and somehow in the bed-to-bed-to-bed confusion of it all, he hadn’t managed to get key away from her. At the time it hadn’t mattered. What the hell, he wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need car, not then. So she kept the key. It was in her purse and her purse was with her, and she was not around.

Of all the brilliant, masterful, superb displays of creative stupidity, this won the Oscar. Of all the—

He didn’t unpack the suitcase. It might have been the best thing to do, so she wouldn’t suspect anything, but he was willing to bet she wouldn’t look in his suitcase. Not her. She would look at him, and then she would take off her clothes, and off they would go again on the old merry-go-round.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. While he waited, he found a few more things to call himself and a few more things to call her. At a quarter to ten the door finally opened.

“Hi!” she called gaily. “I’m home!”

“I’m glad to see you,” he said honestly.

“Miss me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wait’ll you see what I bought.” She wrestled with a package, a massive white box all messed up with red ribbon. She uncovered the box triumphantly, hauling out a garment.

I mean, Vince thought, you just had to call it a garment. Because there wasn’t much else you could call it. Because there wasn’t much there, when you came right down to it.

It was black, and it was flimsy, and it was sheer, and it was about as concealing as a pane of glass. “What the hell is it?” he asked.

“Can’t you tell?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Well, what does it look like?”

“Looks like a hairnet.”

She laughed. “Here,” she said. “I’ll model it for you. I mean, I bought it for you.”

“You bought it for me?”

She nodded.

“I’d look awfully silly—”

That got another laugh. “I bought it so I could look good to you,” she said. “So you can look at me while I’m wearing it and get all excited.”

Here we go, he thought. Here we go, off on the goddamned merry-go-round again. She began undressing, clothes soaring all over the room, until in a short time she wasn’t wearing a damned thing. Then she was wearing something, but it was the hairnet, so the effect remained about the same. The hairnet, amazingly, covered all of her from shoulders to knees. It covered all of her and concealed none of her, all at once, which was fantastic.

“Vince,” she cooed, homing in on him. “Good sweet Vince. My little Vince. My baby’s going to be good to me, isn’t he? My baby’s going to make me feel good again.”

Your baby, he thought, is going to crap out completely. Your baby is going to fold up like a murphy bed. And the word bed made him wince a little. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to see a bed again without thinking of Saralee.

Or a floor, for that matter. Or a bathroom rug. Or a bathtub. Or a coat closet, or an elevator, or—

“Take off your clothes, Vince. There, Vince. Now you’re as naked as I am. Nakeder, because of this thing I’m wearing. It cost thirty-five dollars, can you imagine?”

At that price it cost about three times as much, ounce for ounce, as platinum. He looked at her, and he decided that maybe the thirty-five bucks had been well spent.

“Look at me, Vince. Don’t I look good? Look at my breasts. They’re nice, aren’t they? You know, I think they’ve grown since I met you. I mean, they’re getting all this exercise and everything. It’s stimulating them, sort of, and they’re getting bigger.”

If they got much bigger she’d need a suitcase to carry them in. He looked at her. She was having that old effect on him again, the effect she invariably had. He didn’t want to go another round, not mentally. But his body somehow wasn’t listening to his mind. His body was acting as though it had a mind of its own, which was sort of disconcerting.

He grabbed her and heaved her down on the bed. The hairnet thing fell away and he threw himself down on her, hungry for her, but now it was her turn to play. She was being coquettish. It was sort of funny, but he didn’t feel like laughing.

“Not so fast,” she was saying. “Let’s go nice and slow now, Vince. Remember the way you teased me that day I was on fire? Remember the way you made me wait and wait and wait and I almost went out of my mind waiting so long? Now you can wait, Vince. Now you can wait until I’m good and ready.”

He was being placed in the difficult position of raping a girl he didn’t want in the first place. Raping a nymphomaniac, which was even worse. How in the name of the Lord did you go about raping a nymphomaniac?

And she wouldn’t stop squirming around. Every time he thought he had her, she would give a little twist and laugh a mean laugh and suddenly she wasn’t where she had been a second ago. It was like banging your head against a brick wall. He got hold of a breast, and held it, and felt all that creamy flesh. And then he would reach for more of her, and, suddenly, the grand prize wasn’t there any more.

Saralee, he thought, you are now about to be raped. Lie back and enjoy it.

The thirty-five dollar hairnet disappeared. It was an exhilarating feeling, ripping a thirty-five dollar hairnet into gossamer wisps. It was even more exhilarating when he hauled off and belted her in the belly with his closed fist.

She let out a roar.

So he belted her again.

Then the prize was his, and it began, and suddenly he heard her bellowing like a wounded steer. Except that she didn’t sound wounded at all, or, for that matter, bovine.

When it was over and he was lying on his back staring vacantly at the ceiling, he knew just what he had to do. It was the only way out, and although it might well kill him, it was the best way to get out of the hotel without her. It would not be easy, not at all, but it was the only way. He had to tell himself over and over again that it was the only way or he could never possibly go through with it. And he had to go through with it, of course, because, after all, it was the only way.

It was a simple way. Very simple.

He simply had to keep doing it to her until she passed out. Over and over again, until she couldn’t take it anymore and passed out. Then he would get up and get dressed and take the car key from her purse and off he would go and the hell with her.

The second time was tough, but he did it, and when he was through he looked hopefully for signs of weariness. But she didn’t look very weary. She looked ready for more.

“That was good,” she told him, her eyes shining. “You know, you seem to improve with practice. You just keep getting better.”

More, he thought. Got to do it again. Then she’ll be so tired she’ll pass out, and that will be just ginger peachy. Then I’ll spring out of bed and off I’ll go, back to the pea-green waters of Lake Lugubrious.

“Come on, Vince,” she said. “Let’s do it again. Gee I haven’t had this much fun in years. For a while there, I thought you were slowing down, but I must have been wrong. Three times in a row! Gee.”

Gee, he thought savagely. Gee, oh, dee, dee, ay, em, en. Gee.

The third time was sort of like trying to climb a mountain with your hands and feet tied together. The third time was sort of like swimming through sand. The third time was torture.

But the third time did the trick. He rolled away from her when it was finally over and looked down into her eyes. They had a dreamy look to them and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before she would fall asleep. Then he would bound out of bed and get that cruddy key and off he would go.

He looked at her, waiting for her to fall asleep, hoping that she would have the decency to conk out before too long. He looked at her, and he felt envious of Bradley Jenkins. Jenkins might have lost a lot of money, but now he had the chance to get his health back. Lucky Jenkins.

Her eyes closed, and her breathing leveled off, and he was ready to get up and go. He was ready, but his body wasn’t ready, and he waited for a minute or two to get his strength up.

And then, abruptly, Vince passed out.

He woke up. He sat up in bed and opened his eyes. He looked over at Saralee but she wasn’t there. She had managed it, had gotten up before him and vanished into New York, leaving him there.

Her purse had gone with her, which meant that his key had gone with her, which in turn meant that he was right back where he started from.

Which was nowhere. Which was up the creek in a lead canoe.

Which was unpleasant.

And it had been such a perfect plan. He’d worked like a Turk, managed three masterful assaults on the castle, and then, with the prize within his grasp, he’d pulled a Bradley Jenkins. Not a faint, perhaps, but a crap-out, and it amounted to about the same thing.

His mind groped around and presented him with a marvelous mental picture. He would wait for her to return, and then they would do it again, and again, and again, and he would keep falling asleep, and he wouldn’t get back to the cabin ever again. And, damn it, today was the last day he had. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

Well, the hell with the key. He could always run a jumper wire and get the car started without it. He’d done that once before. It might look strange, might baffle the lot attendant a little, but what the hell, it was his car, and he could play games with it if he wanted to. The lot attendant’s private opinion of him didn’t count now. All that counted was getting back to the lake.

He pulled himself out of bed and jumped into his clothes. He picked up his suitcase, left the room and rang for the elevator. He wasn’t even going to wait for breakfast, not now. He could grab a bite to eat on the road. For the time being, all he wanted was to put as much distance as possible between himself and New York.

He left the elevator, walked around to the garage and found the attendant. “I’m James Blue,” he lied. “I’d like my car, please.”

“Sure,” the guy said. “Hang on a minute and I’ll run her out for you.”

The attendant disappeared and Vince steadied himself. It was suspicious, him leaving with a suitcase. Almost as though he was trying to skip out on his bill. Which, come to think of it, he was.

Well, if the attendant made any trouble, he could always leave the suitcase behind. The suitcase didn’t matter. He mattered, though, and the car mattered. To hell with the suitcase.

The attendant came back smiling. “Sorry,” he said. “Guess you and the missus got your signals crossed.”

Vince looked blank.

“It’s in the book,” the attendant explained. “I wasn’t on then so I didn’t know, but your wife picked up the car a few minutes before eight.”

Vince felt blank.

“If you don’t have too far to go,” the attendant said, “you can always go out front and grab a hack. Easier than driving, especially if you don’t know the city. Doorman’ll flag down a hack for you if you ask him.”

He headed back to the room. All of a sudden he didn’t feel too good.

He felt worse when he got back to the room. Much worse, because he gave the room a quick going-over and saw something, something he hadn’t noticed when he jumped out of bed and headed for freedom.

The room looked the same as ever, with boxes piled all over it. But this time he looked in the boxes and made a rather startling discovery.

They were empty. Every last one of them was completely empty. So was the closet.

Which meant, pure and simple, that Saralee had decided to clear out. It wasn’t enough that she had left him, but she had also made off with his car. And, undoubtedly, had also left him with the hotel bill unpaid. And no money except for the ten bucks and change he had in his wallet.

Or did he? He looked in the wallet and shuddered. The little bitch had gone through it and it was empty. Quite empty.

He was broke, and his car was gone, and the bill wasn’t paid, and he had to bring the car back to his father by nightfall, and he didn’t have a car to bring back, and he was broke, and he owed the damned hotel a fortune, and he had to get back to Lake Ludicrous, and...

First things first. First he had to get out of the hotel, and this time, of course, he couldn’t take his suitcase with him. If he did, they might stop him. And if they stopped him there were several things they would find out. They would learn that Saralee was gone, and that all Saralee’s luggage had somehow managed to accompany Saralee, and that the car was gone, and that he had been trying to get lost himself. They would also discover that he was neither James Blue nor a resident of Philadelphia, and at that point they would solve all his problems for him. They would chuck him in the tank, and they would lose the key, and that would be the end.

He left the suitcase, took the elevator to the main floor and headed for the door. He felt his hands trembling a little and hid them in his pockets.

Then he heard the voice, just behind him, saying: “Mister Blue? Could I talk to you for a minute?”