‘Married. M-A-R-R-I-E-D. You understand what I’m saying?’
She had figured it out. Marry Vitos. Piss Flash off. Serve the scummy bastard right. When Flash had learned his lesson she would simply divorce Vitos. So it would cost a couple of million to pay Vitos off. Cheap at the price.
‘You lika the idea marriage?’ Vitos asked, stroking her thigh and thinking what marriage to Olympia Stanislopoulos would do for his PR rating.
‘I think we make a beautiful couple. Don’t you?’
‘Mebee we do.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Tomorrow I go Vegas. Ona week the Magiriano Hotel. You come with. We talk.’
‘That’s a
hell of an
answer,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t ask people to marry me every day of the week.’
‘Ol
eee
mpea,’ he said soothingly. ‘I beega star now. The American wimmen they lova me. I taka time, we do it. Whatta you say to
that?’
She swallowed what she really wanted to say, and nodded understandmgly. ‘Sure, Vitos, I’ll come with you. I’ll wait, and we’ll see what happens. Right?’
He smiled happily. ‘Right, Ol
eee
mpeea. Right, my darling.’
They sat in Judge Frederick Lester’s courtroom for two days. During the luncheon recess on the second day, Carrie turned to Steven and said, ‘It’s not him. I’m sure now.’
Steven felt a chill of disappointment. Of all the candidates, Judge Frederick Lester was the one he had hoped would turn out to be his father.
‘How can you be so sure?’ he asked in a low angry voice. ‘It’s been over forty years.’
‘I
am
sure. I’ve stared at the man for two days.’ She was near tears, but she held them in check, not wanting Steven to see her distress.
They left the courthouse and stood on the steps outside.
Carrie gazed straight ahead and wondered what the result of Steven’s quest for his past would be. She did not want to remember . . . But it was impossible to forget . . .
* * *
It was her friend, Goldie’s, twenty-first birthday. She had a date with her boyfriend, Mel, and he was bringing along Freddy Lester. It was after show time, and the girl who had agreed to be Freddy’s date had turned her ankle and was hobbling around in agony. Goldie looked beseechingly at Carrie. ‘Please!’ she begged.
Carrie did not see how she could say no. After all, it
was
Goldie’s birthday. Anyway, she had to learn to trust herself sometime; she couldn’t be a recluse for the rest of her life. Nine years locked in an institution was enough. ‘Okay,’ she agreed reluctantly.
When they emerged from the theatre, Mel and Freddy – who was quite good-looking and knew it – were waiting outside the stage door. They greeted the girls with enthusiasm.
‘Hiya, fellas,’ said Goldie, in her best Mae West voice.
‘Happy birthday, gorgeous,’ replied Mel, grabbing her in a bear hug and kissing her full on the mouth.
Carrie and Freddy stared warily at each other.
‘Whoops-a-daisy!’ exclaimed Goldie, pushing him away. ‘You’re spoiling my lipstick, you big oaf She grinned at Freddy. ‘Hello, I’m Goldie, as if you didn’t know. And this is Carrie – your dream date for the night. Aren’t you the lucky one!’
Freddy’s expression did not indicate that he was the lucky one at all. He nodded curtly to Carrie as the four of them set off down the alley to Mel’s car. Once there Mel opened up the doors. Goldie climbed into the front, and Carrie got into the back while Mel and Freddy stood outside.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Carrie heard Mel ask his friend.
‘Jesus!’ Freddy replied, in what was supposed to be a whisper. ‘She’s a fucking dinge!’
‘So?’ replied Mel matter-offactly. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of black pudding?’
‘Sure,’ replied Freddy, ‘but I’ve never taken it out in public.’
Aw, c’mon,’ laughed Mel. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ They climbed into the car.
In the back, Carrie gazed miserably out the window. Their hateful words hung in her ears:
Fucking dinge. Black pudding.
Her eyes filled with salty tears which slid silently down her cheeks. She kept her head determinedly turned toward the window so that no one would observe her misery.
They started the evening off in a small jazz joint on Fifty-second Street. Neat little combo playing, champagne flowing. Goldie was in high spirits, rarin’ to go. And when Carrie stated she wanted to stick to fruit juice, she let her have it full blast. ‘Hey, listen, chickie. It’s my
birthday
an’ I plan to have
fun.
If you’re gonna moon around with a long face it’s gonna spoil
everything.
Now have some champagne, for God’s sake, an’ put a smile on your face!’
Carrie obliged. She had forgotten the potent taste of champagne, although when Whitejack, her former pimp, was flush, he had bought it by the bucket.
One glass turned into two, then three, and on to another club, and frothy white daiquiris which were so delicious she had at least four. After all, they were such little drinks, what harm could they do?
By the time the four of them piled into Clemmie’s nightclub they were feeling no pain. Carrie and Freddy were the best of friends, giggling, laughing, dancing. And when his hands accidentally on purpose kept brushing against her breasts she didn’t mind one bit. She felt free and alive. It was the first time in years she could honestly say she was living.
‘You are sim’ly great, y’know that?’ Freddy slurred.
She responded by locking her hands around his neck and gazing into his eyes.
Fucking dinge
no longer reverberated in her mind. ‘Thank you’, she murmured sincerely. It had been a long time since anyone had told her that.
‘No, I mean it’, Freddy insisted, as if he was expecting her to argue.
‘Hey’, said Goldie, nudging Carrie. ‘You see that guy over there. That’s
the
Gino Santangelo. He owns the joint. I met him once. He’s a
real
bad boy.’
Her eyes swivelled to check him out. ‘I’ve taken on a lotta bad boys in my time’, she boasted.
‘Carrie!’ exclaimed Goldie, giggling. ‘I’ve never seen you like this!’
‘Yeah. You don’t know nothin’!’
Goldie nudged Mel. ‘She’s really bombed.’
Mel grinned. ‘How’d you like to make yourself fifty bucks, Carrie?’
‘What didja have in mind, big boy?’
‘I betcha fifty bucks y’can’t make it with the great Mr Santangelo.’
‘Yeah?’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘You just lost yourself a bet.’
Before any of them could stop her, she was on her feet and sashaying across the crowded club.
Goldie clapped her hand to her mouth in amazement. ‘Oh, my God, Mel! What have you done? This isn’t like her at all.’
He laughed nastily. ‘C’mon, doll, she ain’t gonna do anything she hasn’t done a hundred times before.’
Freddy grimaced drunkenly. ‘Thanks a lot, old buddy,’ he complained.
Gino sat at his usual table. Cock of the walk. A constant stream of customers trailed over to pay homage.
He wore his customary three-piece dark suit, white silk shirt, tasteful tie. His black hair was slicked down. The huge diamond ring on his pinky caught the light occasionally and gleamed expensively. Only the scar on his face gave him a slightly sinister look. That and his hard black eyes, which one woman had recently compared to Rudolph Valentino’s.
He sipped his Scotch and inspected the female heading his way. Black. Exotic. And breasts that would stop traffic.
She reached his table and smiled. ‘Mr Santangelo?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear you own this place. I just thought I’d stop by and tell you what a classy spot I think it is.’
He smiled. He liked bold women. Sometimes. ‘Sit down, have a drink.’
Carrie sat. She felt marvellous. Just drunk enough to believe she could own the world if she wanted to.
‘Champagne?’ he questioned.
‘Naturally.’
He clicked his fingers, and a waiter was instantly by his side.
A bottle of the best champagne.’
Gino studied her. A rare unusual beauty. One glass and he would take her home.
One more glass and she would go.
Later, they were together in his apartment and the love-making was good. When it was over he wanted her to go home. He got up from the bed. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said, ‘betcha didn’t learn to do
that
in school.’
The champagne was still colouring Carrie’s mind. She felt powerful and in control and
oh, so good.
Gino Santangelo had not used her. She had not used him. It was a mutually enjoyable experience.
Lazily she stretched. Her body felt reborn, as if someone had come along and hammered out all the tenseness.
‘My car’s downstairs. The driver’ll take you home whenever you’re ready,’ Gino said easily. ‘Oh – and here’s a little present for you. Buy yourself something pretty.’
He handed her a hundred dollars. He always gave the women he took to bed money for a gift. It was an idiosyncrasy of his, and no one ever objected.
‘You sonofabitchl’ she screamed, leaping up from the bed.
‘You think I’m a whore?’
‘Hey, of course not . . .’
‘How dare you! How
dare
you!’ She struggled into her clothes like a wildcat, glaring at him and screaming.
‘Hey, listen, if I thought you was a whore I’d have given you the going rate. This money’s a present.’
‘Fuck you!’ she screamed. ‘If I was a whore, it would have cost you a hell of a lot more.’ And throwing the money in his face she stormed out of his apartment.
She ignored Gino’s car and driver waiting downstairs, and began to walk along Park Avenue. She was sobering up in a hurry.
Fucking dinge
was coming back to haunt her. And a red-hot fury was building inside her.
What had she been thinking of, approaching Gino Santangelo like that? Who else
but
a whore would go over to a man’s table, sit down, and half an hour later share his bed?
Fucking dinge. Whore.
The words flew through her head. She had tried so hard to be decent, and now – after one night – she was back where she had started.
She walked seven blocks before she got a cab, and then the driver gave her a dubious look and said, ‘I ain ’t goin’ to Harlem, honey.’
‘Nor am I,
honey.’
He didn’t like that. He maintained a frosty silence all the way to the Village.
She paid him off and climbed the three flights of stairs to the roomy loft she shared with Goldie. Once inside, she was dismayed to find Freddy Lester in bed.
Her bed.
She could not believe her eyes.
Angrily she shook him awake. ‘Get out of here,’ she insisted in a furious whisper.
‘Aw, c’mon, toots,’ he mumbled, bleary-eyed and still drunk. He had no intention of getting up and going home.
‘Will you get out of my bed?’ she hissed.
‘Whyn’tyou come in an’ join me? I’ve bin waitin’ all night,’ he slurred.
‘Whyn’tyou drop dead?’
He gripped her wrist. ‘C’mon, sweetie pie, be a sport.’
‘Let go of me.’
He was surprisingly strong. With ease he pulled her onto the bed.
‘I’ll scream if you don’t stop,’ she raged.
‘Don’t do that, sweetie.’ And he placed the heavy palm of his hand over her mouth, stopping her from screaming and holding her down all at the same time. With his other hand he pulled up her skirt and ripped off her panties.
She went numb. The strength just drained right out of her.
He took this as a sign of acquiescence, and somehow got out his penis and began jamming it into her.
She made little choking noises in her throat. His hand prevented her sobs of anguish from emerging. She willed her mind to go blank, and when he took his hand away she did not scream. She waited until he finished, and then said calmly, ‘That’ll be thirty bucks, mister. Thirty big ones.’
‘What?’ he mumbled.
‘You screw a whore, you
pay’,
she said in a cold unruffled manner. ‘Especially when you screw a fucking dinge.’