The Peddler (16 page)

She shrugged. “All right, Tony.”

He felt silly, arguing with a dame over a dance. That’s what getting stuck out in the sticks did to a guy. Here he was hanging around a plain little doll with his tongue hanging out. They walked into the street and Tony put his arm around Betty’s small waist, pulled her gently to him as they started to dance. She felt good close to him, her dark hair tickling his chin, the clean smell of her in his nostrils. Strangely, he found himself becoming excited by her nearness, the feel of her brushing lightly against him. Unconsciously, thinking of her wide, full mouth and her white skin, he pulled her closer to him, held her tight.

She pulled away, looked up at him. “Tony … don’t hold me so close. Please.”

He looked at her, seeing her flushed face, moist, parted lips. She seemed excited, as if she were feeling the same things he was. He looked at her mouth, wanting to kiss it, pull her tight against him and kiss her lips and throat. Jesus, what was the matter with him? A dame was a dame and he could take them or leave them. As he looked at her the music ended and it was suddenly quieter.

“Well,” he said, “that was a short one. Let’s dance the next, O.K.?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “I don’t think I want to, Tony.”

“Look, Betty. I hardly got to know you. And I’m leaving here tomorrow. We can at least have a dance or two, can’t we?”

“You’re leaving? How come?”

“I got places to go, move around. I’m restless. This dead town gives me the shudders. Anyway, I’m going.”

Neither of them said any more then, but when the music started they began dancing. Tony held her close to him, and she didn’t pull away. They didn’t speak. They danced that number and the next one, silently. Tony looked at her face from time to time; she danced with her eyes closed, breathing through her parted lips. He felt funny, an emptiness in his stomach. He wanted to pull her closer and closer, tight against him, squeeze his strong arms around her and mash her soft body to his.

After another dance he said, “Let’s walk a little, Betty. Get away from the noise, talk a little.”

“AU right.”

He took her hand and they walked away from the crowd, down a dimly lighted street. Tony didn’t know where they were going, he was just walking, holding her hand. He put his arm around her waist and they walked silently, hips brushing occasionally, still not speaking. They neared Tony’s hotel and he remembered his car parked in front, and walked that way. When they reached the Buick he opened the door and Betty got in. He drove out of town, up a winding road thickly bordered with trees, then at a small clearing pulled off the road and parked.

She said, “Why did you bring me up here, Tony?”

He turned toward her. “I just wanted to get away from those others, be alone with you.” His heart was thudding in his chest and he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand it. In the darkness he couldn’t see her, could only feel her nearness. He moved toward her on the seat, put his arm awkwardly around her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She resisted. “Tony,” she said, “please, Tony.”

Suddenly she relaxed and he pulled her against him, found her face with his left hand in the darkness and tilted it toward him, bent and found her lips with his. Her lips were sweet, soft and gentle, and her arms hesitantly went around him. He felt his blood rushing in his veins, knew her heartbeat was as rapid and heavy as his own as he pulled her tighter against him pressing his hands against her back. When he released her he could hear her panting breath in the darkness. He was breathing heavily.

She said, “Don’t kiss me like that, Tony.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like me any?”

He could hardly hear her, her voice was pitched so low. “It’s not that, Tony. I—you kind of scare me. There’s something about you. I don’t know. You’re—not nice, Tony. I’ve never been around anyone like you.”

His arms were still around her, their faces close together.

He kissed her cheek, the comer of her mouth, heard her sigh scrftly as his mouth moved over hers.

In the dark he could see only the outline of her body, but he could imagine the pale whiteness of her skin. She said breathlessly, “Don’t … Tony, please don’t … I’m afraid.” He didn’t speak, his heart beating wildly. He turned, moved close to her, his body finding her body, his mouth finding her mouth. “Oh, Tony,” muffled, breathless, “I’m afraid. Oh, Tony … Oh, Tony…”

Later he kissed her tear-stained cheeks, her salty lips. “Don’t cry,” he said. “What you crying for?”

“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t know. I just started to cry, is all. Kiss me, Tony, kiss me.”

After a while they sat close together, arms around each other. They talked for almost an hour. She told him about herself; she was eighteen, lived with her mother and stepfather. Her mother was sick a lot. She’d lived in Napa all her life, born here. Little things that shouldn’t have been interesting to Tony, but were.

Finally she said, “You know almost everything about me, and I don’t know anything except your name. And that you’re from San Francisco. What about you, Tony? What do you do? I want to know everything about you.”

Tony caressed her bare arm and began talking, telling her little things about himself, unimportant things. Suddenly, almost without knowing it, he was telling her about Sharkey, about starting in the racket, about working his way up to where he was now. She didn’t speak while he was talking, and he kept on, almost as if he wanted to spill it all out of himself, tell her about it, about everything. The words poured out of him and he kept speaking, not even knowing why he was saying so much. He told her about Maria, about the houses, Angelo, almost everything except the killing of the policeman. Finally he stopped.

After a full minute of silence he said, “Well? Say something. You must have plenty to say now I yakked my brains out.”

“I don’t know, Tony. I didn’t want to dance with you; didn’t want to come up here. I didn’t want to … do any of it. But I did. But … how can you take money from that? From prostitutes!”

“Hell, what’s wrong with it? Somebody’s going to; why not me? It’s as good as any other money.”

“But it’s disgusting.”

“I don’t get you,” he said, a trace of irritation in his tone. “There’s nothing disgusting about it. Hell, the girls make good dough; they can always get out if they want to—only they don’t want to.” He paused, thinking. “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you blow this stinking burg, Betty? I could get you set up in Frisco where you’d make more dough than all these stififs in Napa got put together. You’re buried in this graveyard.”

She laughed slightly. “Tony, if I thought you were serious, I’d really be mad at you. I know you’re not.” “What makes you think I’m not serious?” “Why, you couldn’t be. It sounded like you’d actually want me to work in one of those—those houses! You don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t. What’d be wrong with it? You’ll never get anyplace in this no-man’s land. I could set you up in Frisco so you’d make more dough than you ever saw. And, hell, we could be together a lot—and once you’d been in Frisco awhile, you’d never leave the place.”

She didn’t answer. He listened to the sounds coming from her and said, “You aren’t crying again, are you? What’s wrong with you?”

She finally said, “Tony, you’re rotten. You’re just rotten. I hate you, Tony. I do. I hate you!”

“Betty, don’t talk like that.” He tried to pull her closer, but she squirmed away from him.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was filled with loathing. “I’d rather be with a leper. I mean it. Don’t ever touch me again.”

He sat with his hands in his lap, looking at her barely visible outline. She sounded cold and mad. What did he get mixed up with such a dopey gal for in the first place? “Betty,” he said.

She interrupted him. “Take me home. Now.”

“Look, can’t we talk sensible?”

“Now, Tony. Or I’ll get out and walk.”

“Oh, God, what a silly thing to say. You act like a baby.”

She opened the car door, started to get out. Tony grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the seat. “O.K., dammit. I’ll take you home, and be glad of it.”

After leaving Betty, he drove straight to the Plaza Hotel, threw his few personal belongings into his suitcase, paid his bill and left. He glanced at his watch as he started out of town, saw it was not quite eleven P.M. He slowed down, thinking, the bubble of anger and an unfamiliar frustration slowly expanding inside him. He swung around and headed back toward the street dance; they’d be clod-hopping around till midnight.

He parked as close to the crowd as he could, got out and walked among the men and women, eyes searching. The crowd had thinned out a little and he soon spotted June’s bright blonde hair in the middle of the dancers. He walked up to her and the guy she was with. Tony tapped the guy on the shoulder and as they stopped dancing he said to June, “I want to talk to you.”

The man swallowed, looked at June again. She said, “Go on, Lester. I’ll see you later, maybe.”

June turned toward Tony and started to speak, but he interrupted her. “How’d you like to be a rich salesgirl in Frisco, kid?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Rich whore you mean?”

“Call it anything you want. But make up your mind fast. I’m taking off in about two minutes. You can come along if you want to.”

“That’s big of you. Don’t rush me.”

“Oh, go to hell.” He turned and started away but she grabbed his arm.

“Wait a minute; don’t get mad, Tony. I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving now. This dump turns-my stomach.” He paused, then grinned at her. “You got nothing to keep you buried here; you can send Vi a postcard. The car’s half a block away. We’ll have us some fun, baby. I’ll buy you a clarinet.”

She licked her lips. “Where you going?”

“Who cares? You name it and you can have it.” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t see your little chum here, did you? Little Ruthie?”

“No. Where is she?”

“Probably in Frisco by now. I fixed her up with—^with a nice job. She’s smart. Hell, she’s sixteen; by the time she’s eighteen she’ll be wearing mink pants. Maybe she’s smarter than you, June.”

“Not so fast, Tony.” She nibbled on her under lip. “How come … you could fix her up so easy?”

He laughed, really amused. “I forgot to tell you. In Frisco, baby, I’m the Top. I’m the boss.”

“You really want me to go with you?”

“I came back and asked you, didn’t I? I don’t mean we’re going to travel around the rest of our lives—you won’t have time, you’ll be busy. But we’ll have us some fun first, kid. Make up your goddamn mind.”

She hesitated. “Where’s Betty?”

“Forget Betty. You coming?”

“I’d have to pack something, get my clothes.”

“And forget the goddamn clothes. I’ll buy you some new ones. Well, come on if you’re coming.” He turned and started walking toward the car.

He was ia the Buick, putting the key in the ignition when June came running through the crowd, opened the door and slipped inside. “Damn you,” she said breathlessly. “Damn you. All right, Tony. Let me … let me pick up my records.”

“All right,” he said. “But make it fast.” Hell, remembering how hot she’d been in the booth at Westburns, maybe picking up the records wasn’t such a bad idea at that.

In the next month Tony traveled as far south as Bakers-field, and as far north as Willits. He had only one purpose: to recruit girls for the houses, and that activity at first helped stave off his growing boredom. Then finally, boredom, restlessness, and hunger occupied his mind almost all of his waking hours.

He phoned Angelo each week, reported on his activities and asked when the heat would be off and he could come home. Always the answer was: not yet; maybe soon. Each time the reply angered him more.

June was with him for five days, then he sent her on to see Leo Castiglio; she was by that time completely reconciled to being a “salesgirl,” and even looking forward to getting started. But after five days Tony was sick of her, as he had been sick of Ruthie. He and June had driven directly to Sacramento, which she had wanted to visit again; after she left, Tony drove up north, then south again to Fresno, Mendota, Coalinga, Bakersfield.

Tony had never had any trouble meeting girls, but now, concentrating on it as on a business problem, he learned how ridiculously easy it was to get acquainted with a girl he’d never seen before. Well acquainted. The ones who were aloof or distant, he ignored thereafter; the hell with them, there were a hundred eager babes for each of the cool ones. And the eagerness of many was accentuated by the big roll of bills Tony always carried, and by his car. He traded in the Buick for a new Cadillac convertible sedan, a maroon job with leather upholstery and white sidewall tires. There were two girls with him when he traded in the Buick, paid the rest of the price in cash, and drove out with them. One of them was on the way to San Francisco shortly afterwards. She wanted a Cadillac with white sidewall tires. She never got it.

Tony perfected his approach, his line, his technique, and the kiss-off when it was necessary. Some of the girls were easy, some tough, some he got drunk, some he seduced—and occasionally it was as if he, himself, were the one seduced— some he just talked to, put it up to them cold and let them take it or leave it. Most of them left it, but some got on a bus or train carrying Leo Castiglio’s name and business address written on a card in their possession. There was no special “type” most easily recruited, but Tony learned to look for the young girls who wore much imitation jewelry, necklaces and bracelets and rings and spangles, cheap clothes too tight across their hips and over their breasts, recklessly applied makeup; he looked for the inveterate readers of movie magazines and love stories. He looked for the “easy” girls always known to a certain segment of a town’s young manhood; he looked for the bold eye, the easy smile, the undisguised invitation. But, as the days became weeks, he learned most often to look for the unhappy, the unloved, the rejected, the frustrated.

The first question he asked, casually, of the girls when an opportunity was offered, was about their homes, their parents. Those who were unhappy at home, kicked around, unloved and often unwanted, were his easiest recruits—and there were many of these. They were fairly easy for Tony to recognize, because he had come from the same kind of home. If they were also very poor, there was little for Tony to do except guide the conversations and paint glowing pictures of Cadillacs and fine clothes, bright lights and glittering opportunities. Often he told little but the truth, though when it was in his opinion necessary, he lied easily and glibly—and convincingly. If he had thought about it, he might have found it pathetic that when he told a plain little girl with a fair figure that she looked like Marilyn Monroe or EUlizabeth Taylor, she might answer, “I been told it before; only it was Anita Ekberg. You really think so?”