People didn’t return to the Congress out of some romantic concept of loyalty, he had recently concluded. That was an outmoded and outdated fantasy, something Ellen Golden would have to get through her head. Guests came back for one reason and one reason only. They couldn’t get the same value for the price anyplace else. It was as simple as that. Anything else was a figment of an old-timer’s imagination.
He stopped short as he saw the expression on Bruce’s face as, champagne in hand, he stood in front of one of the tables of hors d’oeuvres. He had obviously never seen so much food, so elegantly prepared and displayed. Perhaps, thought Jonathan, he might use this observation to advantage. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could get this medical detective to get so wrapped up in the special delights of the hotel he would forget about quarantines, cholera, and epidemics altogether. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody had succumbed.
“Okay,” Charlotte said, pausing for effect in the doorway of the now very crowded Gold room. “Pick a winner!”
“Will you please stop it?” Fern blurted out, embarrassed to even make an entrance at this point with her friend. Charlotte had been much, much too loud on their way down to the cocktail party. Fern was positive the woman in the elevator with her six-foot-tall husband despised her for the obvious way she was flirting with him. Then, to make matters worse, she had practically propositioned the attendant at the information counter in the lobby.
“Listen, honey, contrary to what you may have heard, good things don’t happen to those who wait. You have to make them happen—especially if you’re looking for action!”
“I never said I was looking for what you call ‘action.’ ”
Charlotte turned and looked at her again, very unhappy with the way things were turning out. They had had their first argument in the room about clothes. Fern was wearing a high-neck, long-sleeved, three-quarter-length
shmatta
that even Klein’s basement would have rejected. Her hair, tied back in a bun so tightly it pulled the edges of her forehead up on her scalp, made her look twenty years older than she was. Her makeup, what little of it there was, added nothing.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Charlotte told her. She had just zipped up a copy of a bright red strapless featured recently on the cover of
Vogue.
Her cleavage was magnified by a padded bra purchased specially for the occasion. Her auburn hair, recently styled by Mr. Albert of 58th St., fell neatly around the nape of her neck and she had spent nearly an hour painting her face with what seemed to be a pound of mascara, eye liner, shadow, and lipstick. “This is a hunt we’re on, not a retreat.”
“I’m not comfortable pretending to be something I’m not.”
“Who’s telling you to be something you’re not? You’re a woman, aren’t you? You’re entitled to some fun in your life. Virginity doesn’t guarantee a long and happy life, my friend. It doesn’t guarantee a thing.”
“It’s not just a question of virginity,” Fern said, a deep blush accomplishing naturally what all the cosmetics on Charlotte’s counter could never hope to do.
“Then what is it a question of?”
“There’s got to be more in the world than just sex. What about love, for instance?”
“What about it?”
“To be with a man just because he’s got a you-know-what between his legs is ridiculous,” Fern went on. “I’d rather be by myself. Then, at least, I know I’m not being used.”
Charlotte quickly dropped the conversation, but was not at all pleased at having burdened herself with a dud. “As if I don’t have enough difficulty meeting someone as it is,” she mused.
“We might as well get something to eat,” she suggested as she made her way through the crowd to the serving tables. Fern followed reluctantly just as Bruce, trying to balance two plates and a drink, turned around awkwardly and nearly knocked Charlotte off her feet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” he said, his face almost as red as the nearby tablecloths.
“No harm done,” Charlotte said, holding on to his shoulder for support. “How’s the food?”
“The best I ever tasted. Those little liver things, I think they’re called knishes, are delicious.”
“How marvelous,” she said, lifting two from his plate and popping them simultaneously into her mouth. “I just love little liver things.”
He was about to respond when his eyes were drawn to Fern standing uncomfortably at her side. “I think someone’s trying to get through.”
“Oh, that’s just Fern. Fern,” she said, grabbing her roommate brusquely by the arm, “I want you to meet—”
“Bruce. Bruce Solomon.”
“Hi,” Fern said, barely lifting her head. He felt a surge of pity for the obviously unhappy young lady.
“And you must be the hotel’s hostess, huh?” he asked, turning his attention back to Charlotte.
“Me? Goodness no,” she said. “I’m just a virgin in distress.”
“In distress? Why?”
“Because I’m a virgin.”
Fat chance, Bruce thought.
“For Godsakes, Charlotte,” Fern said.
“So your name’s Charlotte.”
“Charlotte’s the name and fun’s the game,” she said, assuming a dramatic pose, “but first things first. Are you up here by yourself or is there a wife in the background shooting evil darts at me for talking to you?”
“No wife, not even a girlfriend. I’m afraid I’m as stag as I’ll ever be.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence,” she said, taking him possessively by the arm, “so are we.”
Flo Goldberg excused herself from the group of chattering women and walked to the oak bar where Manny was gathered with his cronies. He was talking with a cigar in his mouth again, rolling it around lasciviously with his teeth while spots of brown saliva drooled over the top of his lower lip. It was thoroughly disgusting and for a moment she had to swallow hard to keep down the little cocktail franks. Finally she took a deep breath and pulled him away.
“What is it, for crissakes? Everything’s got to be a mystery, a secret?”
“Relax, will you. I’m not going to keep you from your dirty stories. I’m just going up to fix my makeup. If I’m not back before the party ends, I’ll meet you in the dining room.”
“Your makeup looks good enough to me.”
“Shows how much you know.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’ll meet you in the dining room.” Suddenly he remembered something. “Listen, I left a package of cigars in the little suitcase. Bring ’em back with you when you come down.”
“You know you can’t smoke in the dining room on Friday, Manny. They keep
Shabbes
up here.”
“Don’t worry about it, huh? Just bring ’em.”
He turned back to the group of men, said something quickly with a gesture toward her and joined them in a raucous laugh. She paid no attention, by now she was used to him, and hurried out of the room. When she stepped into the lobby she checked to see there was no one there she knew and, satisfied, walked in the direction of the service desk. Billy Marcus came out from the little office behind, buttoning his three-quarter blue bellhop’s jacket from bottom to top. Having caught her attention, he looked around nervously, then came out from behind the counter.
“Good evening,” Flo said smiling.
“Mrs. Goldberg. What can I do for you?”
“Do you think,” she said, taking her room key out of her purse, “you could go up to my room and get a package of cigars from the small suitcase under the bed?”
“Sure thing.”
“Many thanks,” she said, handing him the key. As he walked to the elevator, she went over to the information desk, pretending to check for messages. Then she quickly followed him to her room. She had only to knock once.
“Hello again, Mrs. Goldberg,” Billy grinned.
“We’ve got about fifteen minutes,” she replied tersely, throwing her pocketbook on the nearest chaise. In a matter of seconds she had unzipped her cocktail dress, the underside of her upper arms jiggling unceremoniously as she pushed it down over her hips and clumsily wriggled out.
“Congress quickie, eh?” Billy said.
Flo didn’t bother to reply. She was all business. Instead of working her girdle off, she unsnapped her stockings and folded the elastic material up over her abdomen so she could remove it at the same time she did her panties.
He just stood and watched. A curiously built twenty-two-year-old with a football player’s shoulders and a matador’s hips and ass, Marcus was a good six inches taller than Flo. His shiny blond hair had a thickly rich texture that gave testimony to his good health and virility. His tanned freckled face reminded her of a young Van Johnson.
Women had no difficulty molding Billy into their fantasies and Flo was certainly no different. Her favorite was to run her fingers up and down his erect prick, imagining at the same time that she was being seen on the new cinemascopic screens, so flesh-toned and life-like in 3-D that men in the audience had orgasms in their seats just at the sight of her.
It was time for Billy to get started. Methodically, he proceeded to kneel so he could play with her nipples. He closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in his own fantasy. Often while making love to one woman, he thought of making love to another. And then there were the times when he had to force himself to think about other things, just so he’d have the lasting power. Like last week when he made love to that pimply faced twenty-year-old daughter of a VIP. The whole time he replayed the last game of the 1956 World Series. But Flo was having none of it. She rushed him along.
“Christ, is this safe? I mean—”
“It’s safe. Of course it’s safe.” She was tugging at his belt. “Manny’s at the bar and he’s going to meet me in the dining room in fifteen minutes.”
“Hold on,” he said. He had at least wanted to take off his uniform and get his pants neatly folded. But it was obviously too late. Dropping to her knees, she clawed down his jockey shorts and embraced his legs so savagely he nearly toppled backward on the bed.
“Hey, take it—”
“God yes,” she moaned, mistaking the words for a request. She nearly choked on her enthusiasm. As her lips tightened, she thought she could feel the movement of blood through the tiny veins in the stem of his penis. It had hardened against her tongue. The realization made her dizzy. She released him and pressed her cheeks against his balls, inhaling the musty odor. Then she reacted to the vaginal wetness soaking through the crotch of her panties.
Impatiently, she pulled them off, dropping them like a flag of surrender.
“Quickly,” she begged. “I can’t wait.”
Billy straightened up and then fell on top of her body. Her legs dangled clumsily over the edge of the bed. He set out to tease her, threatening entrance, then pulling away pretending disinterest. She was having none of it. She wanted him NOW, completely, totally, fully.
“Hurry up,” she cried, “this is no time for games. I’ve got to be there before they serve the soup.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replied as if on cue. “At your service.”
He entered her quickly, her arms pounding him lightly on the shoulder at first, then somewhat harder with a rhythm akin to the cha-cha—in, out, cha, cha, cha. One, two, one–two–three.
“Careful,” he said between grunts. “Don’t mess up my jacket. I just had it cleaned and pressed.”
Afterward she tried to work the flush out of her face with cold water and fresh makeup. He was gone when she came back from the bathroom. She checked herself in the mirror, straightened up the bed, and left. When she reached the lobby, she saw people still going into the dining room. “Good,” she thought, “I’m not late.”
Suddenly she heard her name. She turned with a shock as Billy Marcus strode toward her, clutching something awkwardly in his fist.
“What is it?” she said breathlessly, her hands pressed tightly, almost protectively, against her hips. “What’s wrong?”
“Your husband’s cigars,” he said, holding out the package. He leaned forward. “I thought you might have been joking but I decided to check the suitcase anyway.”
“Thank God,” she said with a sigh of relief. “It’s a good thing you did. Thank you,” she went on, loud enough for the elderly couple on the sofa to hear. “And this is for you.”
She pressed something deep into his hand. Her fingers squeezed his for a moment, then, suddenly ravenous, she went off to join her husband.
Billy rubbed one palm against the other, then looked down to see what she had left. Would you believe it, he muttered with disgust, a lousy fifty cents. For all his effort, a goddamn lousy fifty cents!
Melinda caught Nick Martin’s eye as he stood waiting patiently in the lobby. With the assurance of one who knows what she wants, she walked across the plush carpet never once breaking stride or taking her attention from his face. She knew a good find when she had one.
“I’m not late.”
“No.” She was one of the most striking women he had ever laid eyes on. “Shall we indulge?”
“In everything,” she said, taking his arm and leading him past the nightclub toward the party.
Jonathan watched them enter the Gold room, checked to see that Ellen was where he could find her and went over to greet the two of them. Neither seemed happy at the intrusion.
“Good evening,” he said, holding his hand out to Nick. “Glad you could make it.” He turned to the lady at his side. “And good evening to you too, Miss—”
“This is Melinda Kaplan,” Nick interrupted. “Melinda, this is Jonathan Lawrence, general manager of the Congress.”
Melinda was both impressed and curious. Here Nick had only been at the hotel a few hours and already he knew the general manager. Mr. Lawrence had a reputation for avoiding guests at all costs. Whenever there were personal problems or complaints, he was known to leave the patching up to Mrs. Golden or Magda. “How did you ever get into the hospitality business, Mr. Lawrence? I understand you really don’t like people very much.” Melinda was nothing if not direct.
Jonathan felt his Adam’s apple begin to throb, the way it used to when he was a kid and his stepmother discovered he had wet his bed again. “Not exactly, Miss Kaplan.”
“It’s Mrs. I’m divorced.”
“I’m sorry. Mrs. Well, Mrs. Kaplan, it’s not that I don’t like people. Rest assured that I do. It’s just that I have more important things to do than run around like a social butterfly. Hotels don’t operate by themselves,” he added pompously. “They need someone to control things behind the scenes, to make them work smoothly and efficiently so that people like you get the feeling the establishment runs itself.” He had not been aware he had raised his voice and now as the music stopped he found himself, much to his embarrassment, the center of attraction. He cleared his throat quickly and turned to Nick.