Lovers and Gamblers (17 page)

Dallas spun suddenly round, arms crossed over her exposed breasts, eyes blazing with fury.

She was right. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He had no knife, and he stepped back in surprise.

‘Well?’ blazed Dallas. ‘Where’s your big cock then? I thought it would be ready for me. I like ’em big. Big and juicy. You got a juicy one, sonny? Want to show it to me?’

He looked alarmed.

‘
Come on
,’ insisted Dallas. ‘Don’t tell me you’re all talk?’ She took her hands away from her breasts. ‘Nice, huh? Big, huh? Just the way you like ’em.’

‘What are you?’ he muttered nervously. ‘Some kind of nut, some freak…’ He was backing towards the door.

‘Don’t go,’ said Dallas. ‘Thought we were going to have a little
rape
here. Come on, sonny, show me what you got. I like it up the ass, do you? Come on, sweetie. Or can you only get it up when you have some scared shitless woman on the floor? Well? Is that it?’ Her voice became taunting, ‘Only get it up
then,
sonny, is that right?’

‘Jesus!’ He opened the door. ‘You’re mad, you know that? You’re some kind of freaky person. Jesus…’

He ran off towards the elevator, and she slammed the door, slid the chain on, and then started to shake. She sat on the floor, huddled her arms around her knees, and rocked back and forth. To hell with fear. To hell with standing there and just letting it happen. Fuck him, whoever he was. Because he was stronger than her, because he was a
man
she was supposed to stand there and let him do and say what he wanted. And after, when he left, when she was lying there, when the police came. What then? Did you
know
him? Were you a
virgin?
Oh well, how many men have you had then? Open your legs for the police gyno, and don’t mind the policeman standing at the back of the room, he’s used to it.

Fuck that.

But what if he had a knife? What if he hadn’t been such a kid? Every day you read about murders. She shut her eyes. The shock started to hit her. She forced herself into the living room and swigged from a brandy bottle. The room was a wreck. He had shit on the carpet, thrown garbage round the room. In her bedroom and bathroom he had scribbled obscenities in lipstick all over the walls. Sick kid. He had probably copied it from some movie.

She knew she should call the police, but she also knew the publicity it would entail. Who needed that? After all he hadn’t gotten away with anything. She had frightened him off empty-handed.

Meanwhile she couldn’t stay there. No way. Never again.

Methodically she cleared up. By eight in the morning she had packed everything she wanted to keep. She called her only friend in New York, Linda Cosmo, and the telephone message service gave her an out-of-town number where she could be contacted.

She phoned, and a sleepy Linda instructed her to move into her apartment. ‘I’ll be back in a few days,’ she explained, ‘then we’ll sort something out.’

Dallas called for a cab, picked up Linda’s key from the janitor, and moved in.

She stocked up with food, double-locked all the doors, and stayed there until Linda got back.

The show at the Civic Centre Arena, Ottawa, was the same razzle dazzle smash hit as Toronto. Even better, perhaps, as Al gained full confidence.

Rave reviews filled the newspapers, and the tour’s slogan –‘AL IS KING’ was widely used. The concerts were a sellout across America. A side rip-off industry sprang up amongst people lucky enough to have purchased blocks of seats. Soon tickets were going at five or six times the original price. A limit was set on people only being allowed two tickets per person, but the hustlers soon got round that.

Linda took an incredible photo of Al on stage. Like a god he stood before the masses. She had captured him in a moment of stillness above a sea of female hysteria. The picture was used world-wide to illustrate his triumph.

Bernie accepted her as an integral part of the tour from that moment on. Paul, however, didn’t. He seemed offhand and uninterested. He was annoyed because she had apparently insulted a Toronto newscaster called Hank Mason, who had been the only person to knock Al in print.

‘So what?’ Linda had questioned. ‘He was rude to me first.’

‘Never insult the press,’ Paul had warned. ‘They can make or break us.’

Linda had considered the whole incident ridiculous. Al was an undeniable smash hit, how could one little newscaster affect that? Anyway Al hadn’t insulted him,
she
had.

‘He knows you’re with the tour, that’s why he knocked Al,’ Paul had said. ‘Try and be nice to everyone.’

‘Oh, sorry. Maybe I
should
have gone home with him and let him smack my bottom. Should I have?’

Paul had not bothered to reply.

Linda could not understand what had happened to them. They had waited and longed to be together, and now that they were it was an anti-climax. Paul seemed to spend his entire time finding girls for Al. One after the other they were paraded up to the Master’s suite for his inspection, but so far not one appeared to have passed muster.

Find ’em – fuck ’em – forget ’em – had once been Al’s motto. Now it seemed to be find ’em – forget ’em. He couldn’t even be bothered to try. They were boring, all of them. He wondered if age had finally caught up with him. But it wasn’t that, he knew it. No problem getting it up, but it had to be for something better than a parade of dumbells looking to screw a star.

He tried it with Rosa and it was good, but not good enough to try again.

He didn’t need it anyway. The moments on stage were enough. The power orgasm. The joy of thousands of women having you at once. The mass fuck.

He looked forward to New York. That was the real start of the tour as far as he was concerned. His insecurities had swept away. His voice was better than ever. The fans were still there, still loved him, still wanted him. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Christ – to have failed, or only achieved moderate success. What would he have done then? Retired? He could never retire, singing was his life. But it couldn’t go on forever, and if he did go it had to be at a peak.

He had finally phoned Edna.

‘What’s the weather like?’ had been her first question.

What the fuck did the
weather
matter? He wanted her praise. He spoke to Evan.

‘When can I come?’ the boy had asked truculently.

What a family! Didn’t they read the newspapers? Didn’t they know that Al was King again?

He allowed a stoned blonde to give him a mediocre blow job before going to bed. She was delighted at the honour. He thought about Dallas, once, briefly, and wondered where she was and who she was with. Now there was a girl who would never do anything in a mediocre fashion.

He slept, and in his sleep he was surrounded by applause and warm bodies, and he slept well.

* * *

Linda said, ‘I had a call from Dallas.’

Paul was reading
Variety
. ‘Who?’

‘Dallas. She had some kind of bad experience. I lent her my apartment.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Because she needed a place to go.’

‘I didn’t realize you were
that
friendly.’

Linda gazed out of the airplane window. ‘What’s the matter, Paul? What’s happening with us?’

It was the first chance they seemed to have been alone together. Four days in Canada, and every night a party.

‘Nothing’s the matter. I
told
you what I’m like on tour.’

‘Do you wish I wasn’t along?’

He folded his
Variety
and stared at her. ‘Do you?’

‘I asked
you
first.’

‘I don’t know. I thought it was a good idea, it
seemed
like a good idea. But Al has to come first, and I know that bugs you.’

‘OK, so he comes first. Understood. But I’m not even running a poor second. Since that first day you haven’t even touched me…’

‘There hasn’t been time. You know Al likes me to stay with him after a show. He can’t sleep, he needs to talk, play cards, just relax. And when I do get to your room you’re asleep and I’m bushed.’

‘Wow! We sound like a couple of real swingers!’

‘New York will be different. He’ll probably find a girl he likes, then I can be with you.’

‘What about Dallas? He likes her, doesn’t he?’

‘It’s not mutual. She gave him a hard time. He doesn’t need that whole bit.’

Doesn’t he? mused Linda. We shall see. If she got Dallas and Al together. If they hit it off. Well – maybe her problems would be solved.

Dearest Al, I am offering you a swop. You may have Dallas, and I, thank you very much, will take back Paul.

Linda smiled. It wasn’t a nice thing to do to a friend, but all is fair in love and war, and this was war.

* * *

New York was blisteringly hot. Crowds and photographers were at the airport to meet the plane. Al was whisked off to do a television interview and Paul, of course, went with him.

Linda took a cab into the city. She was hot, tired, and more than a little disappointed at the way things were going. She wanted a bath, and a think, and maybe a man – a transient stud purely for medicinal purposes.

Sometimes the only way to really relax was to lose yourself in a totally physical pastime. Linda had found that an occasional sexual scene was the only way she could turn off, and clear out her head. It did not mean that she loved Paul any the less, or that he wasn’t a good lover, it was just that sometimes sex without emotional complications was a great therapy treatment.

She contemplated phoning Rik. She had seen him a few times over the last few months. He was a dumb actor with a beautiful body. They had met at their mutual supermarket.

She stopped the cab and made the call.

‘You haven’t called me for weeks,’ Rik complained.

‘I’ve been out of the city.’

‘You could have let me know.’

‘Sorry. I thought I might pop over.’

There was silence, then Rik said truculently: ‘You really are a bitch, you
use
me.’

‘Don’t you want me to come over then?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘I’ll be there soon.’

She hung up and sighed. Rik was right, she did use him. But why should
he
complain, he had been using women for years.

She gave the driver his address and sat back. She felt no guilt. Why should she? Paul was still sleeping with his wife, and maybe an occasional groupie too – God knows, there were enough of them floating around.

She lit a cigarette and hoped that Rik was not going to start giving her a heavy about not calling before. She had never allowed him her phone number or address and it bugged him. If he started getting uptight he would just have to go.

He was easily replaceable.

* * *

Al smiled his way through the television interview. Stock questions. Stock answers. The interviewer was a well-known woman by the name of Marjorie Carter, who had her own news programme. She kept on giving him penetrating moody stares. She had formerly been a Washington journalist, and some said she had once had the ear of the President. Which one Al wasn’t quite sure, probably Kennedy, as she was about forty, but strikingly attractive in that groomed, designer-label clothes way.

‘That was fun,’ she said, after the show. ‘At least you can
talk
.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Al asked.

‘I keep on getting supposed superstars on the show who sit transfixed by their own image on the monitor. So out of it they can barely string their
ums
and
ers
together.’

‘Sounds like a laugh.’

‘I have tickets for your performance tomorrow. Is it worth seeing?’

Al smiled. Now they were off camera she wanted to put him in his place. ‘Depends what you’re looking for.’

‘Excitement.’ She had hot, frustrated eyes.

‘I think I can help you there.’

‘I’ll come then.’

‘Do that, and drop by the party later.’ Maybe if she was lucky he would give her one.

Bernie came rushing over. ‘Sensational! Al, you came over great – but right on. Jeeze…’ He mopped at the sweat streaming down his face with a coloured handkerchief. ‘Word’s out you’re here – we gotta make a quick side exit – like, cement yourself to Luke and move like you gotta crap.’

Bernie hustled Al up, and Luke – forever hovering – gripped onto his arm, and with Paul the other side they headed swiftly for the exit it was least expected they would emerge from.

Neither Bernie nor Paul revealed to Al that while he had been on the show they had received a death threat. A telephone call from some displaced head – ‘I’m gonna kill that mothafuckin’ bastard son of a bitch…’

Nothing unusual about threats, but you always had to take them seriously. You never knew when some nutter would decide to do something about it. Once Al had been on tour and a disgruntled husband had managed to smash his way into the dressing-room with an axe. It was only Paul’s quick thinking that had saved Al. He had tripped the maniac up and sat on him until help had arrived.

They made the car in safety, sped to the hotel, entered through the underground garage.

‘Set me up a poker game,’ Al demanded of Paul, ‘and a girl. Lots of tit and ass and blond hair.’

Paul frowned.
Another
girl. Al seemed insatiable on this trip. He raised eyebrows at Bernie and Bernie winked in reply. ‘I’ve got just the lady…’ What the fuck – Al would never know she was a hooker.

Alone, holed up in Linda’s apartment, Dallas did a lot of thinking. She was twenty years old. She was beautiful, and God knows she was at least as talented as half the girls who were making it in television and movies.

What was she
doing
with her life? She was bumming around New York going out with guys she didn’t like, didn’t want to lay, and only wanted to give a hard time to. Was this the revenge she was supposed to be getting for Ed Kurlnik splitting? Some revenge.

She was spending all her money at an alarming pace. And when that was gone – what then? Back to hustling? No, thank you.