Lovers and Gamblers (40 page)

Now, lying on his bed, inspecting his watch and discovering it was two thirty in the morning, he wondered for the hundredth time where they were. The last time he had seen them was at the concert. They had run forward with the crowd, smiling and laughing, not trying to hang back like he had, getting knocked down and trampled on. They hadn’t even tried to help him, although he was being unrealistic even thinking that they could. But where were they? Ever since they had become friends the three of them had been inseparable. They all slept in his room, taking it in turns to use the bed. Why – all their possessions were in the one shabby carry-all standing in the corner. That at least gave him some security. They couldn’t take off anywhere without their things.

He wished he had one of the pills that Glory called quacks. They really made you feel good, sort of full of confidence and ready to talk to anyone. Glory took them by the handful, but he stuck with Plum and used them sparingly.

‘She needs them more than us,’ Plum explained sagely. ‘Like, she’s trying t’get over the heavy stuff – she was in a real bad scene for a while. She’s fine now – had a gig in hospital – that’s some straightener.’ Evan had nodded wisely as if he understood what on earth she was talking about.

Now they were both missing, and he felt lost without them. Maybe they had got hurt after all. Maybe they had been taken to another hospital… Just as he was beginning to panic there was a muffled knock at the door. He hurried to open it, and there they were, Glory hanging limply onto Plum.

‘Where have you been?’ Evan demanded, for once his voice not breaking.

‘Sshh, man,’ whispered Plum, ‘she’s not feelin’ so good. Let’s get her on the bed.’

Glory was indeed extremely pale, her eyes glazed and popping out of the sockets alarmingly. Evan helped Plum to drag her onto the bed, and she immediately curled into a tight ball and began to snore.

Plum yawned. ‘I guess that’s her for the night,’ and she started to remove the patchwork smock top she was wearing.

‘
Where have you both been?’
hissed Evan. ‘I was in the hospital. My arm – look at my arm.’

Plum regarded him wearily. ‘S’your own fault. We told you t’move with the crowd. You gotta flow, man, or y’get the shit kicked outa you.’

He sat on the end of the bed, defeated, and watched as Plum unzipped her jeans and lumbered out of them. She wore no pants, and now she was clad only in a dirty bra which might once have been pink. Her body, although fat, was surprisingly smooth. Acres of smooth white flesh. Evan felt himself stirring. She noticed. He ripped off his clothes clumsily with his one good arm. He wasn’t at all embarrassed. She had seen him naked before, they both had. They had admired his skinny body. They had stroked it and fondled him. They had taken his private parts into their mouths and they had told him he was all right. They had opened their legs for him and allowed him to do whatever he wanted. He had looked and marvelled, and finally he had put it in. Now he wanted to do it again, and although he preferred Glory, Plum would do.

‘I’m wiped out, man,’ Plum complained, ‘just split from a wild party. Anyway we can’t use the bed – she’s out.’

‘The floor,’ Evan mumbled. ‘We can use the floor.’

‘Shit!’ complained Plum. But she lay down anyway and parted her massive thighs.

Evan leapt upon her like a randy dog. Plum farted delicately. It didn’t put him off. Perhaps at last he was his father’s son.

* * *

Arthur Sorenson sat at the reception desk and consulted his new stainless steel watch with the fluorescent dial. It was an eighteenth birthday present, an event he had celebrated two weeks previously. The dial read two forty-five exactly. He had been on duty for one and three-quarter hours and soon it would be time for coffee.

He glanced around the deserted lobby, proud of the fact that he was in charge all on his own. Mr. Ridley usually shared the evening shift with him, but tonight Mr. Ridley had called in to say his daughter was sick – caught up in the riot at the Al King concert. Mr. Ridley had said it would be all right for him to do the evening shift on his own as long as he didn’t leave the desk, not for any reason. Mr. Ridley had worked for the hotel for twenty-two years. Arthur Sorenson had worked there for two weeks. He felt pleased that Mr. Ridley had chosen to trust him after such a short time.

He whistled tunelessly, and watched as a cab pulled up outside, and let off a lone male passenger. By his foot was an emergency button which connected straight through to the police station. These days you couldn’t be too careful. His foot hovered near it as the man approached the desk.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said politely, wondering if maybe he should amend that to ‘good morning’ in view of the time.

‘Two twenty – key,’ the man growled. He was fat and sweating and outlandishly dressed.

‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur’s eyes glanced quickly at his book, ascertained the party’s name, reached for the key, and said, ‘Thank you, Mr. Suntan, sir.’

The fat man grabbed the key and vanished into the elevator.

Arthur glanced at his book again. Bernie Suntan. What a name! Of course he was part of the Al King party, that would account for it. They were a rowdy group. One of the maids had told him about the party earlier. What a wow that must have been! And only five minutes earlier a woman had arrived at the hotel. A strange woman wearing dark glasses and a belted mink coat. Strange, as it was the middle of summer, and hardly the weather to be wearing a mink coat. She had asked for Al King’s room, and while he telephoned to check if it was okay to send her up she had examined a run in her tights, examined it all the way up to the top of her thigh. It was quite obvious that her entire outfit consisted of only tights and a mink coat.

If he let himself Arthur could get quite excited at the thought. He tried not to let himself. He watched her into the elevator and wondered at the stamina of Al King. A riot. A wild party. And now this.

Arthur wondered if perhaps he should think of following a singing career rather than that of a hotel clerk. Everyone said that he had a nice voice. But then of course show business was an erratic profession – and being a desk clerk could lead to all sorts of things. Mind you – it didn’t seem to have got Mr. Ridley far.

Arthur sighed, glanced at his watch again, and wondered if taking a coffee break would count as leaving the desk. After all it would only take him a few minutes to fix a cup of coffee, and anyway who would know?

* * *

Melanie complained from the moment the plane landed. They couldn’t get a cab. There were no porters to carry their luggage.

‘I just don’t know!’ Melanie exclaimed in disgust. ‘You stay with the cases, Edna, I’ll soon get something organized.’

Edna stood forlornly by the luggage trying to ignore the attentions of a drunken businessman who had arrived on the same plane and was also having trouble getting transport.

She wanted to cry. She was tired, fed up, and she had missed Al’s birthday by hours. By the time they got to the hotel it would be nearly three in the morning. Al would be asleep and probably not at all pleased at having his rest interrupted.

Damn Melanie and her stupid plans. The whole point of this trip had been to arrive on Al’s birthday.

A lone tear of anger and frustration rolled down her cheek. The drunk was at her side in a flash. ‘Mustn’t cry,’ he mumbled. ‘We’ll all have a party. Want a party, little lady?’ His lewd wink was the last straw. She turned her back and the flood of tears started in earnest.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Melanie asked scornfully upon her return. She brought with her a good-looking airline official who piled their luggage onto a trolley and in no time at all was driving them into the city himself.

By the time they reached the hotel, he and Melanie were exchanging addresses and long meaningful looks.

A slow worker Melanie was not.

* * *

‘Ha Ha! Gotcha!’ Lynn shrieked. She had discarded the mink coat and the tights, and was joining in a game of spray the shaving foam with Al and Golden Lady.

Spurts of white foam were all over the place. Golden Lady was giggling hysterically as Al massaged some foam into her pneumatic breasts.

‘Not so
hard
,’ she hiccoughed.

‘Frightened they’ll drop off?’ jeered Al.

‘If they do, she can always buy another pair!’ laughed Lynn, who was rather proud of her own small but natural boobs.

‘Bitch!’ shrieked Golden Lady. ‘Jealous bitch!’

They launched into a mock struggle, an act that had obviously been staged before for many a satisfied customer.

Al watched, his interest waning, his head pounding. Why didn’t he just give them some money and send them both home. He knew they were hookers. So what? At least with a hooker you knew where you were, at least they didn’t come running at you with an autograph book between their legs.

His interest revived as slowly their struggle turned into something else. Golden Lady was sliding her hands up the inside of Lynn’s thighs, her thumbs were spreading the forest of black hair, and she was kneeling in front of the dark girl. She bent her head. So that’s why they called it head. Sweet old American expression. In England it was going down. In America the only going down you did was in elevators!

‘Yeah!’ Al encouraged. He felt himself hardening, the first time that night. Golden Lady with all her efforts had not managed to get it up.

She glanced slyly over at him, relieved that at last something was working. For a moment there she was worried that she might have lost her touch.

Lynn was arching her body back, moaning and sighing. The girls worked well together, complementing each other by their very different colouring.

Lynn’s screams, whether simulated or the real thing, indicated the end of that particular episode, and Golden Lady rose triumphant. She headed towards Al, her body a mixture of gold paint, remnants of cream cake, and shaving foam. She had a hard but pretty face which would age into craftiness. She bent to his toes, licking them, prostrating herself on the floor, her tongue travelling quickly up his legs, her mouth dying to enclose him.

Lynn, making a fast recovery, came over and started to knead his nipples. It was the Kurlnik twins all over again, but these two hadn’t quite got their act together. Whereas the twins had merged into one woman with four hands and two tongues, these two were stimulating him in a distracting way. He wanted to come quickly and get rid of them both. But as soon as he tried he knew it was going to be an effort. All the booze he had put away was slowing him down, and no amount of tongues or mouths was going to make him come in a hurry. He would just have to sweat it out. And try to enjoy it.

* * *

‘Wouldn’t you know it!’ exclaimed Melanie sharply. ‘Nobody at the desk. What kind of a place is this?’

Her attentive escort smiled. ‘One of the best hotels in town.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ complained Melanie, and she stamped her foot childishly.

‘It is three o’clock in the morning,’ Edna pointed out.

‘Don’t I know it,’ whined Melanie, ‘I’m exhausted.’ She raised her shrill voice. ‘Is anyone around?’

Her escort shrugged helplessly. ‘I hate to leave you lovely ladies like this, but I have to get back to the airport. I’m supposed to be on duty, I should never have left.’

Melanie fixed him with her cornflower-blue calculating eyes. ‘You’ve been marvellous,’ she said,
sotto voce.
 ‘Just one more little favour…’

‘Name it.’

‘Hop over the other side of the desk and tell me the room numbers for Al and Paul King. I’m certainly not going to wait here all night.’

‘Is that all?’ He smiled, and vaulted in true macho-man fashion over the desk.

Melanie nodded her approval.

‘Let me see now…’ He rummaged around, found the current reservation book and read out, ‘Al King – penthouse suite, twenty-ninth floor. Paul King, suite 120, twelfth floor.’ He checked a panel beneath the desk and came up with two keys. ‘They’re doing a wonderful job of looking after their guests in this hotel – anyone could just saunter in here and take their pick of who to rob. All set, ladies?’

Melanie leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘You’re a doll.’

* * *

Returning to the desk a few minutes later Arthur Sorenson was most disconcerted to find a pile of luggage sitting in the middle of the lobby. No people, just luggage.

Goddammit, he had only gone for a cup of coffee. Why had whoever it was chosen that particular time to arrive? And where the heck were they?

His eyes slid automatically to the two elevators. When he had left on his coffee break they had both registered lobby, now one of the indicators showed that the elevator had travelled all the way up to the twenty-ninth floor.

Goddammit, if Mr. Ridley found out he had left the desk… This was his first job, and he liked it. He enjoyed working the early morning hours, it left him plenty of free time during the day.

He eyed the luggage suspiciously. Those suitcases belonged to someone, and that someone had just dumped them in his lobby and, calm as you like, gone on up to the twenty-ninth floor. He realized with a sudden sinking feeling that Al King was ensconced in the Penthouse suite on the twenty-ninth floor, and nobody but nobody was supposed to go up there without clearance. Al King was some sort of security risk.

Arthur frowned. What to do?

If Mr. Ridley was around he would know what to do. But Mr. Ridley wasn’t around, and Arthur Sorenson didn’t know what the heck to do. So he did what he considered was the safest bet, and that was exactly nothing.

When he was fired early the next morning, he wondered why.

* * *

Al shoved the golden head. ‘Suck it!’ he commanded.

The lady obliged until he pulled her away by the hair and gave the dark-haired girl her turn.

He stood naked in the middle of the living room, both women kneeling on the floor in front of him. All the lights were on, the television spewed forth a decrepit Western. The room was a wreck, furniture overturned, shaving foam everywhere, clothes littered about.