she was through for the night but the minute he touched her breast
she realized she had been mistaken. His hands sent her reeling again.
“Marty—”
“Shut up,” he said. “Don’t talk.”
His hand was busy with her breast. He fondled it, patted it. He took a nipple between
two fingers and began to caress the taut flesh until she wanted to shriek. His other
hand was on her thigh now, moving higher.
She could not remain still. Her own hands reached for him, found him. She touched
him and his eyes blazed with need for her. His hand moved from her thigh, higher,
and found her. His fingers played with her, teasing her, and she grew warm for him.
She was trembling inside.
She rolled over, onto her back, and he moved above her. He had his hands on her breasts
now and he worked them. She thought she was going to be torn apart, to die. She gripped
him pulling him closer.
He touched her. Then, fiercely, he drove into her, and she surrounded him. His body
drove at her, again and again and again, and the excitement was here, the passion
was here—
At the moment of fulfillment—towering, shrieking, frighteningly powerful fulfillment—her
nails clawed his back and buttocks and his teeth bit into her shoulder. She screamed,
once. The sound that tore from her lips was not remotely human.
Then he was saying, “Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll find some excitement, if you
want.”
She would have answered him but she was too empty to move, to speak, even to think.
She closed her eyes and slept.
* * *
Ringo was around forty-five, with a pot belly and bandy legs. He had long glossy black
hair that he combed carefully over a bald spot on the top of his head. He looked from
Cassie to Lily, then back to Cassie, then at Lily once more. His eyes travelled over
her body. He looked at her breasts and at her hips.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“She’s good-looking,” Cassie said. “Man, you know that much, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
He took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it, bit off the end, spat, and lit the
cigar. To Lily he said, “Peel. I want to see what you look like without clothes on.”
She didn’t argue. She took off the blouse and the khakis. She was wearing no bra,
because the Texan in Dallas had ruined the only one she owned. She wasn’t wearing
underwear, either. Her panties had been dirty, and she hadn’t had a chance to rinse
them out.
“The boobs are real and you’re blonde all over,” he said. “That’s a help, anyway.
Nice boobs.”
He was not looking at her the way men usually did. His eyes were cool and impersonal.
He was a businessman studying a commodity, trying to decide whether it was worth buying,
whether he could make a decent profit on it. “Get dressed,” he said at length, and
she put her clothes back on.
“Well?” Cassie looked at Ringo. “She hired, man?”
“I don’t know.” He chewed the cigar. “You hustle any, kid?”
“I been laid, if that’s what you mean.”
“So have I,” Ringo said. “But I’d make a lousy whore. You do any hustling?”
“A little.”
“I don’t mean giving it away. I mean for money?”
“A little.”
“You can’t play prude here.” Ringo said. “Some broads want to hustle but won’t turn
anything but straight tricks. That’s fine if you’re in the States, maybe. These Mex
broads’ll do anything in the world. You draw the line, you can’t work here.”
“I don’t draw the line.”
“Some guy’ll want you to talk to ’em in French. You know how to speak French?”
She remembered the second act with the man in the Dallas hotel room. She told Ringo
that she could speak French.
“And Greek?”
“And Greek.”
“Well, that’s something. Still, I don’t know. This isn’t just a cathouse operation
I got here. This is like a club, you understand. We have floorshows. We get an expensive
clientele, serve the best food and the best liquor and give
she realized she had been mistaken. His hands sent her reeling again.
“Marty—”
“Shut up,” he said. “Don’t talk.”
His hand was busy with her breast. He fondled it, patted it. He took a nipple between
two fingers and began to caress the taut flesh until she wanted to shriek. His other
hand was on her thigh now, moving higher.
She could not remain still. Her own hands reached for him, found him. She touched
him and his eyes blazed with need for her. His hand moved from her thigh, higher,
and found her. His fingers played with her, teasing her, and she grew warm for him.
She was trembling inside.
She rolled over, onto her back, and he moved above her. He had his hands on her breasts
now and he worked them. She thought she was going to be torn apart, to die. She gripped
him pulling him closer.
He touched her. Then, fiercely, he drove into her, and she surrounded him. His body
drove at her, again and again and again, and the excitement was here, the passion
was here—
At the moment of fulfillment—towering, shrieking, frighteningly powerful fulfillment—her
nails clawed his back and buttocks and his teeth bit into her shoulder. She screamed,
once. The sound that tore from her lips was not remotely human.
Then he was saying, “Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll find some excitement, if you
want.”
She would have answered him but she was too empty to move, to speak, even to think.
She closed her eyes and slept.
* * *
Ringo was around forty-five, with a pot belly and bandy legs. He had long glossy black
hair that he combed carefully over a bald spot on the top of his head. He looked from
Cassie to Lily, then back to Cassie, then at Lily once more. His eyes travelled over
her body. He looked at her breasts and at her hips.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“She’s good-looking,” Cassie said. “Man, you know that much, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
He took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it, bit off the end, spat, and lit the
cigar. To Lily he said, “Peel. I want to see what you look like without clothes on.”
She didn’t argue. She took off the blouse and the khakis. She was wearing no bra,
because the Texan in Dallas had ruined the only one she owned. She wasn’t wearing
underwear, either. Her panties had been dirty, and she hadn’t had a chance to rinse
them out.
“The boobs are real and you’re blonde all over,” he said. “That’s a help, anyway.
Nice boobs.”
He was not looking at her the way men usually did. His eyes were cool and impersonal.
He was a businessman studying a commodity, trying to decide whether it was worth buying,
whether he could make a decent profit on it. “Get dressed,” he said at length, and
she put her clothes back on.
“Well?” Cassie looked at Ringo. “She hired, man?”
“I don’t know.” He chewed the cigar. “You hustle any, kid?”
“I been laid, if that’s what you mean.”
“So have I,” Ringo said. “But I’d make a lousy whore. You do any hustling?”
“A little.”
“I don’t mean giving it away. I mean for money?”
“A little.”
“You can’t play prude here.” Ringo said. “Some broads want to hustle but won’t turn
anything but straight tricks. That’s fine if you’re in the States, maybe. These Mex
broads’ll do anything in the world. You draw the line, you can’t work here.”
“I don’t draw the line.”
“Some guy’ll want you to talk to ’em in French. You know how to speak French?”
She remembered the second act with the man in the Dallas hotel room. She told Ringo
that she could speak French.
“And Greek?”
“And Greek.”
“Well, that’s something. Still, I don’t know. This isn’t just a cathouse operation
I got here. This is like a club, you understand. We have floorshows. We get an expensive
clientele, serve the best food and the best liquor and give
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