lay the groundwork.
Johnny shrugged. He thought, maybe I like him for the murder because I don’t like him for anything else. But it’s better that he didn’t do it. Because he fits his part in Squalor the way those slacks fit Jan’s rear end.
“Hey.” The cabby’s voice cut through his train of thought and the cab slowed to a stop at the curb. “Hey, character. We’re back where we started from. Now where do you want to go?”
“This will do,” Johnny told him. The meter read thirty-five cents. He handed the cabby a dollar and told him to keep the change, then hurried into Jan’s building.
It was a remodeled brownstone similar in architectural design to the one he had been in a night ago, the one in which Elaine James had died. The similarity ended with the exterior design. Jan’s Gramercy apartment house was plush and comfortable and her apartment took up the entire second floor. There was quite a difference between the two buildings—the difference between a successful actress and one reaching for the big break. All the difference in the world.
He took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the head of the staircase to light a cigarette. He straightened his tie, drew a breath, and told himself he was supposed to act casual. But he did not feel casual at all.
He knocked. There was the sound of a peephole opening. He stared into it and saw his own face in the one-way glass. Then, happily, the door opened.
And there was Jan.
“It took you a long time,” she said. “I was worried for a few minutes. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“You should have more faith.”
“Well, come on inside so I can close the door. Hey, is something the matter? Why are you staring at me?”
“You changed your clothes,” he said foolishly. “Again.”
“Don’t you like?”
“I definitely like.”
He liked, all right. She looked magnificently naked, delightfully obscene. She was not really wearing clothing at all, when you got right down to it. She had on what he would describe as peekaboo panties, consisting of a strip of black string around her belly from which a bright red fringe dangled to the tops of her thighs. Her bra was a fringe that matched the panties and was every bit as flimsy. It gave no support, which obviously she did not need in any case. Nor did it do anything to conceal her flesh from his eyes. It just managed to appear sexy, which was its mission.
On top of this she wore a bolero jacket that fell almost to her waist. But it might as well have been cellophane, it was that transparent.
Obviously, her clothing was not meant to keep her warm. But it was sure as hell keeping Johnny warm.
“Classy it’s not,” she said. “It’s vulgar, actually. Common and cheap and all that. They call it French underwear and sell it to peasants and amateur whores and fetishists in the garbage shops around Times Square.”
“I repeat,” he said, “I like it.”
“So do I. It’s so blatantly obvious. Does it make me look sexy?”
“You’d look sexy in a rain barrel.”
It was true enough, he thought. The dark-haired actress literally oozed sex from every pore. And with her in that outfit, he could see all the pores.
She leaned at him and he took her in his arms. Her body was warm against his, her breath coming fast and hard. He tipped her face upward and kissed her. She threw both arms around his neck and the kiss turned into a four-star production.
“Johnny,” she moaned. “Johnny.”
He kissed her again and her loins ground into his. As the kiss sustained, his hand went under the sheer bolero and fondled her back. Her skin was warm and velvety.
“Johnny,” she said softly. “What should we do now? What do you think we should do?”
His voice was hoarse. “I think we should go to bed.”
“Now that’s a good idea,” she murmured, nuzzling him. “That’s a wonderful idea. Hurry, Johnny!”
They were lying back on the bed, sharing a cigarette and looking up at the ceiling. His
Johnny shrugged. He thought, maybe I like him for the murder because I don’t like him for anything else. But it’s better that he didn’t do it. Because he fits his part in Squalor the way those slacks fit Jan’s rear end.
“Hey.” The cabby’s voice cut through his train of thought and the cab slowed to a stop at the curb. “Hey, character. We’re back where we started from. Now where do you want to go?”
“This will do,” Johnny told him. The meter read thirty-five cents. He handed the cabby a dollar and told him to keep the change, then hurried into Jan’s building.
It was a remodeled brownstone similar in architectural design to the one he had been in a night ago, the one in which Elaine James had died. The similarity ended with the exterior design. Jan’s Gramercy apartment house was plush and comfortable and her apartment took up the entire second floor. There was quite a difference between the two buildings—the difference between a successful actress and one reaching for the big break. All the difference in the world.
He took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the head of the staircase to light a cigarette. He straightened his tie, drew a breath, and told himself he was supposed to act casual. But he did not feel casual at all.
He knocked. There was the sound of a peephole opening. He stared into it and saw his own face in the one-way glass. Then, happily, the door opened.
And there was Jan.
“It took you a long time,” she said. “I was worried for a few minutes. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“You should have more faith.”
“Well, come on inside so I can close the door. Hey, is something the matter? Why are you staring at me?”
“You changed your clothes,” he said foolishly. “Again.”
“Don’t you like?”
“I definitely like.”
He liked, all right. She looked magnificently naked, delightfully obscene. She was not really wearing clothing at all, when you got right down to it. She had on what he would describe as peekaboo panties, consisting of a strip of black string around her belly from which a bright red fringe dangled to the tops of her thighs. Her bra was a fringe that matched the panties and was every bit as flimsy. It gave no support, which obviously she did not need in any case. Nor did it do anything to conceal her flesh from his eyes. It just managed to appear sexy, which was its mission.
On top of this she wore a bolero jacket that fell almost to her waist. But it might as well have been cellophane, it was that transparent.
Obviously, her clothing was not meant to keep her warm. But it was sure as hell keeping Johnny warm.
“Classy it’s not,” she said. “It’s vulgar, actually. Common and cheap and all that. They call it French underwear and sell it to peasants and amateur whores and fetishists in the garbage shops around Times Square.”
“I repeat,” he said, “I like it.”
“So do I. It’s so blatantly obvious. Does it make me look sexy?”
“You’d look sexy in a rain barrel.”
It was true enough, he thought. The dark-haired actress literally oozed sex from every pore. And with her in that outfit, he could see all the pores.
She leaned at him and he took her in his arms. Her body was warm against his, her breath coming fast and hard. He tipped her face upward and kissed her. She threw both arms around his neck and the kiss turned into a four-star production.
“Johnny,” she moaned. “Johnny.”
He kissed her again and her loins ground into his. As the kiss sustained, his hand went under the sheer bolero and fondled her back. Her skin was warm and velvety.
“Johnny,” she said softly. “What should we do now? What do you think we should do?”
His voice was hoarse. “I think we should go to bed.”
“Now that’s a good idea,” she murmured, nuzzling him. “That’s a wonderful idea. Hurry, Johnny!”
They were lying back on the bed, sharing a cigarette and looking up at the ceiling. His
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