It came. The leather whooshed and slapped down hard, raising another welt which made a neat X crisscrossing her bottom. She tried to scramble out of range, but Archie grabbed her by the hair and flung her down on the bed again. This time she landed on her back.
Her attempt to flee seemed to increase his fury. This time he brought the belt down across her breasts. The buckle slashed into their plumpness and left an arrow of blood pointing to her taut nipple. Immediately, it sliced in again, making a similar mark on the other breast.
“Please—” Llona begged. It was the look on Archie’s face more than the pain itself which she found particularly terrifying.
“Shaddup! An’ keep shut!” He reached over and grabbed one of the breasts in his hand, smearing the trickle of blood which had appeared there. Then he squeezed it with a slow pressure of increasing savagery until Llona screamed aloud.
“Don’t you want to make love?” she pleaded when he released the pressure.
“Whaddaya think we’re doin’, baby?” The belt slapped down on her thighs, making them part. “Whaddaya think were doin’?”
“But you’re hurting me!”
“Yeah. I know.” He grinned from ear to ear and struck her across the face with his open hand again.
“Hey, Archie!” The door was pushed open, and Rooney stood there. “Ain’t you comin’ out? Da cake wit’ da girl’s here.”
“Ahh, so what? I got s-omethin’ goin’ right here. I seen broads poppin’ outa cakes lotsa times. I’ll pass it up this time.”
“Ya can’t do dat,” Rooney said sternly. “It’s a tradition."
“Screw tradition!”
“Come on now, Archie.” Rooney was positively menacing now. “Ya don’t mean dat. Ain’t ya got no sentiment?”
“Oh, all right,” Archie said intimidated. “Dis broad here was givin’ me a rough time anyway.”
“Whaddaya mean, a rough time?” Rooney wanted to know.
“She’s too damn hoity-toity. Don’t like my playin’ rough. Like she bruises too easy an’ complains too much. An’ I wasn’t even hardly started. I don’ know what gives wit’ da kinda broads ya get dese days. Dey ain’t like dey useta be.”
“Ya jus’ can’t get decent help no more,” Rooney agreed. “Amachoors is ruinin’ da bizness.” He turned to Llona. “Whatcha got to say fer yerself, chick? Why ha given da client a hard time?”
“He was beating me,” Llona sobbed. “I don’t mind sex, but —“
“But me no buts!” Rooney said sternly. “He gets his kicks dat way, dat’s what yer here for. Da customer’s alweez right. Didn’ Gertie tell ya dat?”
“No, I didn’t——”
“Whatzis? You a rookie or somethin’?” Rooney wanted to know.
“Yes. This is my first night and——”
“Yer first night! Wait’ll I get my hands on dat Gertie. I tol’ her pros, an’ look what she sends me. It’s a insult, tha’s what it is!”
“I guess I’m not too professional,” Llona admitted. “You see, this is my first night and—-” She hung her head. “And I’m a virgin,” she said.
“Now don’t be puttin’ me on, girlie,” Rooney warned.
“I’m not. It’s true.”
“Yeah. Sure. Well, if it is, I’m gonna really let that Gertie have it. I didn’ order no virgins. Dis gang don’ swing dat way. What the hell ’d she send you for anyway?”
“Gertie didn’t send me,” Llona confessed. All she wanted to do now was get out of here before Archie started beating her again. She figured that if she told Rooney the truth, he’d let her go. “I work for Mrs. Cartwright.”
“Mrs. Cartwright!” Now Rooney really looked mad. “What da hell’s dat ol’ bag tryin’ to pull? She send you down here to muscle in on our operation?” He had Llona by the arm now and he was twisting it-hard. “Come on, sister! What’s da big idea?”
“Mrs. Cartwright didn’t send me here,” Llona panted, even more frightened now.
“Den whatta ya doin’ here?”
“Well, when I met you in the hallway—-”
“Yeah! An’ dat’s another thing. What was you doin’ runnin’ around da halls wit’out no clothes on?”
“It’s a long story--” Llona began.
“Yeah? Well, I ain’t got time to hear it. All I know is it’s pretty damn fishy. So you jus’ scram now an’ tell Old Lady Cartwright dat whatever da game is, it didn’ work.”
Still holding her by the arm, Rooney propelled Llona through the doorway and across the main room outside. “Out!” he said when they reached the door to the hall- way. “An’ stay out!” He gave her a hard shove, and the door slammed behind her.
Llona sprawled on the hallway carpet a moment, trying to pull herself together. When she finally got to her feet, it was to find herself confronted by an officious-looking man in a cutaway. The man’s moustache was bristling with disapproval. “Now, we can’t have this,” he said, wagging his finger in her face. “The other guests will complain. You’ll simply have to confine your party to your suite. Do you understand me, young lady?”
“Yes.” Llona didn’t know what else to say.
“Then get back inside there. Come now. Back-back-back,” he clucked.
For a split second, it crossed Llona’s mind to wonder at the inconsistencies of hotel management. Here she was, one poor little call girl on the lam from the house detective because of being in a man’s room, and yet they seemingly countenanced an out-and-out orgy, finding it cause for no more than a verbal hand-slap and a warning to keep it within the confines of the suite rented. It hardly seemed fair.
She hung her head and started for the doorway from which she’d just been ejected. But as soon as the hotel man turned his back on her, she darted back across the hall and through the entrance to the stairwell. She ran down the stairs and out into the hallway of the floor below. She started for Lansing’s room.
“Hey, you!”
Llona didn’t have to turn around to know it was the hotel detective. She recognized his voice from having heard it before when she was hiding in Lansing’s bath- room. So she didn’t stop. She just fled toward the bend in the hallway as fast as her bare feet would carry her. As soon as she rounded it and was out of his sight, she dived for the first door and tried the knob. lt was open. Quickly, she entered the room and shut the door silently behind her. The room was pitch black.
Llona stood there with her back to the door and tried to pierce the darkness with her eyes. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t see a thing. No matter how she strained her eyes she couldn’t tell what might be waiting for her in the dark void of the room.
But she’d soon find out.
Chapter Seven.
WHEN Richie Munroe tooted his licorice stick, the sounds were like melting candy, sweet, but sad. He was young to the reed, but the music he made was age-old, and nostalgic, and wailing, and it touched something deep inside people. They didn’t always like what it touched-—-probably because of some instinctive recognition that it stemmed from Richie’s homosexuality-—but few remained unmoved when he really spooked the improvs. Richie got inside people with his clarinet and that’s exactly what he meant to do—with the obvious symbolism all too true.
He didn’t need tea or booze to inspire him. His music was Mama-and-Poppa music and his own Mama and Poppa provided all the inspiration he needed. It was all there in the sounds, man, the whole familiar sick-sick-sick story most fruits might tell—if only they could tootle the stick like Richie.
It was the story of a frail baby, born premature and scrawny, wailing the sadness even then, from the first, albeit without the reed. Yeah, blue eyes popping before they could even see; and the howl for a teat to be shoved in his mouth to turn the music sweet. But Mama dried up early and synthetic rubber only made Baby Richie wail the more.