Faith didn’t join a nunnery, but she might as well have. Her religious leanings pointed her towards the mystic East, rather than the orthodox West. But her life was as ascetic as if she had taken Carmelite vows. Faith was a virgin at the beginning of that summer of her seventeenth year. Due to the care she and her brother had taken, she was a virgin at its end. And she remained a virgin for the next seven years. Yes, she was a virgin on her twenty-fourth birthday, which followed the twenty-fourth birthday of Regina Blue by six weeks. What’s more, Faith Venable’s virginity was still intact some three months later when she was murdered!
The Medical Examiner from the Homicide Division of the New York City Police Department, after completing his examination of the corpse of the victim, succinctly—albeit cynically—paid homage to poor dead Faith Venable’s undisturbed hymen as follows:
“Who says you can’t take it with you?”
CHAPTER THREE
Sisterhood Is Powerful!
Regina Blue met Faith Venable the night before Faith was murdered. The next time Regina saw her, the willowy blonde girl was dead.
Faith’s corpsiness was an embarrassment to Regina Blue. The only door to Regina’s Park Avenue penthouse apartment, where the slaying occurred, was locked from the inside. Seemingly, Regina was the only one on the premises. Except, of course, for the cadaver, which had one of Regina’s Mark Cross carving knives embedded in its rather scrawny left breast. It lay sprawled just beyond the wood-paneled foyer, still oozing blood onto the Persian carpet in the sunken livingroom.
Sad. Regina Blue was quite fond of the Persian. It was one of the favorite possessions which had accrued to her through seven years of highly selective whoring.
Other rewards included a sizeable bank account, an impressive stock portfolio, a wardrobe of Paris originals, several Picasso prints (Limited Edition; signed in the stone), an authentic collection of pre-Columbian sculpture, a Steinway grand, and a maroon-and-beige Mercedes-Benz 280SL sports coupe. Which is only to scratch the surface of Regina’s fuck-fed affluence. The golden redhead had come a long way since cherryhood.
At twenty-four, Regina Blue was to Whoredom what Einstein was to Science, Shakespeare to Literature, Wagner to Music. Yet she had never walked a street, never hustled a bar, and only briefly worked in a bordello—a fancy New Orleans establishment where, as an apprentice, Regina quickly became expert at her chosen trade of turning tricks. Next stop was New York City with a letter of recommendation to a top mafioso.
The mafioso personally put her ability to the test. Then, impressed, he provided seed money for a wardrobe and a modest apartment. He also carefully selected her first patrons with an eye towards upward mobility. Quality of clientele, not quantity, was stressed. Gentleman jockeys, not bronc busters, are suitable for a thoroughbred.
First in the saddle was a wealthy Attorney General on his way to being Governor of a nearby state. A potency problem almost left him at the starting gate. It vanished when Regina Blue put on the feedbag. They went the distance thrice that first night, a track record for the rider.
The Governor (currently being touted as a dark horse candidate for the Presidency) was the first in a long line of notables who went to stud at the Blue paddock. They included industrialists, financiers, movie stars, labor leaders, Cosa Nostra overlords, high political and military mucky-mucks, and even as visiting royalty. All could afford the purse claimed by the talented filly. None begrudged the stakes, or the extra sugar they lavished upon her.
Such gifts were only some of the fringe benefits. There were also weekends in Palm Beach, excursions to Vegas, yachting trips and jaunts to the Riviera. Not to mention the social advantages. Regina attended exclusive Southampton debuts, lavish Hollywood premieres, select Washington cocktail parties.
Elegant in a Dior gown, she was presented at the Court of St. James followed by grouse-shooting in Scotland with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who assumed she was an American debutante and found her most charming. Once she was escorted to a Presidential Inaugural Ball by a bachelor cabinet appointee. Another time she spent three days on an isolated estate in a neutral European duchy as the guest of a vacationing Russian Premier. (He turned out to be not half so virile as the Arabian Sheik in whose palace she spent a memorable week.)
“The Life” had turned out to be quite a life for Regina Blue. Yet (take heart, moralists!) she wasn't happy. There was this dissatisfaction, undefined, a feeling of being somehow unfulfilled, of not living up to her potential. (Of course Regina was more than living up to her sexual potential; man after man confirmed that. Still, Woman cannot live by bed alone!) She felt vaguely that Life must have more Meaning, a Purpose, jazz like that—for females as well as males.
Jaunts aside, most of Regina’s time was spent in New York. Here, whie her nights were usually filled, her days were too often empty. Her male playmates were busy with more important matters between nine in the ayem and five in the p. So Regina was bored. Proof that no matter how frivolous the job, all work and no play makes jack, but dulls joy.
To fill the hours, and with an eye towards keeping in shape as well, Regina enrolled in a karate course for women. She had a natural talent for it, quickly won her first belt, and moved on to more advanced lessons. This was where she met Wilma.
Wilma was a short, squat girl with linebacker muscles and a sallow complexion. She was a manicurist by profession, and at that time was just becoming interested in the Women’s Liberation Movement. She communicated this interest to Regina, and one day she invited the glamorous redhead to a “Consciousness-Raising.”
"It’s an ice-breaking session,” Wilma explained. “None of the girls really know each other. Mrs. Breen - --she’s a regular customer of mine at the beauty parlor—said to bring along any girls that were interested. It’s eight-thirty at her place.” Wilma gave Regina the address.
“Is she the leader? Mrs. Breen?”
“There is no leader. The way I get it, we just sit around in a circle and each of us tells what it means to her to be a Woman. Then we sort of drift into a specific topic, and we each react to that—but always from our experience as women.”
That was pretty much the way it went. With Regina, there were seven women present, including Mrs. Juliano, who was Mrs. Breen’s aged grandmother, and who evidently lived with her. Mr. Breen, a burly man with pronounced five o’clock shadow, arranged the armchairs and the curved sofa in a circle in the living-room. Wearing a frilly apron, he passed around the little canapés he’d prepared. When the girls had settled themselves, he discreetly retired to the kitchen where he’d be within calling distance should his wife require anything further for her guests. There he perched on a stool and read the Playboy Adviser which instructed him as to how a man may escape the “male chauvinist pig bag” by tightening his anus during coitus, thereby avoiding premature ejaculation while providing the stamina needed to insure the female orgasm.
When he had gone, Mrs. Breen suggested to the girls that they introduce themselves. “First names only,” the chic, dark-haired hostess advised. “That’s what the New York Radical Feminists recommend.”
“Why is that?” someone wondered.
Mrs. Breen adjusted the crease in the pants of her stylish pink slack suit. “Because last names are men’s names,” she replied. “If you're married it’s your husband’s name. If you’re single, it’s your father’s.” She took a deep breath which swelled the generous curve of her bosom and revealed that she wasn’t wearing a bra. “I’ll start,” she continued. “My name is Barbara. I’m twenty-nine years old. I’m a housewife. My husband is a professional hockey player.”