“But what about Don?” Glory was agitated. “Of course, I’d like to go with you, Daddy, but I don’t want to be away from Don.”
Dawes grinned at his daughter fondly. “Since Don worked on the original expansion plans, I was planning to take him along anyway. Does that make you feel any better?”
“It sure does.”
“Me too,” Don added.
“The company has rented a house for us,” Dawes told Glory. Don, I’m afraid will have to stay at the local hotel. He doesn’t rate top accommodations yet. But I suppose we can throw a dinner into him now and then without straining the expense account.”
“It might strain his digestion, considering what a dud I am at cooking,” Glory said a little ruefully.
“You won’t have to cook,” Dawes said. “We get an allowance for household help -- cook, caretaker, and maid. You didn’t know what a big shot your old man was, hey? Anyway, the plant foreman has already hired a couple for us and I’ve wired them to hire a maid for me. The couple’s name is Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Henshaw and our man assures me they’re thoroughly reliable.”
“Henshaw!” Glory giggled. “I’ll bet with a name like that they look just like Ma and Pa Kettle!”
“Don’t make hasty judgments,” Preston B. Dawes advised dryly, People rarely fit the stereotypes suggested either by their names or by the places in which they live. Believe me, I’ve seen enough of this country to know that the people in the rural areas are a far cry from the hicks that city people think of them as. Many a city slicker has paid a heavy penalty for making that mistake.”
Preston B. Dawes couldn’t have known how prophetic his words were. He couldn’t have known the tragic cost which would be paid by himself and Don and Glory. He couldn t ‘have known how that price would be squeezed from their very souls by a girl Glenville hadn’t set eyes on for almost four years. He couldn’t have known about Wilma Malden!
CHAPTER FOUR
Wilma Malden clutched the whip hilt in her fist and brought it back over her shoulder. She snapped her arm forward with all her strength and the lash whistled through the air. It cracked expertly across the bare buttocks of the man lying facedown on the couch. A scarlet line of blood appeared on his doughy haunches.
He was a short man, middle-aged and paunchy. His muscles are in his wallet, Wilma thought to herself and cracked the whip once again. The man uttered a cry of pain mingled with ecstasy. Wilma smiled to herself—a humorless smile. The man was enjoying his beating and she was enjoying administering it-—even though it was part of her job.
There were other aspects—many of them -- of her job which Wilma didn’t enjoy at all. It wasn’t that she had scruples about being a high-priced whore; it was simply that there was rarely any pleasure in the job for her. Wilma had learned a lot about sexual pleasure in the three years since she’d left home; mostly she’d learned not to question the perversities of her own tastes, to enjoy that which pleased her and, when necessary, to put up with that which didn’t.
Three years, and tomorrow she’d be on her way home again. Wilma thought of her father and the last time she’d seen him. She slashed the whip across the man’s buttocks again. And she thought bitterly of her life during the three years since leaving Glenville.
First there had been New Orleans and Aunt Mattie. The city -- dirt and fever-heat, bursting at its seams; the woman -- dried bread crust, sparrow-squeaking “don’ts,” man-shy and juiceless and flutter-flammed at the problems of a young niece with long legs designed for yawning manward. For about three months Wilma had amused herself by teasing Aunt Mattie, by jeering at her and confessing to all sorts of sins she’d never committed, by flaunting her sexiness in that wrinkled prune-face. Aunt Mattie took it as long as she could, and then she did the only thing she could do. She up and died. She dropped dead in self-defense. And Wilma, behind her veil at the funeral, smiled at having disposed of the old lady’s morality once and for all.
Next came the job as a cigarette girl in a Bourbon Street nightclub. Wilma landed it simply and quickly by seducing the manager of the club in his office. It left a bad taste in her mouth, but she was hired that very night. He was the first man to make love to her since that night with her father and the act had left Wilma disgusted. It was a disgust she would overcome, but never lose completely.
Three weeks later, toward closing time, Wilma was leaning over the counter of the hatcheck room when she felt a hand slide boldly up the back of her leg and under the material of the tights she wore. As she was whirling around, she heard the hatcheck girl greet the owner of the hand respectfully. “Hello, Mr. D’Angelo. Good to see you,” she said.
Wilma bit off the outrage she was about to voice. Vito D’Angelo was a big man along Bourbon Street. Even the club owners were obsequious to him. Rumor linked him to the syndicate and placed him high among the overlords controlling New Orleans’ netherworld.Wilma let his hand have its way and then turned and smiled at him.
“You’re new here, hey, sweetie?” D’Angelo said, his eyes fondling her body approvingly.
“Yes, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“What’s your name?”
“Wilma Malden.”
“Well, I’m gonna call you ‘Red.’ It’s easier to remember. Okay?”
“Sure, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“And my name’s Vito -- to my friends.”
“Swell -- friend Vito.”
He laughed. “Well, since we’re friends, how about we ball when you get through here tonight, Red?”
“Cool.”
“As a matter of fact, let’s get started right now. You go change Red, and I’ll fix it with the manager.”
“If you’re sure he won’t object—”
“He won’t object!” The way D’Angelo said it removed all doubts.
A half hour later Wilma found herself in Vito D’Angelo’s lavish duplex apartment. D’Angelo flipped on the stereo and took her in his arms. His lips were hard and insistent against hers. His hand was rough as it reached behind her to bunch the material of her skirt so he could reach beneath it. The kiss was a long one and his hand, working its way between her legs from behind, was insistent.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Wilma said a little breathlessly when the kiss was over.
“Any reason I should, Red?” His teeth flashed white in a humorless smile. But his small, deep-seated brown eyes were filled with lust, a lust as crude as the scar on his cheek which pointed toward them like a jagged arrow. “I know what I want, I go after it,” he told her. “And I didn’t bring you up here to show you the view.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“Well, then—” He took her in his arms again and pushed her none too gently onto the couch. Leaning over her, he unbuttoned the top of her dress and bared her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. “Yeah,” he said, “You knew what to expect, didn’t you.” He stood looking down at her.
“Why, yes, I guess I did,” Wilma murmured. She reached down and pulled her skirt up as though to adjust her stockings. She made sure that she pulled it high enough so that he could see she wasn’t wearing any panties. Then she let it fall to cover her legs again.
D’Angelo caught his breath. “Hey, you’re a real, honest-to-goodness redhead,” he said appreciatively. He reached down and pushed her skirt up again-all the way. His hand fumbled at his pants a moment and then he scrambled on top of her.
“Baby!” Wilma exclaimed, a little taken aback at his impetuousness. “Aren’t you even going to get out of your clothes first?”