"Ah, come on, Craig," said Simmons. "I'm Ganymede."
"I thought it was Galahad," said Craig.
"Ganymede was cupbearer to the gods," said Simmons. "Don't you F.O. types know anything?"
"I know he was queer," said Craig, and Medani giggled.
Simmons said: "You're right. I'd better stick to Galahad."
"Righter of wrongs," said Craig, "defender of distressed maidens, bulwark of civilization."
"Exactly," said Simmons. He wasn't laughing. "That's what being in the newspaper business is for. Righting wrongs. Defending civilization." He smiled. "That and the money."
"You didn't mention defending distressed maidens," said Charlie.
"How could I?" Simmons asked. "I've distressed a few myself. That reminds me—"
He nodded to the barman, who pressed a buzzer behind the bar. "What good is a saloon without dancing girls?" Simmons asked.
The perfesser moved in three clean chords from "I Thought I Heard Buddy Boldon Shout" to Offenbach, the curtains parted, and Craig was back in Nuderama, with Karen, Tempest, Maxine, eight supporting lovelies and all. But this time they were doing a can-can, and doing it well. Simmons must have been paying them a lot of money, he thought, but at least he got value for it. He glanced quickly at Simmons, as Karen crashed down in a split. On his face was the look of a man who was getting value for money.
After the can-can the show reverted to Nuderama all over again, but there were two differences. The apathy of the Soho show had gone completely. These were women to whom undressing was a prelude to making love, and an invitation aimed straight for the men at the bar. Look at me, each rich, swaying body said. I'm desirable. Admit you want me. And perhaps—who knows—I can be had. The creamy rose-tipped flesh yearned out toward the male with a frankness that could mean only one thing, and the men at the bar knew it. They knew, too, that they were still out West in the old days, because the clothes the girls removed were Edwardian. Craig had never realized before the erotic quality of corsets, frilly panties that reached to the knees, picture hats two feet across. But Simmons—or his choreographer—had. There was a scene in which Tempest, in a yellow muslin gown with a bustle, a straw hat, and parasol, sang "You Are My Honeysuckle," and she and the per-fesser between them extricated all the sugared innocence the song contained. As she sang in a small, true, little-girl voice, Karen and Maxine appeared, dressed as French maids, all white starched caps and frilly skirts, and slowly stripped Tempest naked. As the smooth-rounded body appeared her innocence became an ecstasy of shame and as she struggled piteously against the encroaching hands that showed her to the eyes of men her voice still whispered the suggestive lyrics to the avid silence.
"You can't beat the old songs, eh Craig?" asked Simmons.
"Not the way they sing them," said Craig. "Ah—dear girls aren't they?" Simmons said. "Dear?"
Simmons laughed. "I like you," he said. "You've got a way of getting straight to the point without being obvious. No—when I said dear, I meant lovable."
"I see," said Craig. "Do you do this kind of thing often?"
"Not often, no," said Simmons. "This type of show's a hobby of mine, you see. I like to arrange one now and again, just to see how it works with my young men. It looks as if they're enjoying it."
It did indeed, Craig thought. Eleven girls offered, like bones to dogs, to half a dozen rich youngsters, one of whom was about to become engaged to his daughter. A man's hobbies couldn't be much more various than that.
"Women are usually stupid and invariably expensive," said Simmons, "but they're worth it, don't you think? Their effect on men is so amusing. Just look."
He nodded at Charlie, who was staring at Maxine. What Maxine was doing reminded Craig of Tangier all over again.
"It reminds me of my lost youth," said Simmons.
"I thought you spent that in the Balkans."
"Oh, I did," Simmons said. "Killing people for a good cause. That's always been an interest of mine. Just as well my mother had me christened Galahad."
Then the curtain came down and he went off with his bottle, pouring drinks. Craig set himself to memorize the names of the men to whom he'd been introduced. It would be as well to find out who they were, what they did. It might even explain why Simmons found it necessary to debauch them. And it would upset Loomis. Loomis was a prude.
The girls made their entrance into the saloon then, and Craig stayed well away from Hornsey. Each girl wore a tight-fitting low-cut gown, black stockings, and high-heeled shoes. They hadn't had time to wear much else. Simmons was busy again, with champagne this time, building an elaborate fountain of goblets, then pouring the wine so that it frothed down, spilling over from one glass to the next, while the girls giggled and the men cheered, and sweated for what they saw as Simmons took the three stars of the show and introduced them to one man after another. They came to Craig at last, and their eyes were bright with the knowledge of what they had done to men so much richer and more powerful than they could ever be.
"Hello," said Tempest.
"Do you know Mr. Craig?" Simmons asked.
"No," said Craig. "I'm sure I'd have remembered seeing you ladies before."
"Didn't you ever visit our club then?" Maxine
"No," Craig said. "I wish I had. Where is it?"
"Nuderama's closed down for a bit," said Karen. "We're on holiday. Pity you never saw us."
"Indeed it is," said Craig. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Charlie coming over, with Arthur Hornsey. Charlie was drunk.
"Well, anyway, you've seen us now, all of us," said Tempest, and took his arm.
"Pity you had to be so far away," said Craig, and Karen giggled. Maxine said he was naughty, and Tempest squeezed his arm muscle. Charlie stood in front of them, his hand on Hornsey's shoulder.
"That one's mine," he said to Craig. Simmons said: "Now, Charlie. Don't start anything." He didn't mean it.
Charlie said again: "That's the one I want." Craig felt the girl's hand tremble on his arm, but she continued to smile, to hold back her shoulders so that Charlie could see the teasing promise of her breasts.
"I want you," Charlie said.
"You're pretty drunk, Charlie," said Craig.
Charlie let go of Hornsey, and lurched toward him. His coordination was still good.
"I liked you when I was sober, didn't I?" he said, and Craig nodded. "It doesn't make any difference. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. Ask Chris here—" He gestured at Simmons.
"Ask him what?" said Craig.
"What I'm like when I'm drunk."
"He's nasty," said Simmons. "Very nasty. And very strong."
"That's right," Charlie said. "There's plenty of other girls, Craig. Take one."
"The trouble is I like this one, too." He looked at Tempest. "You're not twins, are you, love?"
She was doing her best, but fear crept slyly over her face and she couldn't control it. She was pretty, with a promise of sexual expertise that couldn't fail to excite, but he didn't want to fight for her. She'd known what she was doing when she took Simmons's money, after all. On the other hand, Charlie seemed fairly determined that Craig would have to fight for her, and Simmons was making no move to stop him. Nor was Hornsey. He just stood and waited, like a man waiting for yet another treat in a night full of treats. He'd even turned to pick up his glass when Charlie struck the first blow.
It was a hard, looping right aimed at Craig's jaw. Craig swayed from it, and pushed Tempest from him. She tripped over Maxine and fell, her gown floating back to reveal the round whiteness of her thigh above her stocking. None of the men even looked; they were absorbed in the fight as Charlie leaped in again, feinted with a right, and landed a left to Craig's middle. Craig gasped, and moved back. Someone had taught this boy how to hit. Charlie threw another left, and Craig grabbed the fist, pulled, and swerved into a carefully controlled throw. After all, he didn't want to hurt Charlie. He was drunk. But drunk or not Charlie landed with a beautifully timed break fall, rolled over once, and got to his feet, circling around Craig, then leaped high into the air, legs curled up, parallel with the ground, until one leg straightened viciously, slamming at where Craig's face should have been in a karate kick, and Craig, ducking, felt the impact of a boot heel on his shoulder that sent him slithering back into a couple of the eight supporting lovelies, while pain trickled like acid into his upper arm.