“I d-don't think she’s a—a—pushover like you’re implying!” Cal was stubborn.
“What do you think, Reb?” Beulah asked the black man.
“Production for use.” H. Reb Klein nodded agreement. “Nothing built like that is meant for mere visual appreciation. I’d like to shoot her. I’d judge she’s quite photogenic. But I’d rather integrate her.”
“Pleasure before business,” Irving concurred hypocritically, managing to ignore quite blithely the startled look Cal shot him. “But remember, Reb, I saw her first.”
“I saw her first,” Cal reminded him. “Sir,” he added.
“You should have planted a flag,” Beulah told him.
“What for? He’d only pronounce her virgin territory.” Reb smiled in the face of Cal’s blush -- not unkindly.
“I’ll give you all a full report on the results of the campaign,” Irving told them smugly.
“Now hold on! Who appointed you Head Lecher?” Beulah wanted to know.
“That’s right. I demand equal opportunity!” Reb chimed in.
“For women too,” Beulah added.
“Are you opting for femininity this week; dear?” Irving asked too sweetly. “Isn’t that a little out of character for you?”
“It’s right in character,” Beulah said coldly. “I am what I am and I don’t disguise the nature of the product like some I might mention.”
“Manipulation is an art.” Irving was huffy. “That’s ‘man-ipulation,’ ” he pointed out.
“Well, that should let you out,” Beulah snapped.
“Half a day today?” Irving’s retort was cut off by the entrance of Comstock Bowdler, editor of Nymph magazine. “Somebody should have told me.”
“Just time out for inspiration,” Reb answered him.
“From you I could use less inspiration and more photos for the book,” Bowdler shot back.
“You can’t rush art.” The photographer was not intimidated. “It has to proceed at its own pace.”
“Prima donna!” The editor didn’t push it any further than that. “The way you’re all ogling the new cheese,” he continued to the group at large, “you’d think you didn’t spend your working days under a sea of pulchritude.”
“The trouble with you, Hugh Esquire, Esquire, is that you can’t see the goods for the seas,” Beulah punned.
Comstock Bowdler winced at her mangling of his pseudonym. He should have been used to it. He was always kidded about the name he used on the masthead of the magazine. It was useless to protest that he hadn’t picked it out himself. “Hugh Esquire” had been the selection of the publisher, Raunch Rarnmer. “Given the essence of Nymph,” Rammer had pointed out, “we could hardly hold up our heads with an editor named Comstock Bowdler. It would be as ridiculous as somebody named Adolph Hitler heading up the Anti-Defamation League.” Thus “Hugh Esquire” was coned—-half minted from the bunniest boy publisher of them all, the other half stolen outright from Nymph’s other chief competitor. Nymph wasn’t yet in either league, but the editorial alias was a start. On salary, juicy salary, Comstock had acquiesced. But he didn’t like it. The trouble was, it came too close to the truth of what might be termed his double life -- the other half of which no one at Nymph, not even Raunch Rammer himself, suspected.
Now Comstock changed the subject. “Let’s see what all the eroticism’s about,” he said, elbowing his way through the others to where he could get a look at Llona. “Succulent.” He concurred in the majority opinion. “And I’d say most decidedly available.”
“Out of your league,” Irving told him. “All of you.” He included the others.
“The arrogance of the adman!” Reb shook his head. “I see I shall have to teach you a lesson.”
“Fifty bucks says I make her first.” Irving challenged him.
“I accept the wager,” Reb snapped back.
“Wait a minute! What about us?” Beulah Von Dyker demanded. “Let’s make it a pool instead of a bet.”
“An office pool’s not a bad idea,” Comstock mused. “But where do you come in, Beulah? I’d say you were ruled out on anatomical grounds.”
“The hell I am. There’s more than one way to skin that sex kitten. I demand in!”
“All right. Then we’ll put up fifty bucks apiece,” Comstock decided.
“What do you mean? You can’t get in on this. You’re a married man.” Irving was indignant.
“So what?”
“It’s people like you that killed Father Knows Best!”
“If Beulah’s eligible, so am I!” Comstock insisted.
“Fifty dollars apiece it is then.” Reb took out his wallet.
“Careful, Reb,” Irving told him snidely. “You may be at a disadvantage. Maybe Little Eva out there has prejudices.”
“You think she’s anti-Semitic?” Reb asked with a studied air of innocence.
“That should shut you up, Irving,” Beulah giggled.
It was common knowledge around the office that Reb was Jewish, but nobody around the office quite fathomed the ancestral logistics of a Jewish black man. Least of all, Irving, who was also Jewish, albeit Reformed to Reb’s heritage of Orthodoxy.
“How are we going to insure there’s no cheating?” Comstock Bowdler wondered. “I mean, any of us could simply lie and say we had when we hadn’t.”
“Hadn’t what?” Raunch Rammer and Pierre Strongfellow had emerged from Raunch’s office and come up behind the others unseen. It was Raunch who had spoken. “What’s the name of the game?” he continued good-naturedly. “And why can’t publishers play?” Raunch liked to run his magazine on a free-and-easy basis that allowed him to be one of the boys.
Comstock explained the situation and the idea of the pool to him.
“Well, I certainly think Pierre and I should be let in on this,” Raunch said when Comstock had finished. “Don’t you think so, Pierre?” He winked at Strongfellow.
Pierre immediately dug the import of the wink. It said that he and the publisher had an edge the others didn’t know about. They were the only ones who were aware that Llona was married. But then Pierre had an edge Raunch didn’t know about. He’d already lured Llona up to his apartment once. That should offset any advantage Rammer might think he had by virtue of being Llona’s boss.
“I don’t see why not,” Pierre replied.
“More moola to feed the kitty.” Irving spoke for the others.
“But what about this question of honesty raised by our eminent editor, Esquire, Esquire?” Reb reminded them.
“A valid point,” Raunch agreed. “We’ve got to systematize the proceedings. In the first place, we’ll draw lots for the wooing sequence so we won’t be tripping over one another. That will determine who gets first crack at the siren, second, third, and so on. Is that agreeable to everybody?”
They all nodded assent.
“Okay. Now, as to the authenticity of the seduction. First of all, the first one to take her to bed takes the pot. Okay?”
“But doesn’t that give the one who gets first crack at her an unfair edge?” Comstock asked.
“Perhaps. But that’s unavoidable. Still, we can narrow the edge by limiting each attempt to one date. She may not be the pushover you think she is. One date, and then to the end of the line. That way everybody else gets a chance before the first guy gets a second try. After all, it’s conceivable that the first one may merely weaken her resistance for the second, or the second for the third.”
“All right . . . That’s true . . . Okay . . .” They agreed to Raunch’s logic.
“Now, as to proof,” Raunch continued. “I think I have an idea. If you’ll step into my office.” He led the way and they trooped after him.