Case of Lucy Bending (10 page)

The senator met Jane Holloway when she and her banker husband had attended a fund-raising cocktail party in the senator's home for the benefit of a local Democratic candidate. Jane Holloway, at the senator's invitation, had become a regular visitor. Without her banker husband.

Their relationship had endured for almost two years, and had proved mutually rewarding. Most of their time together was spent on the sundeck atop the house. During these visits, the door leading to the interior was kept locked. Only the senator had the key.

The sundeck itself was an approximate 10 by 18 foot duck-boarded area. Half of it was shaded by a fringed canvas awning; the senator avoided direct sunlight since in addition to arthritis he suffered from actinic keratosis.

There were wheeled lounges up there, with canvas pads, and comfortable cushioned captains' chairs. There was also, under the awning, a completely equipped rattan bar. A telephone enabled the senator to make and receive outside calls or, by pushing buttons, communicate with his secretary in the study, the cook in the kitchen, or the houseman in the downstairs parlor.

On a hard, diamond-bright Monday morning, the sun fierce, Jane Holloway lay naked on a beach towel spread over the canvas pad of one of the lounges. She had oiled her body, including fingers and toes, and had two pads of cotton Vas-elined to her closed eyes.

Beneath the couch, in the shade, were her suntan oil, a towel, leather-strap sandals, and a half-finished glass of iced tea. She also had a small transistor radio there, but had switched it off when her host began to speak.

The senator sat in his wheelchair in the shade, a thin cotton shawl draped over his knees. He wore a lightweight pink sports shirt, with a matching cardigan. On his massive skull was perched a rumpled white Ashing hat, wide-brimmed, with grommets for ventilation.

He had been an enormous man, somewhat shrunken now, but he still had the presence to awe. His face hung in pendulous folds, jowls, wattles. A roadmap of burst capillaries wandered across his mottled cheeks and bulbous nose. The hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair were spatulate and spotted.

When he spoke, his voice was strong, orotund, with a moist, fruity texture. A Washington, D.C., reporter had once written that "every word spoken by Senator Diedrickson sounds like it has been dipped in honey and hung up to dry with a golden safety pin."

"There is a bank in Martin County," he intoned. "A chain of banks, I should say. Listed on the American Exchange. Shortly, within a month or so, it will be the target of a takeover attempt."

Jane Holloway stirred. "Yes?" she said.

"The attempt will fail," the senator rumbled on, "and the stock will return to its usual level. But when the report of the intended takeover gets about, I believe we may anticipate an eight- to ten-point run-up. I suggest you buy as soon as possible. I have made a note of everything you need to know. Please use the broker I recommend. His discretion is assured."

"Thank you, senator," she said gratefully.

"My pleasure, dear," he said.

"Now there is something I'd like to ask you," she said. "I need your advice."

"Of course," he said. "You know I am always at your disposal. Nothing gives me more true gratification than to assist my friends."

She told him about Luther Empt's proposal. As she spoke, his smoky, somewhat bloodshot eyes never left her body. His gaze moved over her like a swab, from her short, silvered hair to her gilded toenails. The stare paused briefly at the clean pucker of her navel and the small, trimmed bush, soft as down.

She told him she had studied the presentation Luther Empt had given her husband. She told him of Turk Bending's efforts to secure her aid in convincing her husband to come in on the deal, and her demand for a reward if she did. She told the senator everything.

"What do you think?" she said, when she had finished her recital.

He didn't reply at once. She took the greased pads from her eyes and dropped them to the deck. She rolled onto her stomach, turned her head and pillowed it on one forearm so she could look at him. She spread her legs. Sunlight gleamed dully on her oiled buttocks.

"This Luther Empt," the senator said, "is he a Jew?"

"I don't know," Jane Holloway said. "I don't think so. Polish or Ukrainian—something like that."

"Do you know the names of the men who approached him?"

"They're in the presentation, but I don't recall. I do remember that one of them is named Rocco. His first name."

The senator made a sound deep in his heavy chest, half-snort, half-grunt.

"During my illustrious career in the United States Senate," he said, no irony in his voice, "I had but one ironclad rule: Never do business with a man named Rocco. However ... It would help, my dear, if you could provide the names of these men. Then I would make private inquiries to ascertain if they are indeed who they purport to be."

"I'll call you when I get home," she said, "and give you the names. But what do you think of the proposition generally?"

He sighed. "Do you know the annual income of the pornography industry in this great nation of ours?"

"Millions, I suppose. Probably hundreds of millions."

"The last number I saw," he said slowly, "was six billion. That's
billion.
Annually. Oh, the money is there; no doubt about that. But there is one slight drawback that may give you pause."

"The legal—" she started, but he interrupted.

"In this case, I agree with the attorneys consulted: the legal risk is minimal. No, I am referring to the character of the men who have presented the proposal."

"The mob guys?" she said. "I think Luther Empt can handle them. He's a hard man."

The senator laughed mirthlessly.

"A hard man, is he? My dear, neither you nor Luther Empt knows what hard is. These representatives of what is called 'organized crime'—although it has been my experience that they are frequently as disorganized as American industry or government—these men are of a hardness beyond your ken. What do you suppose might happen to Empt, or Ronald Bending, or your husband, if these men decide they are being deceived, or cheated, or even just overcharged?"

"I don't know," Jane Holloway said. "Would they kill?"

"Nothing as crass as that, my dear," the senator said. "One day the man they wanted out would simply disappear. He would be here, and then he would be gone. The world would be as if he had never been. There would be no letters, no threatening phone calls. He would just vanish, never to be heard from again. His body would never be found."

Jane hunched her shoulders and shivered. "So you think I should just tell Bill to forget about it?"

"Oh no," the senator said. "Large returns require large risks. And in this case, the returns can be very large indeed. Get those names for me and I'll see what I can discover about their bona fides."

"Thank you, senator," she said. "And now I think I better be getting home."

She rose to her feet, stretched gracefully, bent and twisted. She knew his hooded eyes never left her.

She padded over to him and knelt on the rough duckboards in front of his wheelchair. She whisked the cotton shawl away. With practiced fingers, she unzipped his fly. She delved within and deftly withdrew his cock from under-drawers and trousers.

"Look at that thing," the senator said sadly. "It is an antique, my dear. That is a genuine antique you fondle."

"Now, senator," she said, leaning forward, "don't get maudlin."

His eyes squinched shut. His speckled hands gripped the armrests tightly.

She had told Turk Bending the truth; the senator never touched her.

Mrs. Grace Bending was a stalky woman, erect to the point of stiffness. Clear features, complexion unblemished. Sharply cut profile. A wan, distant smile. Very controlled, but with an effort.

When she entered the office of Dr. Theodore Levin for the second time, she was wearing a severe, man-tailored suit of white linen. Neckline closed with a flowing scarf of silk printed with tiny forget-me-nots. Semi-opaque hose. Low-heeled pumps.

During her first visit, her long, sun-streaked hair had been piled atop her head in a braid, precisely coiled. Now it was down, hanging like pale snakes.

Then she had been nervous and brittle, gnawing her lower lip in moments of stress. Now she was somewhat thawed, sitting far back in the chair the doctor indicated. She crossed her knees. Good legs, he noted. No jewelry. No discernible perfume.

"Doctor," she started, "I was glad to hear you have decided to accept Lucy."

He nodded. "I hope it didn't occasion any, ah, family disagreement?"

"No, not really. We finally agreed it was best. And Lucy told me she likes you. You
do
think she has a problem?"

"Oh yes," he said, sighing. "A problem exists. I cannot even begin to discuss possible causes or possible solutions or even frequency of visits until we have the results of her physical examination. It will be scheduled for next week—if that is satisfactory to you."

"Yes, that will be all right. After school would be best. You said your associate, a woman, will do the exam?"

"Doctor Mary Scotsby—that is correct. We have been associated for several years. She is, of course, an M.D. Mrs.

Bending, I think I have all the basic information necessary from the questionnaires you and your husband completed. However, there are some additional things I need to know about Lucy."

"Yes, doctor?"

"Does she wet the bed?"

He thought he saw her frail smile falter, and there was a brief collapse in her patrician manner. He recalled the adjectives she had used in the first interview to describe her daughter's behavior: "vulgar . . . distasteful . . . disgusting . . . horrible." ,

"No," Grace Bending said shortly. "Not now. She did. In the past."

"When was this?" he asked. "At what age?"

"Up to about three or four years ago. Then she wet the bed regularly."

"Howoften?"

"Perhaps two or three times a week."

"But not recently?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"It simply stopped?"

"Yes."

He pondered that. He supposed such an abrupt and complete cessation of enuresis was possible, but he didn't think it likely. Still, this mother would have no reason to lie—unless she found the whole subject so revolting that she refused to discuss it.

"Mrs. Bending," he said, "these exhibitions of, ah, passionate attention on Lucy's part are never to her brothers?"

"No. Never."

"Or boys her own age or slightly older?"

"Not to my knowledge. Only with older men."

"Have her menstrual periods started?"

"Doctor! She's only eight years old!"

"Mrs. Bending, you would be surprised to learn at what an early age some female children begin their menses. To your knowledge, does Lucy masturbate regularly?"

"Absolutely not."

"Occasionally?"

"Never!"

He was surprised at the heat of her response. She was, he decided, either a liar or remarkably unobservant. This woman had come to him because of her daughter's abnormal sexuality, which she recognized. But now she was denying her daughter's normal sexuality. He found that intriguing, and possibly significant.

"I noted Lucy is not a nail-biter. Does she have any other personal habits you feel I should know about? That might assist in analyzing her condition?"

"No, I can't think of any."

"Eat well? A good appetite?"

"Oh yes."

"Is she taking any drugs? Particularly mood-altering drugs, such as tranquilizers or amphetamines for hyperactivity. Anything of that nature?"

"No. A children's strength aspirin once or twice, but nothing stronger."

"She does well at school? She is a good student?"

"Yes."

"Does she read? I mean other than school assignments? Does she read for amusement or entertainment?"

"Oh yes. Lucy is a great reader. Very advanced for her age. She brings books home from the library at least once a week."

"You review the books she brings home?"

"Of course."

"Of course. How much television would you say she watches? Hours a day."

"Perhaps one or two hours a day. More on weekends."

"Have you noticed any preference? In the type of shows, I mean."

"Nooo, not exactly. She seems to enjoy, uh, family sagas. The Walton Family.' 'Little House on the Prairie.' That sort of thing. Very normal."

Very normal, he thought mordantly, except for one teensy-weensy quirk: she likes to stroke men's pricks.

He recalled the first interview. Grace Bending had been the dominant one, the leader. At first. "Let me handle this." She had said that twice to her husband. And he had been almost hostile—at first.

But when he got them down to the nitty-gritty, it was the husband who said what had to be said; the wife couldn't bring herself to it.

And now, again, she was blocking. Oh, she had thawed a bit. She was opening up. But not enough. He sensed a reserve there, deep and unyielding. It would take time to break through.

"Mrs. Bending, does Lucy have any particular friends? Boys or girls of her own age?"

"Lucy has many friends," she said briskly. "A little girl, Gloria Holloway, who lives next door, is probably her best friend."