Sinners (15 page)

Carey was delighted with the change in her. ‘That Maxie boy must be one hell of an analyst,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should see him myself Since the party and Marshall’s proposal, she was confused. She had never thought of Marshall as a potential boyfriend, let alone a lover. Her life was very well organized – several boyfriends at a time, one of whom she would be sleeping with. Then, when it looked even vaguely serious, on to the next. She had worked too long and too hard to put her job second to anything or anyone.

However, Marshall was different. She had always looked up to him, admired him, copied him, even been a little bit in awe of him. His proposal had come as a great shock. She had decided to fly to Acapulco with Sunday and stay a few days, think things out.

They sat in the black Cadillac sent to meet them at the airport, the air conditioning going full blast and a glass partition separating them from the young Mexican driver allocated to Sunday.

‘What am I going to do?’ Carey asked for the fifteenth time.

‘It’s simple,’ Sunday replied patiently, ‘if you love him, marry him, and if you don’t love him, don’t marry him.’

‘Oh honey, what the hell has
love
got to do with it? It’s far more complex than that. I might hate him in bed, he might hate me if we should have black children, I might—’

‘That’s a healthy sign, at least you’re considering children.’

‘I’d love children,’ Carey’s eyes clouded over, ‘only they might be little black cripples.’

‘Carey, shut up. Is that your problem? Are you worried because of his leg?’

‘Not really. I don’t know. I’m frightened. I’ve never been involved with a man like him before.’

‘Sleep with him then. Maybe that will help you decide how you feel.’

‘Listen to you – Miss Anti-Sex!’

Sunday laughed. ‘I never said I was anti-sex, just anti-everything.’

‘Hmmm, it’s going to be interesting to see the new you with Steve Magnum. He’ll eat you for breakfast in your present frame of mind.’

‘I’m not going to leap into Steve’s bed. I may have changed, but not that much.’

Carey grinned. ‘They say he’s the best.’

The driver pressed a button and the glass slid open. ‘Your hotel, Miss Simmons. Very beautiful, yes?’

‘Yes.’ It reminded her of Rio. Pale pink bungalows perched on a hillside, each with their own pool. ‘I’m going to love it here,’ she said to Carey.

Carey nodded. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

Not one decent job. Not one good screw to watch. No action at all. And Marge shuffling around at home, nagging and watchful.

Herbert felt well and truly frustrated. He hadn’t even been able to follow up his first and glorious letter to Sunday Simmons. Was she wondering what had become of him?

He had finished his job for the evening, driving an old-time horror star on a personal appearance at a supermarket opening. No one had turned up, so Herbert was finished three hours before he expected to be. He decided to use those three hours to his advantage – the Supreme Chauffeur Company would never know.

It was nine o’clock when he left the Beverly Hills area. He drove slowly along the Strip, the big black Cadillac easy beneath his touch.

The hippies were gathered outside their usual haunts, sitting huddled on the sidewalk or wandering aimlessly about.

Herbert spat out of his window. Let the little long-haired morons get some discipline. The girls were all whores, fourteen- and fifteen-year-old whores with flowing hair and weird outfits. One of them sidled up to the car as it waited at a light.

‘I’ll screw for ten bucks,’ she mumbled.

Herbert looked her up and down. She was about eighteen, skinny, with a pointed ugly face and freaked-out hair. She wore a shabby multi-coloured robe to the ground, and many rows of black beads.

He started to sweat. It had been a long time. ‘Get in,’ he said harshly.

The girl ran round the car and jumped in. She began to bite her nails, and surveyed Herbert with blank red eyes. ‘Don’t go too far,’ she said, ‘just drive up in the hills a couple of blocks. For a straight screw it’s fifteen – anything special it’s more.’

He didn’t say anything, just swung the big Cadillac up Miller Drive and kept going.

‘Not too far,’ the girl said sharply.

He remained silent.

‘Christ! What are you – deaf and dumb?’

He had found a suitable side-turning and pulled the car to a halt. It was dark and all that could be heard was the chirping of crickets.

The girl started to pull off her robe.

He watched her. She had a flat chest like a boy.

‘OK. Hand over the bread and let’s get it done.’

They were all whores. They all wanted money and sex in that order. Sometimes in the other order. All of them. ‘Come on,’ she whined, ‘I haven’t got all night.’ She reached for his fly and started to unzip it. ‘You can pay me after. I’ll give you a special for twenty. You look like a nice john.’

All the while she was manipulating him out of his trousers. He sat behind the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. She smelt. He could smell various body odours as she leant down and tried to push his limp member in her mouth.

‘Stop it,’ he cried, bringing his hand down and smashing it on her head. ‘Get your filthy mouth off me. Stop it – stop it – stop it.’

He didn’t cease hitting her until she crumpled to the floor of the car and lay there very still.

He was sobbing with rage. The bitch. Why had she picked on him?

He struggled and kicked her out of the car, throwing her robe after her.

He adjusted his clothing and calmed down. Then he thought of Sunday Simmons, and miraculously he was hard and virile, a real man. If only he could write to her now and enclose his precious offering. There was no other way for him, not with Marge, not with anyone. The ultimate delight was only possible with pen in hand.

He left the girl lying there and drove off. To hell with Marge poking and nosing around. He was going home to lock himself in and write a masterpiece. Then he would have a long, cleansing shower. Later he would take the car back and mail the letter.

*    *    *

Marge was out.

‘Bitch!’ Herbert muttered. He had told her quite clearly that she wasn’t to go out at night. He supposed she was with their neighbour. Well, he would soon put a stop to
that
. After he’d written his letter he would go next door and drag her home,
and
tell the cow neighbour what he thought of her.

He went in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. A large moth fluttered around the light. Quietly he caught it, and tore off both its wings before throwing it in the garbage can.

Then he went upstairs into the box-room. He picked up his pen . . .

*    *    *

It was a wonderful letter. So full and explicit, and there was a plastic bag to go with it. He was satisfied. Perhaps one day Sunday and he would read through his letters together and do everything that he had written about. She was sure to save them, perhaps bound with pink ribbon. After all, they
were
love letters.

He sang in the shower, in a flat toneless voice that he liked to think sounded like Perry Como’s.

Then he dressed and carefully put his letter in the glove-compartment of the Cadillac, locking it up before setting off to find Marge.

*    *    *

The front yard was a mass of overgrown grass and weeds. The Crisps had not touched it since moving in.

Herbert could imagine what kind of people they were – slobs, like Marge. Uneducated coarse slobs. Well, they weren’t getting their dirty hands on
his
wife.

They were obviously home, as lights peeped from every room, although the drapes were closed.

He edged up to the house, intending to surprise them. Round the side there was a small gap in one of the drapes. He bent down and peered in. It was difficult to see as the gap was so small he could only focus with one eye.

Marge was spreadeagled on a sofa, stark naked, and around her stood ten nude men and women, who appeared to be singing; Marge was joining in, and she was smiling. There was some sort of paint – or was it blood? – all over her breasts.

Herbert froze. One of the men, fat and balding, stepped towards Marge. He was wearing a black mask. One of the women handed round black candles, and when they were lit, the lights were turned out, and the fat man fell onto Marge, heaving back and forth, while the others knelt down and watched.

Herbert could not believe what he was witnessing. It was disgusting. But it was exciting him and he stayed quietly where he was.

One by one the men in the group stepped forward and fell upon Marge, and only when they had all had their turn were the candles extinguished and the lights turned on.

Marge got up, quite happy, and accepted a glass of something and an affectionate pat on the back from a tall woman with straggly white hair and stringy breasts.

Herbert remained frozen to the spot. His eye hurt and his mouth was dry.

Finally he made his way home. He eradicated any sign of having been there earlier. Then he got in the Cadillac and sped silently away.

Serafina adored Hollywood. She arrived dressed from head to toe in crimson, with a slinky silver-fox fur, complete with crafty face, draped around her shoulders.

Charlie was proud of her. She was one hell of a mother who acted like a woman half her age.

His two children were solemn and respectful, almost as if Lorna had told them to be on their best behaviour.

‘Daddy, we don’t have to call your new wife Mummy, do we?’ Sean asked in the car from the airport.

‘No, you can call her what you like,’ Charlie replied. There were a few names he would like to call Dindi himself. She had refused to come to the airport, claiming a headache. A headache indeed. More like a bellyache because he had turned down the idea of her being in
Roundabout
. He realized that if Serafina and the kids were going to have any sort of decent holiday, he would have to relent and let her be in the picture, although the last thing he wanted as a wife was an aspiring actress.

‘It’s wonderful here, wonderful, Charlie. Where’s your wife?’ Serafina asked, bright bird eyes staring him down.

‘She thought it would be better to meet you at the house.’

‘Did she now, did she? Pretty little thing. Sharp, I bet. Smart as a button. I don’t know why you wanted to go tying yourself-up again so soon. You can take your pick now, have a bit of fun. Is she – you know?’

He laughed. Trust Serafina to think the worst. ‘No, she’s not pregnant. You’ll like her.’

‘I hope so.’ Serafina rescued several straggles of bright red hair escaping from her crimson beret. ‘I’d like to have been here for the wedding. I love weddings. I’d like to have seen that Lost Vega.’

‘Las Vegas,’ Charlie corrected. ‘We’ll go there, maybe next weekend. Natalie and Clay might come.’

‘Can we go to Disneyland, Daddy?’ Cindy enquired. She looked exactly like Lorna, much to Charlie’s annoyance.

‘We can go wherever you want.’

Sean supported his sister. ‘Mummy said we should go to Disneyland. She said it’s super.’

‘Mummy’s never been there,’ Charlie retaliated.

‘No, but Uncle Jim has, and he says it’s terrific, with real Indians and cowboys and a showboat and wagons and—’

‘We’ll go, I said.’ Charlie was furious at the reference to Uncle Jim.

Back at the house Dindi was nowhere to be seen. George was sent off to find her.

Serafina said, ‘A nice cup of tea, that’s what I’d like. There’s nothing as good as a nice cup of tea. Show me where the kitchen is. I brought six packets of Lyons Quick Brew with me.’ She fumbled in her handbag and produced a packet.

‘You can’t start messing around in the kitchen, the maid will do it.’ When on earth would his mother realize that he was a big star and had people to do everything?

‘I wouldn’t trust an American to make
my
tea,’ Serafina huffed. ‘Show me the kitchen.’

*    *    *

Dindi was shopping. She had so far spent two and a half thousand dollars and was still going strong. She was trying on a skimpy orange silk jersey dress and preening in the mirror. ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked the salesgirl.

The salesgirl, wearing a similar dress, stifled a yawn and said, ‘Great.’ She was bored with watching Mrs Charlie Brick buy everything in sight.

‘OK. I’ll take it. What other colours does it come in?’

‘White, black and a sort of plum.’

‘I’ll have it in all colours.’

‘Dindi?’

‘Yeah. Oh – hi, Natalie.’

‘Hello, I was told this was the place to buy clothes. What a terrific dress.’

‘Yeah.’ Dindi wished she had stayed in the fitting room instead of coming out to inspect herself in the main room.

‘I thought Charlie’s mother and the children were arriving today.’

‘Yeah, well I guess they are. I figured they’d want to be alone.’

‘Oh.’ Natalie smiled. ‘Very thoughtful of you. You haven’t met Serafina yet, have you?’

‘Nope.’ Dindi shook her head, edging back to the fitting room.

Natalie followed. ‘She’s quite a character, idolizes Charlie of course, and he adores her. I do hope the two of you get along.’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’ Dindi shrugged off the dress, revealing red bikini pants – and that was all.

Natalie felt her eyes drawn jealously to the girl’s pointy young breasts. ‘No reason really, but she is difficult. She’s quite old and yet she still wants to have men . . .’

Dindi giggled. ‘She sounds like a swinger. I expect I’ll still want to have men when I’m quite old, won’t you?’

Natalie flushed. ‘I just thought I’d warn you about her.’ Oh God, Charlie had married a real little bitch. She would have to move swiftly to get rid of her.

‘Yeah – well, thanks for the warning. I’ll fix Charlie’s mom up with a live one! Oh, by the way, how’s Clay?’

‘He’s fine,’ Natalie replied stiffly. ‘Did you know him long in Rome?’

Dindi winked. ‘Long enough.’ She giggled as Natalie opened her mouth to reply. ‘I’m kidding. Are you jealous?’