Candy (14 page)

“You!”
shouted Jack Katt. “You and your damned oblique approach! I
want puss!”

And so they fell to arguing and discussing the tactic, though to Candy it was a respite and she pursued her reflections on the hours past.

She hardly noticed when they were joined at the table a few minutes later by another person, Dr. Howard Johns, a pleasant, middle-aged chap, certainly not the looker that Tom and Jack were, but perhaps more stable, and no doubt more comfortable for a young girl to be with. Nor did Candy catch his name at first, if in fact these two even troubled to introduce him, so informal were they in such matters.

“Listen, do you know what he is?” asked Tom Smart, after a minute, speaking to Candy. “A gynecologist! Ha-ha-ha!”

“Good Grief,” said Candy.

“Sure,” said Tom Smart, and turning to the doctor, went on in his winningly irrepressible way, “how would you like to look up
that
snatch, Doc? Boy, it’s honey and cream!”

“It’s a living snake!” said Jack Katt.

This seemed to embarrass the doctor somewhat and he shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Well,” said Candy, “I’ve never met a . . . a gynecologist
socially.
How do you do?”

“Are
you
kidding?” shouted Tom Smart. “How does he
do?
He gets
more pussy
in three hours than most chaps do in a week! Right, Doc?”

“Now, really, Tom, Jack,” said Dr. Johns, “I mean, fun is fun, but . . .” He was clearly upset about the turn the conversation had taken.

“I think you boys are terrible,” said Candy indignantly, and she got up and went to another table.

“Good God!” cried Jack Katt. “Now you’ve lost that hot puss for us! Christ! Christ!”

“What! What!” said Tom Smart. “I lost it? Great Scott man, don’t you realize that if . . .”

And so they would discuss it for hours on end.

Meanwhile, Dr. Johns got up and joined Candy at the other table.

“Well,” he said, “they are certainly . . . certainly
outgoing
chaps, I must say, I’m terribly sorry about that. Really . . . I hardly . . .”

“Oh they’re just silly boys,” said Candy, “it’s just their way of trying to . . . trying to
express
themselves . . . aesthetically, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” said Dr. Johns, glancing at them again. They were scuffling about the floor now, wallowing in the pools of beer and sawdust, shouting remarks about “tight quim,” “hot puss,” etc., etc.

Both Candy and the doctor looked away.

“Do you happen to know what’s playing at the 5th Avenue Cinema?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” said Dr. Johns. “Sorry.”

“I’d like so much to see a good film tonight,” said the girl.

“I don’t go to the films much myself,” he said. “Enjoy them, do you?”

“Well, of course, I only go to the art films,” said Candy.

“I see,” said Dr. Johns.

“Films like
The Quiet One,
and
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”

“Well,” said Dr. Johns, “would you like me to go and get a paper for you? It would probably be listed there.”

“Oh no,” said Candy, “that’s all right, thanks very much.” She was pleased by his consideration.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Oh yes, thanks. I’m sure someone will come in who knows what’s playing there tonight. I know almost everyone who comes in here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said the doctor. “Oh, you’ll get to know them,” said Candy, “they’re all swell kids.”

“Yes, I’d like to,” he said, rather dubiously. “Who is your doctor . . . perhaps I know him.”

“Well, I haven’t been to a doctor since I’ve been in New York . . . not to a gynecologist anyway. I’m not married, of course, and . . . well, I suppose a single girl doesn’t need to go to a gynecologist very often, does she?” In spite of her smile, the perfect girl was blushing. Dr. Johns frowned.

“Well, of course, you really should have a periodic checkup,” he said. “I mean certainly you should have that. When was the last time you did?”

“Oh gracious,” said Candy, trying to recall, “it must have been a year ago at least.”

“Far too long, far too long,” said the doctor seriously. “Gosh, guess
I’d
better make an appointment,” said Candy.

“Hmm. The difficulty is, you see, I’m off on two months’ holiday starting tomorrow,” said Dr. Johns. He looked around the bar. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, getting up from the table, “I won’t be a moment,” and he went out the door.

Candy was humming the theme music of
Alexander Nevsky,
one of her favorite movies, when Dr. Johns came back in the bar, carrying a little black bag. He stopped at the table and smiled at her. “We can give you an examination,” he said, “just over there.” And he assisted her up.

Candy was amazed. “Here? In the
Riviera?
Good Grief, I don’t . . .”

“Oh yes,” said Dr. Johns. “Just here . . . this will do nicely.” He had led the girl to the door of the men’s toilet, and quickly inside. It was extremely small, a simple cabinet with a stool, nothing more. He locked the door.

“Good Grief,” said Candy, “I really don’t think . . .”

“Oh yes,” Dr. Johns assured her, “perfectly all right.” He put his little bag down and started taking off her skirt. “Now we’ll just slip out of these things,” he said.

“Well, are you sure that . . .” Candy was quite confused.

“Now, the little panties,” he said, pulling them down. “Lovely things you wear,” he added and lifted her up onto the stool.

“Now you just stand with one foot on each side of the stool, limbs spread, that’s right and . . . oh yes, you can brace yourself with your hands against the walls . . . yes, just so. . . . Fine!”

He bent quickly to his kit and took out a small clamp and inserted it between the girl’s darling little labias, so that they were held apart.

“Good!”
he said. “Now I just want to test these clitorial reflexes—often enough, that’s where trouble strikes first.” And he began to gently massage her sweet pink clit. “Can you feel that?”

“Good Grief yes!” said Candy, squirming about, “are you sure that this . . .”

“Hmm,” said Dr. Johns. “Normal response there all right. Now I just want to test these clitorial reflexes to tactile surfaces.” And he began sucking it wildly, clutching the precious girl to him with such sudden force and abandon that her feet slipped off the stool and into the well of it. During the tumult the flushing mechanism was set in motion and water now surged out over the two of them, flooding the tiny cabinet and sweeping out of it and into the bar.

There was a violent pounding at the door.

“What in God’s name is going on in there?” demanded the manager, who had just arrived. He and the bartender were throwing their weight against the door of the cabinet which by now was two feet deep in water as the doctor and Candy thrashed about inside.

“Good Grief!” she kept saying. They had both fallen to the floor. The doctor was snorting and spouting water, trying desperately to keep sucking and yet not to drown.

Finally with a great lunge the two men outside broke open the door. They were appalled by the scene.

“Good God! Good God!” they shouted. “What in the name of God is going on here!”

A police officer arrived at that moment and was beside himself with rage at the spectacle.

The doctor had lost consciousness by the time he was pulled to his feet. Both he and Candy were sopping wet and completely disheveled. She was naked from the waist down.

“He’s a doctor!” she cried to the policeman, who was dragging him about like a sack and pulling her by the arm.

“Uh-huh,” said the cynical cop, “Dr. Caligari, I suppose.”

Candy didn’t like this kind of flippant reference to an art film. “This
happens
to be an examination,” she said with marked disdain.

“You can say
that
again, sister,” said the officer, taking a good look himself.

“Good Grief!” said Candy, snatching the clamp out from between her labes.

The manager and the bartender were speechless with fury.

“You . . . you . . .”
stammered the manager, shaking his finger at Candy.

“This so
happens
to be a private examination by my doctor!” said Candy with great haughtiness.

“You are barred from the Riviera!”
he shouted with the finality of doom itself.

The doctor had regained consciousness now, but was still lost in his insane desire for the girl and flung himself against her in such ardor that they tumbled back into the cabinet with a splash, Candy shrieking, “Good Heavens!”

The policeman snatched them out again and drove them ahead of him with his club through the bar.

Near the door, still writhing about on the floor, were the two good-looking madcaps, Katt and Smart.

“Augh,”
said the policeman in an expression of sheer disgust. And he struck a few blows at them with his stick a he might have at a reptile; but then he had to hurry on to see to his two prisoners.

“What the devil is he doing with that
stick?”
Jack Katt wanted to know, staring after them from where he lay in a great pool of stale beer.

“You poor sap,” said Tom Smart, “he’s going to put that stick in her honeypot, don’t you know that?”

“Goddam it,” shouted Jack Katt, “why didn’t
we
bring such a stick as that! It’s your fault, you swine!”

And so they fell to grappling about again in the mire of wet sawdust under their table.

On the street, Candy and the doctor were hustled into a patrol car, which departed with a roar.

I
N THE POLICE CAR
, the two officers were wide-eyed at Candy’s half-nakedness, as she still carried her skirt and pants in a dripping ball.

“Okay sister, cover it up!” said one of them brusquely.

“Good Night!” said Candy, “my things are soaking wet! How can I put
these on?”

Dr. Johns, who had been securely pinioned in the corner of the back seat, suddenly lunged forward.

“Perfect!” he cried. “Perfect! Her tubes are
perfect!”

“You’ve got a screw loose, buddy!” said one of the cops, giving the doctor a terrific blow on the head with his nightstick.

The car was plummeting down MacDougal Street, sirens wailing, so that Candy had to shout to make herself heard.

“Stop that! You can’t hit him like that. Let me see your credentials. . . . I don’t believe you’re even police officers!”

“Here’s a credential for you, momma!” said the officer in the back seat with her, and he tore open his fly and forced her hand inside. Candy flailed at him wildly with her free hand, half rising and falling against the driver in her desperation to escape the obscenity.

“Look out!” yelled the driver, for the girl had half obscured his view and interfered with his control of the machine—but it was too late, for at that moment a truck pulled out of a side street directly into their path.

“Christ! Christ!” shouted the driver, swerving the patrol car sharply, and with an agonizing scream of brakes the car careened hopelessly sideways past the truck, righted itself momentarily and then crashed headlong into the San Remo bar,

There were two hundred and seventy-five homosexuals in the bar at that particular moment, and they thought it was a raid. About half of them rushed insanely about trying to get out the doors, and the other half began beating in capering senseless frenzy on the car and the policemen.

“They’re preverts!” shouted one policeman. “We’ll have to blast our way out!”

In the confusion that followed, Candy found herself being pulled away from the scene by an unknown man.

“Quickly, quickly,” he kept saying in an urgent whisper, and it was apparent he was helping her escape from the authorities. They were soon to Third Street, rushing down it toward Sixth Avenue.

“Oh, it’s simply a nightmare!” Candy was saying as she ran along beside him, modestly trying to conceal her sweet nakedness. Then they were at the avenue and the strange man assisted her into a cab.

“The Cracker Foundation,” he said to the driver, “and hurry!”

“Right!” said the driver, craning forward over the back seat for a moment, trying to see through the half-light of the cab into Candy’s little honeypot.

“I’m putting on my things,” exclaimed the girl, “wet or not! Good Grief!” And she began to get into them, the man beside her helping with the pants.

“Thanks,” said Candy, feeling a good deal more secure once she had them on again,
“and
thanks for the rescue! Good Gosh, I thought we were going to jail!”

“So you were, my dear,” said the man. He was a very fat man with a tremendous shock of white hair. “Now let us introduce ourselves,” he went on, extending his hand, “my name is Pete Uspy.”

“My name is Candy Christian,” said the girl, “how do you do?”

“Glad to be acquainted with you,” said Pete Uspy. He had a sort of Russian accent. “Yes, you were going to the jail all right, that much is certain. Now we’ve got to get you out of this town. Tonight.”

“Out of town?” said Candy, “Good Grief, what have I done?”

“Ho,” said Pete Uspy, putting one hand to his great brow, “who can say? All of that is mere mirage anyway. The point is this, that these authorities, whoever they were, policemen or whatever you wish to call them—is only a name—have the
material
viewpoint only and so would have put you physically in the jail. That much is certain.”

There was something in Pete Uspy’s manner which reminded Candy of Professor Mephesto, despite the former’s atrocious accent, and she felt a confidence and rapport warming inside her.

“Yes, they certainly weren’t very
spiritual,”
she agreed. “Certainly not,” said Pete Uspy. “They had no spiritual advancement whatever!”

“I’ll
say,” said Candy. She began trying to smooth out her skirt, which was wrinkled and still quite wet. “Ugh, these things are all icky,” she said. “I don’t know whether to keep them on or not!”