Case of Lucy Bending (33 page)

"So when we converted to tape, we used filters to correct the color as much as we could, and enhancers in some places to bring up the reds. Watch the skin tones. That's the best way to judge color reproduction. If the skin tones are realistic, then the rest will probably be okay. We also worked on the sound track to filter out background sound. Anyway, this is the cassette of
Teenage Honeypots."

Luther Empt turned out the overhead light, but left on a desk lamp and floor lamp. They all turned their attention to the TV screen. Ernie Goldman switched on the set.

They watched the twenty-minute cassette in silence. Once Goldman started to say, "Notice the—" but Luther Empt said, "Shut up, Ernie."

And once Jane Holloway said, "How did they get the dog to do
that?"
And Ronald Bending said, "Maybe they stuffed the girl with Alpo." No one laughed.

When the cassette ended, Luther switched on the overhead light. They all headed for the bar and refilled their glasses. Then Ronald Bending drew Ernie Goldman over to the TV set, and they ran the cassette again, talking about light streaks, color enhancing, and sound filters.

The others remained standing around the bar, their backs to the television screen.

"Well, folks," Luther Empt demanded in his raspy voice, "waddya think?"

Rocco Santangelo glanced briefly at Jimmy Stone. "Mr. Empt," he said, "I and my associate want to say you've got a work of art here. I mean, we saw the original film, you know, and like your guy said, the color and sound weren't so great. But you made a masterpiece out of it. Right, Jimmy?"

"Right," Stone said.

"If you can guarantee," Santangelo went on, "that when you get in full-scale production, this is the quality of goods we'll be getting, then I can tell you, honestly and sincerely, that we'll be very, very happy, and you'll have more work than you can handle. Am I right, Jimmy?"

Stone nodded.

Santangelo turned suddenly to Jane Holloway. "What did you think of it, ma'am?"

"I thought the quality was good," she said. "But the film itself isn't much. There's no real story, no plot."

"Well, yeah, sure," Santangelo said. "But you got to remember, your average porn freak ain't—isn't interested in any story, like at a regular movie. All he wants is skin—you know?"

"I disagree," Jane Holloway said crisply. "Surely you gentlemen aren't the only ones in this business. I would say that you'd be wise to try to make your product different and superior to that of—"

"Nah," Santangelo said. "This is strictly a freak market and—''

"Rocco," Jimmy Stone interrupted in his low, toneless voice, "let the lady talk."

"Oh, yeah, sure, Jimmy," Santangelo said quickly.

"Thank you," Jane said coldly. "It seems to me that if you only produce the usual amounts of skin, then your product is no different from that of your competitors. What you should strive for is a quality product that offers something better, something unique. The Cadillac of porn films. Establish a trademark or catchy name that your customers will remember. Like the MGM lion. And make certain your films have a story or plot that the viewers can get interested in and identify with, in addition to all that sex."

"Yeah?" Santangelo said. "And how do we do that?"

"I'm no expert on this," Jane said, "but it doesn't seem too difficult to me. Just make certain your scriptwriter, if you have one, which I doubt, or your director produces a definite story. Look, take the movie
The Sound of Music.
A wonderful film that tells a marvelous story. Now what if that was shot for the porn market, with plenty of nudity and all the things we saw in
Teenage Honeypotsl
It would appeal to the freaks in two ways: the kinky stuff they want and a fantastic story that they'll want to watch over and over. Also, a good plot will attract new customers who might not be interested in just porn."

Rocco Santangelo looked at Jimmy Stone.

"Innaresting," Stone said.

They talked a few minutes longer, mostly about the future of pornographic video cassettes and disks. Then the meeting broke up.

The mob representatives left first. Then the Hollo ways and Ronald Bending. Empt and Ernie Goldman cleaned up the office and put the
Teenage Honeypots
cassette in the safe. Goldman said goodnight and drifted away. Empt locked up and went out to the parking lot.

He sat in his white Seville, smoking a fresh Upmann. He was satisfied with the way the meeting had gone. The only thing he regretted was that it had been necessary to bring Bending and Holloway in on such a sweet deal. If he had been able to swing it by himself . . .

But there was more than one way to skin a cat. After they got in production, and the money started rolling in, he'd think about how to cut out his partners. It shouldn't be difficult with such innocents. He knew the business; they didn't. They needed him more than he needed them; that was for sure.

He drove slowly south on A1A to Atlantic Boulevard, the window down. He enjoyed the crispy night air, the taste and smell of his cigar. Most of all, he enjoyed the thought of the woman—the girl—the child—who awaited him. Everything he was doing—the work, the conniving—made sense when he thought of her.

He could not have said exactly why that was. The images he had seen on the TV screen an hour ago—those girls were younger, more attractive, better formed than May. But they didn't turn him on. They were objects, disembodied. That porn film could just as well have been made with animated cartoon characters.

But May was reality. She had warmth, and love for him. He couldn't even come close to understanding his feelings for her. There was the sex, of course; he knew that. But she was a gimp, for God's sake.

So it had to be something else—right? He was still puzzling over it when he drew up before her house and gave the horn a light tap.

She had been waiting for him. He grinned as she came scuttling down the walk, moving like a wounded crab. She lurched onto the seat alongside him, grabbed his face, kissed him on the lips. "Hi daddy!" she said breathlessly.

He had found a dilapidated rib joint in the black section where he was confident he wouldn't run into anyone he knew. The owners weren't too happy to have him for a customer, but they tolerated him because of May; she charmed them.

They served baby pork ribs with your choice of three sauces: Hot, Hotter, or Hottest. They also made the best home fries he had ever tasted, with plenty of onions. Collards if you wanted them, which he didn't. And icy Rolling Rock beer served in cans; they didn't mess around with glasses.

May and Luther liked the Hotter sauce, and each had two cans of beer with the meal. Neither liked to talk while they were eating. They spread paper napkins across their chests and gnawed ferociously at the succulent ribs. They left a stack of white, shiny bones.

"Want some dessert?" Luther asked her. "They got pudding or lopes."

She shook her head, then dabbed delicately at her lips with the paper napkin. "I'm full up. That was just fine."

"Want to take a ride?"

"Whatever you want, daddy."

He asked her what she wanted.

"Let's go home."

"Okay," he said.

He left a nice tip for the waitress, and on the way out, he gave the owner an Upmann cigar.

"I thank you," the black said. "Come again." Then, sardonically, "Tell your friends."

"Yeah," Luther said, laughing.

By this time he had become used to the hothouse she lived in, with all those nutty plants. He was glad to see she had spent some of the money he was giving her to fix up the place: a new rug, a bright throw on the sofa, some decent highball glasses. And she had remembered to buy Cutty Sark.

He watched her limping around the little home, busying herself in the tiny kitchenette. She fixed him a Cutty just the way he liked it: two ounces of whiskey over a single ice cube with just a splash of water. When she brought him the drink, he looked up to stare at her face.

He was seeing her frequently, two or three times a week. But when he was away from her, he forgot what she looked like. He could not recall her features, could not see her in his mind's eye.

Perhaps because she was so shadowy. The black, shiny hair, longer and heavier than his wife's, engulfed her thin face. Her features were so small, half-formed like a child's. Only the dark, snapping eyes gave her vibrancy. The rest was dim paleness.

Not only was she physically crippled, but he thought her emotionally flawed as well. There was a simple unworldliness there he considered a disability. For all her days she had circled slowly in the backwaters of life, without direction and without resolve.

She was a willing, an eager victim. She surrendered sweetly, offering thin neck and pallid back without opposition or remonstrance. All of her—body, heart, soul—yielded gladly, happily, as if she were fulfilling her destiny by dumb obedience.

Never before, with wives or whores, had he known such docility. Her total submission was at once exciting and frightening. Exciting to know himself the complete master. Frightening because of an itching curiosity to explore the limits of her compliance.

She went into the bathroom to change, leaving the door open. Following his orders, she had purchased a shortie nightgown of thin white cambric, with a girlish rosebud trim at the neckline.

While in the bathroom, she slowly braided her hair into a single plait, secured at the end with a rubber band. The pigtail was as thick and hard as a hawser, dangling down her back almost to her waist.

Luther mixed himself another drink. He was not impatient. When he was with May, he felt a thawing of all his furies and anxieties.

When she came back to him, she squirmed onto-his lap and put a thin arm about his neck. She launched into a long, giggling account of an incident she had witnessed at the supermarket. The bagboy had loaded this woman's shopping bag, and when she picked it up by the handles, the bottom tore and everything fell out!

Empt smiled and nodded, enjoying her pleasure at telling him of this. He kissed her soft neck, nuzzling, smelling her young fragrance.

She lifted his face with her palms, stared into his eyes, suddenly sober.

"What would you like me to do, daddy?"

"Oh . , ." he said, "I don't know."

She put her lips close to his ear. "I'll tell you what," she whispered. "I'll get into bed and pretend I'm asleep, waiting for you. You know? And then you come home and get into bed with me. And you're ever so quiet and loving so's not to wake me up. And then ... Do you want to do that?"

"All right," he said, looking at her strangely. "If you like."

She went about the preparations unhurriedly, smiling and humming. Locked and chained the door. Made certain the shades were drawn. Turned off all the lights except the one in the bathroom, and left that door open.

She didn't strip the sofa to sheets and blanket, but instead lay atop the gaily colored throw, using one of the burlap-covered pillows. She lay on her side, pulled her braid free. Her back was to him, bowed. Her knees were drawn up, withered leg hidden beneath her.

He stared at her broodingly in the soft gloom. He wasn't certain what role he was to play in this fantasy. Lover? Husband? Father? He remembered what Jane Holloway had told the mob guys about the importance of story and plot in their skin flicks. A smart lady.

He rose cautiously, tiptoed into the kitchenette to pour a fresh drink. He took a deep gulp and stood there a moment, palms propped on the sink, head hanging. Wondering, wondering . . .

He carried the drink over to the sofa, bent down to look at her. Eyes closed. Lips parted a little. She was breathing deeply. She really could be asleep.

He set the glass aside, tucking it under the sofa so he wouldn't kick it over. He began to undress, staring down at her bare arm, bare leg, both gleaming whitely.

Naked, he sat down softly on the edge of the sofa. She stirred.

"Daddy?" she said drowsily in a little girl's voice. "Is that you?"

"Yes," he said soothingly. "I'm home. Go back to sleep."

She groaned with contentment, pressed her face into the pillow, her eyes resolutely closed.

He realized, almost with a shock, that he was becoming aroused; this story was exciting him. The child lay curled into a soft ball, unconscious with sleep. And helpless. Did she know him better than he knew himself?

Carefully, tenderly, he drew up the hem of her short nightgown until her bare hip was exposed. There was a half-moon curve. Gleaming highlight. Dusky shadow.

He stared at that small piece of her body as if it might contain all the secrets of the universe, answers to all his questions. It was skin, flesh, gristle, stuff of life. And much, much more . . .

He bent to kiss hard bone pressing soft skin. It seemed to yield, to hold the imprint of his lips. The taste was sweetish, with a tang. Gently, with infinite caution, he lay down beside her, fitting his body to hers. The thick hawser of braided hair lay between them.

At the tip, bound with the rubber band, individual hairs sprouted like a miniature brush. He moved those soft bristles over his own body, peering down to watch what he was doing, and not understanding.

She sighed—in her sleep?—and rolled back and forth a few times as he moved the nightgown up to her waist. Then she lay upon her back but with her head turned into the pillow, an arm thrown across her eyes.

He stared down at her, seeing the whole leg, the shrunken leg, and between, the neat triangle, a patch of black moss.

He moved away from her, rose shakily to his feet. He groped carefully for his drink, found it, took a deep swallow. He stalked about the darkened room, sipping from his glass.