Book Chapters - Read Before Your Buy
Prologue
Sans religious zealotry, this is a story of sin. Practical sin. Everyday, working sin. It's set in the year, 1966, and for a reason.
This is an end-of-an-era story, focusing on one variety of sin, that which immediately preceded our present-day variety. The texture - and the consequences - are explored. That's all. Nothing judgmental. Thus, this era and its effects can be compared by you, as in the "before" and “after."
According to the sociological intelligentsia, a brief two-year period from 1966 to 1968 brought about the quickest, most radical changes in the mores of American society in, yes, the entire history of our nation.
The backdrop…
In 1966 a new tract house cost $15,000-$18,000 (not down payment, but full payment, for the entire house). From 1968 on, prices ballooned to many multiples thereof.
In 1966 a cup of coffee in a restaurant cost a dime, and a "well" drink in a bar, 35 cents. Your local doctor would treat you for as low as $5 per visit. Your friendly neighborhood barrister would vend legal advice for as little as $10 per hour of consultation. All other costs of living and doing business were relative. Post-1968, ditto housing, cars and other big-ticket consumer items...prices up, up, and away!
The societal changes....
In 1966 women had little standing in the workplace and minimal recognition at all. Such a triviality as being platinum blonde was considered "cool." Shortly after 1968 the feminist movement was born.
The chastity belt was off, communal love on, for the wild, the uninhibited. Passivity was off, assertiveness on, for the bold, the
serious.
In 1966 the United States had one hundred thousand troops in Vietnam, by 1968 five hundred thousand. In 1966 war protests were a whisper, by 1968 a thunderclap.
The outgrowth of these societal changes: pronounced cosmetic surgery on the face of sin.
In 1966 nearly 60% of the adult population smoked legal cigarettes. Consumption of two to three packs daily was commonplace. By 1968 the smoke of choice had quickly drifted to illegal "pot."
In 1966 the drug of choice was still legal alcohol. In 1968 the transition toward a broad menu of illegal hard drugs was well underway.
In 1966 legal casino gambling in the U.S. existed only in the State of Nevada. Since 1968 it has slowly seeped into our “cultural” fabric – virtually everywhere.
While organized crime was, as ever, pervasive in 1966, unorganized crime was nearly non-existent. But, 1968 brought the stirrings of street gangs beyond the neighborhoods of New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles. All sorts of mayhem proliferated – random violence for the sake of random violence.
End-of-an-era 1966 had a low rate of illegitimate births and divorce; from 1968 forward a many-fold increase.
Both eras, the post-World War II era ending in 1966, and the present- day era beginning in 1968, had their respective share of rampant
vices.
Which was worse?
Read on.
You be the judge.
Chapter 1
Steve Draves wondered if she did or didn’t. Further appraisal seemed to be in order.
He palmed his Martini, lifted it casually, and eyed the redhead sitting alone next to him at the bar. Good looking. Stacked. Hard as a hammer head. The red hair was probably natural, basically, with some help from a bottle. Though the question he posed to himself had nothing to do with her hair color. He couldn’t make up his mind whether or not he should try to pick her up. A glance at the gilded, gold-framed clock hanging at the far corner of the room told him it was 5:15, which meant he only had forty-five minutes to line her up, precious little time to operate in this mob.
The usual Friday cocktail rush was starting early today. Not only was the bar jammed, but the liquor-lovers were stacked two-deep behind it. For the moment he decided to let it go, despite the shortness of available time; he would consider her again five or ten minutes hence.
From an elevated platform above and behind the horseshoe-shaped bar, Tom Berryland, the black pianist, had just started into a perfect rendition of the old, old Earl “Fatha” Hines arrangement of “Saint Louis Blues.” Draves wanted to listen to the music. He rather resented all the inane chatter and “make-out” innuendoes of the Michigan Avenue male predators and the coy utterances and giddy laughter of the women at the bar, the objects of the predators’ attention.
Chicago really had ‘em, he mused to himself - every type, shape, size, breed and oddball in existence. Only difference from New York: New York was a bigger snake pit. The women here were among the weirdest. All the gals who for one personality defect or another couldn’t make it in the small towns.
From throughout the Midwest and from all over the United States they came, converging on Chicago like a swarm of bugs: the alcoholics, the hop-heads, the psychos, the schizos, the cleptos, the naive who thought modeling was the key to their landing a wealthy man, the hippies, the nutty artists, the wackos, and the nymphos. Then there were the out-and-out sluts - call girls and hustlers who flocked to Chicago, magnetized by the business held forth by America’s convention city. Upon further thought, he was now convinced that the girl sitting next to him fell into that latter category: she was a “professional” woman.
The year, 1966, had been a good one so far, Draves thought. Cupped in his hand, the cold glass felt good on this hot September day. He swirled it easily in an even, circular motion, watching the olive ride the sides. A guy was entitled to a few drinks and a little relaxation, he figured, after wrapping up the tough-to-swing Selby deal. He had gotten off the Northwestern “400” earlier that afternoon after having quickly found a buyer in Milwaukee for the Selby property in Melwood, Illinois. The deal was all sewed up, tied into a neat, tidy package. Now it was time for that relaxation, and (he shot another glance at the redhead) maybe some instant sex.
Although he didn’t want to appear too obvious about his interest, he concluded it didn’t really make any difference. From the corner of his eye he’d noticed that she had been sizing him up for some time. Now, he figured, it was his turn. He liked what he saw, despite the obvious fact that she’d been around. The mileage stood out all over her, from the makeup that barely covered the emerging lines in her face to the slight midriff bulge her girdle didn’t come quite high enough to camouflage. Draves guessed her age to be well over thirty-five, perhaps closer to forty-five. She was a looker though and probably well worth the $50, $75, or whatever she charged.
He glanced at his watch. It read 5:20, which meant he had but 40 minutes to work on the project. He was certain he could get the girl lined up, for a price, in that time span. But it was a matter of both principle and pride with Steve Draves: he would never pay for it. So the big trick would be in talking her into going for free. This handicap, plus the restrictive time element, posed an intriguing challenge. He therefore decided to take it up.
“Don’t you have a request?” Draves half turned toward the girl and smiled. He motioned his drink in the direction of the sign leaning against the front of the piano. It read: TOM BERRYLAND PLAYS YOUR REQUESTS, 5-9 P.M. NIGHTLY.
She met his smile with one of her own. “I just love ‘Apple Blossom Time,’” she cooed in a velvety voice. “Though I’m just too bashful to speak up and ask for it.”
Too bashful! Her! Draves was slightly astonished. Man, this sex kitten was really playing it cool, he thought. He doubted 40 minutes would be enough. He would have a hard time even haggling a low price in that time. And the challenge of it was: he had to get the price down to zero dollars and no cents.
Tom Berryland had just finished “Saint Louis Blues.” Like the auto driver who leans on his horn behind another driver the instant the traffic light changes, Draves yelled up at him, “How about Apple Blossom Time?” His voice was urgent, commanding.
Berryland grinned, bobbed his head, and started in on it, to the disappointment of several patrons and bar-flies who had shouted their own requests too late.
Draves turned back to the girl. “There. You know what they say ‘bout the squeaky wheel. If you want something, don’t ask for it, don’t request it, demand it.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said. She then rolled her head back, pursed her overly-painted lips, closed her overly-painted eyelids, and made ecstasy motions, arms and shoulders swaying in unison in time with the music.
As the piece came to an end the enraptured girl opened her eyes, sighed, picked up her drink and daintily sipped at it. Draves watched with disdain. Who was she trying to fool with this show of artifice? The glass was tall, frosted, with various pieces of fruit and other “garbage” floating at the top. It looked like a Tom Collins to Draves, who would never touch one himself.
“Ritual over?” he asked.
The redhead laughed, put her drink down, and started into a friendly stream of get-acquainted dialogue.
Draves learned that she came from a small town, population four thousand, in northern Wisconsin. She said she had always been fascinated by anything big: tall buildings, airplanes, and long, wide streets like Michigan Avenue. And she loved the fast paced nightlife of Chicago. She was “caught up” in the immensity of it all. These influences helped reveal her personality. Draves knew that more than a few twisted people with disjointed thinking shared her reasons for moving into Chicago proper, especially into the environs of the near-north side where she said she lived. However, there was more to it than that. He was positive there were further reasons for leaving her small town with its family roots and security. These reasons hadn’t come out clearly in their conversation. All he could extract from her regarding her personal life in whatever the name of the town was (he couldn’t recall) was that her townsfolk “weren’t very broad-minded.” Wasn’t that enough though? It was the clue he’d been waiting for.
Draves checked the time again. 5:40 now. He would have to work fast. “Do you like this joint?” he asked, following the question quickly with a bit of small talk. “I come here quite a bit. The marquee out front sure grabs you, doesn’t it? A huge neon, One-Eyed Pussy Cat.” He gestured toward the bartender. “Joe, over there, the guy who owns this fine establishment, certainly doesn’t look like a pussy cat. He looks more like a gorilla. But that eye-patch he wears throws him into the conversation-piece category Of course the music here is always tops, too, which helps draw the crowds.”
The girl muttered humble appreciations for the surroundings and music. They finished their drinks simultaneously and Draves ordered for both of them. Hers proved to be a Tom Collins, as he’d guessed. As always he stuck to his favorite food supplement: the Martini.
When their second round came Draves fondled his glass, then took a measured swallow. He decided on a direct lunge; let the chips fall. Almost too casually he said, “You find this place a good hunting ground?” He wasn’t looking at her when he said it; thus, he didn’t know how convincing her facial expression would be.
Her voice sounded appropriately perplexed. “Why, whatever do you mean?”
Still not looking at her he said, “Oh, come off it. How much?”
She fumbled with her purse. She didn’t open it, just fiddled. “Well, a girl has to have money, you know, especially when she wants to live the way I want to live.”
“How much?”
“I don’t do this often. It’s just when I’m low on money or saving for something....”
“I didn’t ask you to justify it. Everybody knows it’s a big business. It’s a well-recognized institution among the broad-minded. It’s the oldest profession in the world. I just asked you how much?” It was close to 5:45 now. Draves was growing impatient.
“One hundred-fifty dollars.”
Draves was just consuming another sip from his drink when she said it. He choked, then cleared his throat before setting the glass down. He had figured $50, $75 tops. But $150?
“Did you say $150?” he asked, even though he knew he had heard correctly. Desirable as she was, this girl must be out of her mind. It was a staggering starting point from which to “bargain down.”
“Why, yes.” She was haughtily defensive. “Like I said, I don’t do this often. When I do I’ve got to make it worthwhile.” She jutted her chest forward. “I’m thirty-six, twenty-five, thirty-six. Guess I’ve got something to offer.”
They all said they “didn’t do this often.” And the price! In monosyllables under his breath Draves cursed this upsetting of the form chart. “But how about the law of supply and demand?” he complained. “Your competition is thick as flies. They’re all charging $75 to stoke up a little new business and get some referral customers.”
“Well....” She brought her head low, worked up the corners of her mouth in a playful smile, fluttered her long artificial eyelashes, and looked up at him enticingly. “You’re a real good looking guy. Maybe this time for $75. It...might even be fun.”
Seventy-five dollars was still $75 too high for Steve Draves. He would never pay as much as a nickel, present-day legal tender or Confederate, for a piece. It was now a few minutes after 5:45. He didn’t have much time. So, after making a production of eyeing the girl up and down approvingly, he went speedily into his sales pitch.
“It’s too bad you don’t do this often.” He shook his head regretfully. “You’d be good in the catalog. If you were in it you’d get more business than you could possibly handle.”
The bait was taken. “What do you mean? Catalog? What catalog?”
“You mean you haven’t heard of the catalog? It’s national. It’s run by a Chicago man. It includes only the best-looking professionals.” He ceremoniously assessed her again. “But I think you could qualify. About twenty thousand copies are printed a year. It includes photos of the best girls available. The various poses indicate the girl’s specialty, those who have one, that is. Of course the poses are subtly suggestive, not pornography.
“The price is coded into the information beneath each picture,” he continued. “It’s supposed to be an order number, to fool the ignorant who think they’re just buying an ‘art’ picture from a photographic supplier. These people have many prints made up for that purpose too. The catalogs are circulated at and around all the hotels loaded with convention delegates. Naturally here in Chicago it gets wide exposure. The Chicago girls who are in it get more business than they can handle. They don’t have to bother tying up with the local syndicate, cab drivers, bell captains, and subject themselves to all those piece-work cuts.
“If you’re acceptable, or if you know somebody who can get you in, you only pay $175 a year. Then your earnings, 100% of them, are all yours. And you even get a commission from every picture that’s sold too.” Draves hesitated while he lit a cigarette. “Wouldn’t work for you, though. If you’re only in this business part-time you’d just have to turn away too much business.”
The redhead put her hand on his arm. “Do you know the right people? Could you get me in?”
“Yeah,” Draves responded in a provisional way. “Both the business manager and the owner are friends of mine. In fact I’m on a big job for the owner now, in another field.” He paused to let her anxiety heighten. “I’ve been instrumental in getting girls in, in the past.”
“Will you introduce me to the right man? When can I see him?” For a girl who didn’t do “that” very often she appeared unusually eager.
“No hurry. Tomorrow, next week, anytime.” Draves took a slow drag on his cigarette and let the smoke drift lazily. “I was just thinking, maybe we could go someplace now and get a bite to eat, then go up to your place. I value my working relationships with these people. I wouldn’t think of recommending someone to them without first sampling the merchandise myself.”
He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out his checkbook, looked at his balance as if trying to decipher the exact meaning of an intricate sentence from Chekhov and frowned. “No. Guess we’d better forget it today. I made a mathematical error in figuring my balance. Had an extra zero in there. I’m overdrawn on this account. Won’t be able to transfer a couple of thousand from another account until Monday.” With a show of dejection he put the checkbook back in his pocket.
“Oh, that’s alright,” the girl quickly said. “Let’s go now. We can go to my apartment; it’s a nice place on Huron. I’ll cook my specialty, a really choice sirloin. I’ve got a stereo and all the best records. We’ll have a party for two. I wouldn’t think of charging you.”
Too late! With a series of periodic glances Draves had been watching the door. Tina had come in and was looking, searchingly, about the large room that was the One-Eyed Pussy Cat Lounge. It was just 6:00. Draves bemoaned this turn of fortune; Tina had picked this day to be precisely on time. Just another three minutes and he and the redhead would have been gone.
Tina was so often late for their dates he was counting on it today. This chronic tardiness irritated him no end; so he figured if he stood her up this once it wouldn’t matter. It might teach her a lesson. He would have made up an excuse to use later. Because she was in the Loop today, seeing her agent, it wouldn’t have been too great an inconvenience for her to have just gone on home alone. Now his plans for standing her up were out the window.
Draves rose and detached his arm from the redhead’s grasp. “Some other time. I’ve got to go now. A friend just came in. It’s important.” He thought fast. “Uh, the wife of my best friend. They’re breaking up and she’s been wanting to talk to me. She’s all torn up. You know how it is.” He grinned nervously. “Duty before pleasure,” he said as he turned to walk toward Tina.
“But you don’t even have my phone number. How do I get in touch with you?” Anguished, the redhead blurted it loudly.
“I’m in here a lot. Stop in.” Draves then turned his back on her completely and quickly strode over to Tina. He took her hand and led her to a booth, the redhead now stricken from his mind. They sat down and Draves ordered drinks.
Tina Landon was one helluva girl, Draves thought. A platinum blonde, she had a pronounced petulant look about her, Briget Bardotish. Her figure was first rate in every detail, her complexion photogenic perfection, full lips pouty. Her soft blue eyes carried a perpetual hurt expression, as if the world were out to get her and was, in fact, succeeding. As usual she was dressed smartly - today in a tailored, silk, beige dress with the proper amount of bronze-colored accessories.
The girl’s mouth was poutier than ever. “She doesn’t have your phone number. Aren’t you going to give it to her? You’d better hurry. Look. She’s upset. She’s leaving.” The acidity of the words together with the habitual facial expression belied Tina Landon’s normal personality.
Draves could see he would have to settle her down. If he failed, he would fail once again in his long quest of getting her in bed. “Look, honey.” He reached for her hand and held it gently. “She’s just some dumb woman who happened to be sitting next to me while I was waiting for you. She had a fight with her boyfriend. She made a big decision never to go back to him. She was grasping at straws. I happened to be there. I was a good listener. I don’t know what she wanted. Maybe she was angling for a rebound fling. Anyway she’s gone. I don’t even know her name. Forget her, will you? I have.”
Their drinks came, via one of Joe’s pert waitresses; another Martini for Draves, a Manhattan for Tina.
Tina Landon folded her hands in her lap and looked at them contemplatively. Her suspicions appeared to be generally allayed, but she was depressed about something else.
“I can’t take it anymore, Steve. All these modeling jobs you’ve gotten for me. Sure. I make top money. I’ve got quite a bit put away.” She shook her head dejectedly. “But there’s so much needless cheesecake in this business. And all those single-purpose men! It’s disgusting. I don’t want to be a model. I’ve been studying at the Actor’s Academy for a solid year now. I can act. Oh, Steve, can’t you hook me up with a good theatrical agent, now? Frankly I’d like to tell my present agent where to go.”
When she was in one of these self-pitying moods, placating Tina Landon was difficult. But after letting the redhead get away Draves didn’t want to strike out with Tina again, so he tried.
“Look. You need exposure. You’ve been modeling less than a year. Look at the tremendous exposure you’re starting to get. Good God, a cover on World Fashion; you can hardly do better than that. I’ve told you over and over. You’ve got to interest the top agents in your face and figure first, then they’ll beat a path to your door. Then you can show them how you can act.”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” she replied unhappily. Her eyes met his; she sharpened their focus on him. “How much longer do you think I’ll have to go through this modeling routine?” she asked timidly, inquisitively.
“Only a few more months, honey.” Draves picked up on her optic reconnaissance, held her gaze, tried to reassure her. “Jay Dowler, you know, the hot-shot Hollywood agent, is coming to town in December. He’s about the best in the business. I know him quite well. When he gets here you should be all set up. By that time you’ll be ready. I’ll talk to him and get you two together.”
Draves sat back, drearily reached into his pocket, shook out another cigarette, and evaluated the sullen girl. For four long months he’d been working on her. God, what beauty. How he craved her. Tonight was to be the night; he had planned it. Now, another of her too-frequent moods was getting in the way. Why did she have to be so completely absorbed in that damned career? Or, rather, “would-be” career, actress extraordinaire.
He lusted for her so badly though, he felt compelled to keep pitching. “Why don’t we get out of here and go up to the roof of the Bellflower,” he said soothingly. “We can have dinner, and dance some, then go up to your apartment.”
Tina had an ear constantly attuned to ominous overtones from all sources. The suggestion of a long evening with the hint of something special at the end of it seemed to trigger her defensive mechanism. “I appreciate all you’re doing for me, Steve, and all you have done.” She tried to sound grateful. “Really, I do. But I just don’t feel well tonight. Even that one drink kicked something up in my stomach a little. I think I’m going to have to cut out now, get home and get a good night’s sleep. Thanks for the drink.” She rose to leave.
Draves was vexed by the suddenness of it. The heat within him could barely be held in abeyance. “How about tomorrow? Or Sunday?”
“How about later?” she said. Then, placatingly, “Steve, you know...really, it’s not that I’m a prude, stodgy, or narrow-minded. It’s just that, well, you’ve been great to me, but I don’t know; maybe it’s just that I’m still a little girl at heart, waiting for a dashing knight in shining armor, or some such cornball fantasy to happen. I, what I’m trying to say is, that I just don’t want to get in too deeply with you, not just yet, until I’m sure you feel something for me, rather than, you know.”
“But Tina....”
“I just want to be convinced. Maybe I will be convinced, soon. Just don’t rush me, Steve.” She bent down, kissed him in sisterly fashion on the cheek, and left with a rush, without even looking back.
Draves finished the remains of his Martini, glaring at the cushion of the now-empty booth seat opposite him as he did so. His descent into the doldrums reflected in his every step once he got up and slowly moved through the heavy doors of the One-Eyed Pussy Cat, out onto the sidewalk of Michigan Avenue, and turned south. At Madison he turned west and walked to the Northwestern Station. He boarded the 6:38 Green Bay, Wisconsin-bound train, found a seat, and stared aimlessly out the window.
God, how he wanted Tina. When he thought of all the time he had invested in her it made him a little ill. He’d invested four long months, setting her up for that first glorious flop. He wondered if his investment in her would ever pay off. He muttered some miscellaneous profanities to himself. The suspicious, ever-cautious bitch. And here he’d passed up a sure piece - the redhead - only to be put off, frustrated again, by Tina.
His lapse into daydreamland made the trip seem short. Like a sleepwalker he got off the train at Melwood, Illinois and found his Volkswagen in the station parking lot. He got in and headed for 1714 Oakwood Drive.
Was Tina a lost cause? He just didn’t know. If he couldn’t score with her in the next couple of weeks he guessed he’d simply have to give up and concentrate on Sandy and Deby.
Draves pulled into the driveway and scanned the house as he got out of the car. Frame, small, about one-thousand-two-hundred square feet, a typical, box-shaped ranch. All the other houses up and down either side of the street were look-alikes, the only difference being that some were brick. The house was neat, he thought. Good enough, for the time being, for a family of four.
As he opened the front door Betty was right there to meet him, as usual, one of the twins cupped in each arm.
“Look guys,” she said with a happy smile. “Daddy’s home.” She mashed his lips with a hearty welcoming kiss.