Evan Hunter - Candyland

Stop it, he thinks.

And hurries back to the hotel.

Glancing into the lounge, just in case.

There are no women sitting at the bar, and only one woman sitting alone at a table, but he has never been bold enough to simply walk up to someone at a table and say "Mind if I join you?" Besides, she is a woman in her early fifties, he guesses, and he is not quite that desperate tonight, though once at the Bel Air in Los Angeles, sitting at the bar and waiting for a client to arrive, he struck up a conversation with a not unattractive woman who told him she would be celebrating her sixtieth birthday the following week (Oh my, really? I never would have guessed!) and one thing led to another until he mentioned he lived in L.A. and had never seen any of the rooms in this hotel. Which naturally prompted her to ask if he'd like to take a peek at her room, and five minutes later she was on her bed with her panties off and his cock in her mouth while he rejoiced in praise of older women — but not tonight. Tonight, the night is still young.

He wonders if he should call Heather again. Heather Epstein, listed in his little Gucci book under Stein, Ephraim. See if she's back from her party yet, what time is it, anyway? He looks at his watch. It's a little past eleven, she might be home, who knows? Give her a dingle, see if she'd like to pop by, renew old times, old glories, who knows? He is feeling suddenly secure again, in possession of Penthouse and New York as well, his insurance policies if all else fails. He opens his dispatch case, finds his soft brown leather address book, and is scanning the S's when the phone rings, almost scaring him out of his wits.

Grace again?

For Christ's sake, what…?

He picks up the receiver.

"Hello?"

Trying to sound half-asleep in case it's his wife waking him up again In his mind, she has already woken him up once tonight. And now again. When she knows he has to leave the hotel at six-thirty What the hell is it now, Grace?

"Michael?"

A woman's voice.

"Who's this?" he says.

"Karen," she says, sobbing. "Please forgive me. I'm not a cock tease Michael, really. I never have been."

"You're forgiven," he says.

You only broke my heart, he thinks.

Which he knows isn't true at all.

"I don't know what got into me," she says. Certainly not me, he thinks.

"Please stop crying," he says. "I forgive you. There's nothing to be upset about."

"But there is."

"No, forget it, really."

"I walked out on you."

"I walked out on you."

"That's okay. Don't worry about it." She keeps sobbing into the phone. He feels helpless. He stands holding the receiver, listening to her sobbing.

"Michael?" she says.

"Yes, Karen."

"Do you really forgive me?"

"I do. I really do."

Her sobbing is gentler now.

"You're a very nice man, Michael."

He hears her blowing her nose.

"I shouldn't have left," she says. "I freaked out, is all."

"We all. "

"But it won't happen again. I promise you. Michael?"

"Yes, Karen?"

"I haven't been to bed with anyone since last Christmas."

He doesn't know what to say. He says nothing.

"Michael?"

"Yes, Karen."

"This was the gay boyfriend I was telling you about? He brought home two Butch friends on Christmas Eve, watched while they both did me. It wasn't rape, exactly, but it was horrible. I left on Christmas Day." She is silent for several moments. At last, she says, "I'm sorry, forgive me. I know I've got to get over this."

"There's nothing to forgive," he says.

"I let them do it," she says.

"Well, you mustn't. "

"It makes me so ashamed."

"No, no, don't be."

"You're a very nice man, Michael. I don't want to cause you any kind of trouble."

"I know you don't."

"It was horrible," she says. "I'll never forget it. But I have to get over it, I know I do. I really used to enjoy sex, I mean it. A lot," she says. "I have to get over this, Michael, or I'll never forgive myself. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Of course I do."

"Would you like to come here, Michael? I'm downtown on Greenwich Avenue. I'm in bed already, I'll be waiting for you."

He visualizes her naked in bed, red hair fanned on the pillow. Green eyes smoldering. Remembers wanting to slide his hand up her leg to her naked pussy under the short black dress. Visualizes wild red hair at the joining of her legs. Imagines licking her there. He looks at his watch. It is ten minutes past eleven. He does not like the thought of venturing out into New York City at this hour of the night — well, it isn't really that late. But still, New York. And she lives all the way downtown in the Village, Greenwich Avenue, she said, homosexuals cruising the night down there, he's not sure he wants to go all the way down there. In fact, all at once, he's not sure about any of this.

Girl walks out on him for no good reason except that two big fags fucked her in the ass last Christmas, does that excuse her abrupt departure? We're all of us rape victims, he thinks, one way or another, honey, so don't come begging mercy for what was done to you last Christmas, okay? In some venues, that just won't wash. We all had something done to us last Christmas or the Christmas before that or Christ knows which Christmas? All at once, this girl seems to have too many ghosts of Christmas Past bugging her. And Ben's not sure he wants anything to do with any of them.

"I'd love to come down there," he says, "but I'm expecting a phone call."

"What?" she says.

"From my wife."

"Oh."

"She said she might call."

"Turn off your phone. Say you're about to go to sleep."

"I am about to go to sleep, that's another thing. I have to catch an early plane."

"Come here instead. Turn off your phone and come here. You could even call her from here. She won't know where you are. If your phone's turned off, she won't know."

"Well, she might say it's an emergency."

"You can tell the operator no emergencies."

"Well, her mother's in the hospital. There really might be an emergency,"

"Give me another chance, Michael," she says. "Please. I don't know what possessed me. I just got so frightened all at once, the thought of actually doing it scared me half to death. Please come here, Michael," she says. "Come to me, okay? We'll start all over again. It'll be a beginning, Michael. I'll see you whenever you come East, I'll never bother you, I promise you, I'll never call your wife or anything, I just want you to make love to me. Please, Michael, can you please…?"

He places his forefinger on the cradle rest bar.

Hears a dial tone and puts the receiver back on the cradle.

His heart is pounding.

He stands with his hand pressing down on the receiver, finalizing the act, shutting this suddenly dangerous woman out of his room, out of his life. I won't call your wife, indeed, you don't have to worry.

He goes to the mini bar. Cracks open a bottle of gin, pours it into a short glass. The ice bucket is empty.

He looks at the phone as if suspecting she's still lurking inside there someplace, ready to spring out at him again.

He takes a long swallow of gin.

He feels a bit calmer now, God, that was close.

But suppose she calls again?

He picks up the receiver, dials the 0.

"Good evening, Mr. Thorpe."

"Good evening," he says. "Is this Maria Teresa?"

"No, sir, this is Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth, no further phone calls tonight," he says.

"Including emergencies?"

"Everything. No calls. None."

"We'll just take messages then, sir."

"Yes. Take messages. Thank you, Elizabeth."

"Did you wish to leave a wake up call, sir?"

"Yes. Five-thirty, please."