Kitty Spencer - Three-way weekend

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Light came into the room through the long windows in the far wall. A red velvet curtain hung in one corner; behind the curtain another door led into a gold-tiled bathroom.

A magazine lay on one of the small tables; several ashtrays needed emptying. The cushions on the divan were rumpled. The room was definitely not tidy. Yet, cluttered as it was, it did not really look as if it were lived in. It had the atmosphere of temporary usefulness.

Carlo glanced at his watch. Christ! It was seven-thirty. He would have to hurry if he was to get out before Nino arrived. Pulling a key ring out of his hip pocket, he selected the smallest key and fitted it into the lock of the bureau. After taking a leather-covered notebook from inside, he carefully relocked the bureau again.

He sat down beside the cane table on which the telephone stood. "Verner, Verner," he muttered, as he thumbed hastily through his notebook. "Ah." He started dialing a seven-digit number.

"Hello?"

Carlo recognized the voice of Nick, Marceau's valet.

"This is Carlo," he announced himself. "Is Marceau there?"

The valet told him to wait, and it was a full five minutes before Marceau came on the line. Carlo had counted every precious minute on his watch. The conversation began with polite inquires about health, followed by a rundown on the latest San Francisco gossip. The anxious youth contained himself patiently. After several more minutes of social chitchat, he felt the moment was appropriate to broach the subject of the young girls.

"It's a little difficult for me to arrange the party here," Marceau objected at once, as Carlo had known he would.

Carlo ignored the objection.

"There is a young blonde," he murmured softly. "She is barely fourteen, so slim and fair and so fragile…"

"But tomorrow night?" Marceau grumbled pettishly. "Couldn't you have given me more notice?"

"She is a virgin," Carlo went on. "There are others, too. One with hair to her waist and the figure of a child…"

There was a pause. Marceau spoke again, in a slightly thickened tone.

"You realize it's not convenient for me." He cleared his throat, "A blonde did you say? Ah! I need time, you understand. I'll call you back. You seem to think I can arrange a party at a moments notice and entirely at your convenience. I'm a busy man, you know, my responsibilities."

Carlo held the receiver away from his ear; he had heard all these complaints many times before. While Marceau grumbled unconvincingly, the young Italian was already checking through his book for the phone number of the Count. As soon as the aging playboy rang off, he dialed the other number.

The conversation was short and satisfactory. The Count was enchanted to hear from Carlo. A party thrown by Marceau Verner? For a group of young girls? But how delightful! Very young girls? The Count would never forgive himself for not taking the opportunity to pay his respects.

"You'll come alone?" asked Carlo, holding the telephone in one hand while lighting a fresh cigarette with the other.

"Yes. That is – no, no, no." The Count sounded confused. "I have a house guest. From back east. That is all right?"

"Fine." All Carlo wanted to do was finish the call. He didn't care whether or not the Count brought his house guest to the party. "Male or female?" he asked.

"Male."

"Fine."

The phone call finally came to an end. Carlo stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He needed to think carefully for a moment or two. Who else should be invited? Marceau always insisted that his little "parties" should be at least outwardly respectable. Which meant that some women had to be included on the guest list. And some young men. Well, Benito would do for one. Then there'd be himself and… and maybe Nino. Sure, Nino! It would serve him right. As for the women… Maria Accari was an old friend of both Marceau and the Count, so she should be invited. She'd probably bring her young friend Sue along.

Again, Carlo checked his watch. It was eight-fifteen. He considered for a moment. If he remained in the apartment any longer, he would really be pushing his luck. On the other hand the phone calls had to be made at once. He grabbed the receiver off the hook. As he began dialing, he said a silent prayer that Nino was taking things slow and easy.

Half a dozen calls later, the boy stubbed out another cigarette and stood up with a sigh of relief, fully satisfied with the arrangements. He glanced at his watch. It was eight-forty-five.

He pushed the notebook into his jacket pocket. He would not bother unlocking the bureau again. The cigarette smoke didn't matter – the apartment usually smelled of stale smoke. It was unlikely that anyone would notice the traces of his visit.

He was halfway across the living room when a sudden noise made him stop in his tracks. There were footsteps on the landing outside the apartment. He froze, waiting. A key was being turned in the lock of the apartment door! There was a pause… then the sound of Nino's voice came from the far end of the hall.

Sonofabitch! This was bad. Carlo hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but he felt as though he stood, poised, listening and waiting, for an eternity. As his thoughts raced, two salient points were firm in his mind. Nino would be furious if he discovered that Carlo had used the apartment out of turn. Secondly, Carlo's presence might well ruin his friend's whole setup. Nino had told Elaine the apartment was his own bachelor pad; Carlo knew that for a fact. He also knew Elaine was a rich girl. There was only one thing he could do to salvage the situation. He had to hide.

As Nino and Elaine stepped into the hall, Carlo acted swiftly. Two silent steps brought him to the outsized wardrobe. He turned the old-fashioned brass handle and thanked God that the huge doors didn't squeak as they opened. He stepped into the darkness and quickly pulled the doors closed behind him. In the musky black interior of the old wardrobe, all he could hear at first was the thumping of his own heart.

"Oh, but it's a cute place!"

Elaine's exclamation carried quite clearly inside the wardrobe. Instinctively, Carlo turned his head toward the sound of her voice. To his surprise, he found that his hiding place gave him a good view of the lighted room. There was a wide gap where the two wardrobe doors no longer fitted together perfectly. It was wide enough to make him wonder for a moment whether the boy and girl could see in as well as he could see out. Common sense reassured him. He was safe enough, provided he kept quiet.

"You like my apartment?" Nino asked.

"Mmmm, yes. It has great possibilities," Elaine said thoughtfully. "The furnishings don't look quite right, somehow, but if someone took an interest in the decor…"

The young blonde was standing in the middle of the room, looking around her. She was in Carlo's direct line of new. When Nino appeared by her side and put his arm around her waist, she did not resist him.

Carlo found he had enough room to sit down. He lowered himself cautiously, making no sound. When he was comfortably settled, he peered out again.

He appraised the girl as she stood across the room from him, totally unaware of his scrutiny. Nino had switched on one of the lamps; in its light, Elaine's pale-blonde hair gleamed softly. It hung straight to her shoulders, shaking like a silken curtain with every movement of her head. Her skin looked almost translucent in the artificial light.

Nino pulled her closer to him.

"You are very beautiful," he said simply, gazing into her upturned face with a look of utmost sincerity.

She's ready for a fucking all right, thought Carlo, observing the flush of excitement across the girl's cheeks and the brilliant blue of her eyes. He saw her wetly parted lips open.

"No, Nino," she whispered. Her hand pushed feebly at his chest. "No, no…" Her whisper was almost inaudible.

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