Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume One

She lifted herself up on one elbow and slipped the key into the lock. He was still lying there, panting and muttering unintelligibly to himself, his words almost indistinguishable, ramming together into a crazed, dull monotone. She clawed the door open and crawled through.

Exhausted, she lay motionless on the floor of the outer office until the fear that he might come after her drove her to her feet. Clutching the wall for support, she staggered down the hall, threw her coat around her nude body and stumbled down the steps.

When Cynthia finally got home a day later she fell into bed and stayed there for two days. Upon leaving Mr. Jackson she had climbed into a taxi and immediately fainted before she could give the driver her address. He had taken one horrified look at her battered face and driven her to the hospital. There they had taken care of her lacerations, stitched up the worst one and put her to bed. She had refused to tell them what had happened to her, and they finally dismissed her from the hospital, warning her to take it easy for a few days.

While lying in bed, her body tender and aching, her scratches now long lines of dark red scabs, her bruises making her flesh look like rotten eggplant, she wondered what to do next. To return to the advertising agency was impossible. And how would she ever explain what had happened? She was even afraid that Bill, missing her at the office, might come over to her room.

Rent day was fast approaching and she had no money; she had left her purse at the office, not that it made such difference, as there wasn't much money in it, anyway.

She crawled painfully out of her bed and got her piggy bank from the top of her bureau. With the heel of her shoe she smashed it and carefully counted up the $2.54 it contained. She obviously needed money and fast; at least until she was in condition again to start looking for a job. But the problem was to whom was she to go for help? She didn't dare write her parents for that would entail impossible explanations. She ruled out her aunt for the same reason.

Finally, she decided to go to Frankie. To him she could tell her story and, believing that he loved her just as much as she loved him, she was certain he would help her. However, she wasn't sure how to find him; he had always called her to make a date which they had spent either in public places or in her own room. He had never taken her to his own apartment nor even told her the address. Well, then she would go back to the "960 Club" where they had gone several times; she remembered his saying once that he was usually there about seven o'clock every evening.

Late the next afternoon she got up, dressed, tried to cover her bruised face and swollen black eye with powder and make up, and took the bus to south State Street. There was a sprinkling of men and women in the bar and the strippers were hard at work. She went back-stage, ignoring the whistles and derisive remarks about her black eye, and asked for Torchy. Torchy was in her dressing room, seated before the mirror, gluing on a pair of false eyelashes. When Cynthia came in, she turned and stared.

"My Gawd, honey," she exclaimed, "what happened to you? Did you fall down a manhole and swim through the sewers or what?"

"No, I… it was just an accident."

"Yes, I should think so. Hardly something one would do deliberately, dearie." She patted the chair next her, "Here, sit down. That is, if your tail doesn't look like your face."

She reached under the table, purled out a couple of glasses and a half-empty bottle.

"Here, how about a drink. Nothing like a little gin to cure a black eye."

"Thanks, Torchy," Cynthia said. "I do look awful, don't I?" She sighed, peering in the mirror at her swollen, purple and yellow face.

"Honey, if you were any more bruised up I could sell you to the butcher. Now what happened?"

"Well, just one of those things. Really, if you don't mind, I'd rather not explain." She smiled at her. "I'd rather just forget the whole thing."

"Okay, honey. Your privilege. But have some more gin, anyway." She turned back to the mirror and picked up the other fringe of eyelash.

"Has Frankie been around here lately?" Cynthia asked.

"Frankie? Yeah, he's in here every night about this time. He'll probably be along soon. Why? Want him to heat the guy up?"

Cynthia laughed. "No, just like to see him."

"I'll go out front and tell Joe to send him back when he shows. You stay here and take it easy." She got up and left, leaving behind her the scent of a musky perfume.

A few minutes later she put her head in the door.

"Joe'll send him back, honey. I've got to go out and entertain the jerks." She smiled at her. "Don't fall off the chair and break your skull. And help yourself to the cat-brew."

Twenty minutes afterwards Frankie hurried into the room. Without saying a word he pulled her up and held her in his arms, kissed her tenderly, and touched her bruised face with a gentle finger.

She buried her head on his shoulder and began crying softly. "Oh, Frankie darling. I'm so glad to see you. It was so awful." He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

"Kid, you've really had it. Who did it?"

She told him the story, explained her financial status and asked him if he could lend her some money until she could find another job.

"Sure, baby. I'll take care of you. Don't worry about a thing. And don't worry about paying me back yet. There's no rush, honey."

He kissed her as she began to thank him.

"Now lay off the thanks-routine, baby. I'll help you all I can."

When she had quieted down, he added, "Stay here awhile. I've got to see some cats out front and then we'll go out for a couple steaks. And tomorrow we'll see about finding you another pad – just in case your buddy comes around."

He filled up her glass with gin, took a big drink and left.

During the next week while her bruises were gradually disappearing, Frankie helped her find another place to stay, an apartment much nicer than her old one. When she protested that she probably wouldn't be able to afford it, even after she had found a job, he urged her to take it anyway, saying, "I'm taking care of you, remember? I'll make up the difference, baby, until you can swing it yourself." Then he gave her some money to buy some new clothes, "To cheer you up and besides, you'll need them for your new job." Thus, she felt reassured and happy that Frankie was the one who was helping her, for she interpreted his generosity as proof that he loved her as much as she discovered she loved him. And for him, she thought, I'd do just anything, anything at all.

With Frankie providing money for all her needs, she found it more than easy to put off looking for a job. Finally, however, she mentally added up all the money he had given her, both directly and indirectly in gifts and, horrified at the total, resolved that she would begin looking for a job so she could start paying him back.

But that night Frankie came over. Before going out they climbed into the bed to roll a quick one. Afterwards they lay quietly and had a cigarette.

"Cindy, baby, I hate to spoil the ball we've been having, but I'm getting kind of low on dough. I owe some to a guy and he's really snapping at my ass."

"I'm sorry, darling," she said apologetically. "I was adding up today how much I owe you and decided to start looking for a job tomorrow. But I wasn't going to tell you until I'd found one and surprise you. Really, you've been marvelous and I do want to start paying you back. I'll take just any job I can find."

"Jobs are pretty hard to find, though. You know, it's stupid of you to slave away at a joint like that agency and drag down such damn little loot. 'Specially with your looks."

"I know. I hate the thought of another job like that. And I'd hate to go back to a dingy one-room hole. But I'm not really qualified to do much better."