Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume One

"Okay, I will. Thanks Torchy."

"But don't worry about it, honey, it'd probably add up to nuthin'. She'll cool down."

"I hope so."

"She also swears she'll get Frankie to crawl back to her on his hands and knees."

Cynthia laughed, "He certainly won't do that. I can't imagine Frankie crawling to anyone, much less Gypsy."

"Yeah, maybe. But if he doesn't she says she'd screw him up."

"How?"

"Put the Narcotics Squad onto him, and do it so they'd have to haul him in. That could be bad, honey."

"Well, I'll tell him." She sat quietly, thinking, and then she became angry her face flushed and her eyes became dark. "If I ever catch that bitch, I'll tear her apart!"

"Let me know, and I'll help you out," Torchy said dryly. She finished putting on her costume, patted Cynthia on the shoulder and went off to do her act.

Cynthia remained, morosely thinking over what Torchy had told her. At first she had worried about Frankie's pushing drugs. He had reassured her, and when she saw that nothing happened to him over the months, even though he had been doing it for several years, she accepted it as safe. She had even met a member of the Chicago Narcotics Squad at one of the parties where everyone had been high on marijuana, and some had openly been using heroin. When she had asked Frankie about him, he had only laughed and said he was an addict and was on the Narcotics Squad as it was the safest place to be. She wasn't worried about Flip beating Frankie up because she knew Frankie had been in enough fights and brawls to take care of himself. Nor was she worried that he would leave her to go back to Gypsy. But if Gypsy really wanted to make a big row about Frankie to the narcotics agents, they'd have to arrest him.

Realizing that her worries weren't helping to solve anything and wanting to get over the depression, she reached in her purse and dug around until she found a small box. Inside were several joints. Although she knew it was dangerous to smoke at the club, as in all public places, she nevertheless lit it up after shutting the door. She took a deep drag and relaxed as the smoke began to take effect. As usual first the area around her eyes and cheeks felt pleasantly light and her worries vanished to be replaced by a snug, warm feeling of contentment.

Through the closed door the beat of the music in the club was muted and distant. She could recognize it as the same song that had been on the record player the first time she had made love with Frankie while high on marijuana, and she leaned back on her chair and closed her eyes, dreamily thinking of what it had been like. The record had played over and over, neither of them wanting to interrupt the flow of their love-making to change it or turn it off. Together with the joints, which extended their sense of space and time, the same rhythm and melody, repeating itself continuously, made their love seem even longer and more drawn-out.

They had returned to their apartment late at night and, still high from smoking at a party, put on the record and decided to have a last cigarette. As the joint picked her up and carried her away, she had lain down on the bed, feeling as though her body was swirling around in circles, that it was floating lightly above the bed, and that she would be blown away if she didn't hang on to something.

Laughing, she cried out, "Oh, Frankie, hang on to me! I'm going to float right out of this world!" Her nerves sensitized to a keen edge, the touch of his hand pierced through her like a needle, sharply but slowly, as though the impulse of his touch leaped from nerve to nerve. At first they had rolled on the bed, laughing and giggling like a couple of children, and then they began to help each other to undress. Each button, each zipper, each sleeve to be drawn off, each wisp of clothing to he slipped away from her hot, tender flesh, seemed like a high barrier in a dream-land where all action was retarded and drawn out in slow motion. Each movement of their bodies, each contact of their hands and lips, was a sweet agony of heightened, accentuated pleasure. Time was slowed down, and just as every note of the music seemed to go in one ear and be stretched out in a spiraling circle to infinity before the next one followed after it, so she could feel and enjoy each tingling nerve, each moving muscle.

She was aware of her body in a way she had never been before; her mind and brain scarcely seemed to function; she felt entirely liberated and uninhibited and, unchained from her thoughts and all ordinary distractions, she made love with the freedom of a sex-starved animal.

She longed for Frankie's body, for almost anyone's body, so when he came into Torchy's dressing-room, she opened her eyes, stretched out her arms and said, "I was just thinking of you. Let's make love, darling."

He sniffed the air, closed the door and said brusquely, ignoring her outstretched arms. "Look, baby, you know damn well you shouldn't smoke in here, so wise up, huh? This joint's been raided before." He switched on the ventilating fan.

She looked at him quietly.

"Okay. Okay," he said, "don't look at me like that. What's bugging you anyway?"

"Don't be so damn nasty," she said. "If you want to know, I was worrying about you, but if you don't want me to give a good God-damn about you, I'll leave right now." She stood up, but the sudden movement made her head whirl and her body sway as though she were trying to walk on the deck of a rolling ship. She couldn't remain angry.

"Oh, Frankie," she laughed, "I'm so-o-o on!"

He grinned at her. "You sure are, honey." He put his arms around her. "Now, come on. Torchy said you wanted to talk to me. Let's hear it before you leave."

"Leave?"

"Tonight's when you see Harris, isn't it?"

"Good Lord, I've forgotten all about it."

"So what's up?"

She told him what Torchy had heard about Gypsy and her threats not only to have him beaten up by Flip but also make trouble for him with the Narcotics Squad, omitting, however, Gypsy's boast that she would make him crawl back to her.

All Frankie did was laugh.

"Flip? That idiot? Sure, I know him. He couldn't kill a mosquito with a machine gun."

"But Frankie…"

"Now, don't worry, baby. Gypsy may be a bitch, but she isn't so stupid to try ratting on me. She knows what's good for her."

"But what if she does?" she said worriedly.

"I said don't worry! I know where she hangs out. I'll stop by and see her sometime. Gypsy's just a lot of hot air. Don't let it bug you." He kissed her. "And now you'd better get over to Harris'. I'll get you a cab."

"Okay, Frankie. But take it easy, please."

"Sure." He took her arm. "Come on now, and for God's sakes, don't queer the deal with Harris. We may need him sometime."

It was snowing heavily outside. Frankie hailed a cab, put her inside, gave the driver the address of Conrad Harris' apartment and went back to the club.

Cynthia sank against the cushions. Well, if Frankie wasn't going to worry about Gypsy, she wasn't, either. She wanted another joint, but didn't dare light it up in the taxi. Although she had been seeing Conrad regularly for three months, she was never sure exactly what kind of a mood he would be in. A well-known and influential politician in Chicago, he worked both sides of the street, the shady as well as the sunny, and through crooked deals and protection payment from the underworld. He had a wife and family at his home in Lake Forest, but maintained an apartment in the city as well. She neither particularly liked him nor trusted him, but Frankie had insisted she keep up the relationship, in case they ever had need of his help. Then, too, he paid liberally for the nights she spent with him, besides giving her gifts.

"Cynthia, you look beautiful," Conrad said, when he opened the door. "As usual, darling."