Sunset People. Herbert Kastle
touched his penis. “A beauty,” she said, without artifice or whorish guile.
“So they used to tell me.”
“Bet they still would, if you gave them a chance.”
“No. My wife died last year. Don’t want her friends, my friends, those widows and old ladies. I’m a dirty old man . . .”
She grasped his penis to stop the negative talk. Also because she was curious and excited.
She bent over him, brushing the towel to the floor. She kissed his mouth, stroking his penis, a big one, perhaps eight inches and thick, though not really in full erection; not gorged and rigid with blood; not yet sensitive enough to make him lose all pain, all care.
She decided to change that. She decided to forgo the business preliminaries, the dealings. She held his organ with her right hand and touched his face with her left and kissed him, eyes closing, smelling the whiskey and tobacco and maleness, dreaming of this man as he once had been, as he might have been for her: the right man, the great love that she no longer believed in but yearned for as much as any schoolgirl.
Then she moved her mouth to his penis. She knew she was supposed to wash it first, in the hospital-aseptic manner of prostitutes, but she felt a turn-on, a passion, a need to suck it . . . and did so. The smell of him was the smell of man, of genitals. The taste of him was salt, which disappeared and left a non-taste, an erotic feel in her mouth.
When she paused, he said, “God, Diana, more.”
She gave him more. She gave him whatever she had to give, which was considerable though she wasn’t a brilliant head artist like some of the other girls.
And finally felt his hand running along her thighs, under the little toga, grasping her bottom through the panties. Felt his other hand fumbling for her breasts. And liked it.
“Can you get on here with me?” he panted.
She liked that too. She removed the panties and climbed on top of him and rode him and bent for his kisses and heard the explosion of breath and cry of near-pain that was his conclusion. She rode him a little longer for her own conclusion, which she marked by a sobbing sound vented with head back.
The first thing he said was, “It really happened for you?”
She was off and heading for the bathroom. “Yes.” She pointed at the ledge under the table. “There are moist towelettes.”
She took her time douching, wondering what he would do. He could rush and leave. It would save him money.
But when she returned, he was waiting, fully dressed, sitting on the chair.
“It was great,” he said, voice quiet now. “What do I owe?”
She could say a hundred. It had gone that well.
She shrugged. It had gone too well. She couldn’t price it. “Do you live in town?” she asked.
“No. New Mexico. I’ll be here another three days. I’m staying at that little motel a few blocks east on Sunset. I forget the name. I forget most things lately. Don’t seem important. But I’ll remember Diana.”
Which made her smile, though it was all over and her natural cynicism, her need to withdraw, was on her.
He handed her a bill. It was a hundred. He wasn’t that well off if he was staying at the Sunset Strip motel. A hundred was important to a retired insurance man from New Mexico. It put a seal of truth to his words.
She walked him to the door. She said, “Come back,” and had to add, “I can’t promise it will be as nice again,” because it never was.
When he’d gone, she returned to the desk and her book. The Breast seemed frantic and thin now. But it would fit right in with the world in an hour or so, when the glow wore off.
She had another customer, a young Oriental, who carefully reviewed the prices and dickered for a “hand job” for ten dollars over the twenty. She said, “Why not?” and gave him a leisurely massage, concentrating on brushing his testicles and penis for perhaps five minutes. Then she grasped his organ and with a few quick strokes brought him to climax.
He was disappointed at not lasting longer. A lot of young men were, which was why she’d been especially certain to get payment in advance. He hung around, asking if she was available “for functions.” She said no, she worked only here. She began to read, and after a while he was gone.
She’d enjoyed him. He’d been quite beautiful: a small, lean-muscled youth with a waist narrower than hers and a rigid little penis that tilted back toward his naval. And lovely tan skin that was no more yellow than her own. And a voice that would do credit to an altar boy.
Physically, there was much to be said for men.
The doorbell tinkled. She closed her book, checking the time. Four-ten. Seven customers since midnight, which was busier than usual for this shift. Of course, it was Friday night, Saturday morning.
She looked at the man in the doorway: in his thirties. Tall and hard-looking in his work-a-day gray suit. Faded blond hair cut medium-short; less-faded mustache worn medium-full.
She couldn’t be wrong about this one. She’d seen them come in flashing badges too often.
She didn’t have to ask the question.
“I’m a police officer. Are you Diana Searls?”
She was surprised. Unlike some of the other girls, she had no record to speak of, and wasn’t known by sight. “Yes.”
“Did you have a sister named Carla Woodruff?”
Woodruff was their real name, which she’d dropped in order to keep it out of the parlors.
“Yes. Is there anything wrong?” (And he’d spoken of Carla in the past tense and she began to fear . . . but most cops were such illiterates.)
He came inside. He didn’t answer her.
“I haven’t seen any credentials,” she said, fear for Carla growing. She knew what this world was. She knew what it could do.
He showed her a badge and card. She read the card aloud: “Lawrence Admer, lieutenant. What about my sister?”
“She was in the same business as you, right?” His eyes flickered over her body.
(The past tense again.) “Wrong. She works in a dress shop.”
“Only she lost the job and was looking for new employment, on the street maybe eleven, maybe twelve tonight, right?”
“Not right. She didn’t work weekends. You can check with her employer. Did you bust her for prostitution because she was walking along the street? Did she give me as a reference?” (She hoped, hoped, and didn’t believe.)
“Why? Has it happened before?”
“Never!” She sat down, knees suddenly weak. “Is she outside in your car?”
“No.”
“Then why all the questions, the implications that she’s a hooker?”
“Because someone killed her and it fits the pattern of pimp justice or hooker haters.”
He was looking around.
“What?” she whispered.
He moved to the small plaster Venus near the rear curtain and began examining it closely. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She was found dead, gunshot wound, on a side street off Sunset, not far from here.”
He lifted his eyes to the curtain and reached out as if to pull it aside; then turned and met her stunned gaze. He said, “It’ll help us find whoever did it if we get the nonsense about her profession out of the way. Get us talking to the right people . . .”
“Goddam you!” And having nowhere to go with her agony but at his bland, blond, uncaring