The Hunt (aka 27)

  There was a smattering of applause, again except for Keegan. He looked around the room, wondering if all these people were crazy. Didn't they know what was happening up on stage?

  The set was over. He had barely been aware that she'd sung several more songs. Her voice had mesmerized him, hypnotized him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thrilled.

  She left the stage rather meekly and, to Keegan, the rest of the room came back into focus. He caught Herman's eye and urgently waved him over.

  "She's wonderful!" he told the damp little manager. He realized he sounded too excited but he didn't care. "She's absolutely—"

  Herman rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately you are the only one who seems to think so." Then, looking over Keegan's shoulder, he saw the two American girls coming toward them.

  As they walked down the length of the bar, Vanessa was aware that the little sweaty man in the soggy tuxedo was talking about them, his eyes darting toward them, then away. And she was also aware that the tall man with his back to them was staring at her in the deco mirror behind the bar. She led Deenie right up to him, standing behind him, less than a foot away, staring up at the back of his neck. He finally turned around and looked down at her.

  Deenie caught her breath. Her impression was immediate: he's rich. That was always number one on Deenie's checklist. The man was rich, fashionable, handsome and self-confident. With his shock of black hair and gray eyes and persistent, arrogant smile, he epitomized what, in her mind, was the classic continental playboy. Definitely dangerous, she thought.

  "Something?" He asked it pleasantly, but he was annoyed. He wanted to rush backstage, to meet the singer.

  "You don't remember me, do you?"

  All he could remember was that voice, the sunken eyes. Love for sale . . .

  The girl reached up and pulled lightly on his lapel, interrupting his reverie, and when he leaned toward her, she whispered a name in his ear. His reaction was immediate and startled, although he quickly recovered his composure. He stared back at her, his gray eyes intent and inquiring.

  It had been three years since anyone had called him that and this woman was perhaps nineteen, twenty at best. He made a quick study. She was tallish, maybe five-seven, slender and busty with turquoise eyes and jet black hair. Her face was angular, her features perfect. Her full mouth curved down at the corners except when she smiled and she wore very little makeup. The diamond choker around her long, slender neck was the real thing. A well-groomed, self-confident snob with money, he decided, and her long a's pegged her from Boston. Who the hell was she? And how did she know that name?

  And then she repeated it aloud.

  "Frankie Kee."

  TWELVE

  "My God," he said finally, "you're not Vannie Bromley!"

  "Vanessa Bromley," she corrected. "Nobody's called me Vannie since my sixteenth birthday."

  "That makes us even. Nobody's called me Frankie for a couple of years, either. Where did you hear that name, anyway?"

  "Daddy," she said. "I was eavesdropping after a party once and he was telling mother all about you. I gathered it was kind of his personal secret. He swore her to silence."

  "And you?"

  "Never told a soul. Too good to share."

  "How are old David and Linda?"

  "The same. Stuffy but nice."

  "What are you two talking about?" Deenie finally interrupted.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. This is Deenie Brookstone. Remember her?"

  "Your father's Earl, right? Merrill, Lynch?"

  "That's right," she said brightly. "Should I remember you?"

  "Probably not," he said and let the subject die. "What are you two doing in this place?"

  "We came to see the show. The one upstairs. Our dates are absolute dinosaurs. Personally I think they're afraid to go up."

  "Hardly the place for proper Bostonians," Keegan said.

  "Who said anything about being proper?" Vanessa's green eyes worked over every line in his face. There was no doubting her intentions.

  Jesus, Keegan thought, here I am in the worst den of iniquity in Europe and the daughter of the president of the Bank of Massachusetts is sending out very definite signals. She had turned into a real dish. Big trouble, but a real dish. His dilemma ended abruptly with the arrival of their dates.

  "What's going on?" one of them demanded in a voice that sounded like it was pitched an octave lower than normal. Vanessa turned to him, linked her arm in Keegan's and said, "We've just run into an old friend."

  "Oh?"

  "Francis, this is Donald, this is Gerald. Donald has blond hair, Gerald has brown hair. That's how you tell them apart."

  "Take it easy," Keegan growled under his breath. He held out his hand.

  "I'm Frank Keegan," he said, "friend of the family."

  Donald, the blond, shook hands, then stuffed his in his pockets and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Gerald, who was built like a football player, was more aggressive.

  "We've decided to go to the Speisewagen for breakfast," he said; ignoring Keegan's hand. "A lot of the gang will be there."

  "I'm sick of the gang," Vanessa answered. "We're going upstairs."

  "C'mon," Donald whined. "Your old man'll nail us to the wall if he finds out we took you up there."

  Vanessa looked at Keegan for support. "Is it that bad?"

  "Pretty risqué," he said.

  "How risqué?"

  "About as risque as it gets."

  "See?" Donald said.

  "Well, we just won't tell him."

  "No!" Donald said firmly. "They'll find out. Parents always find out those things."

  "Donald," Vanessa said firmly, "get lost." And she turned her back on him.

  As Donald started toward her, three burly Nazi youths in brown shirts walked by. One of them slammed into Gerald's back. He turned angrily toward them.

  "Watch it, buddy," the football-type snarled. The brownshirt bristled. He turned to his two friends, scowling, and said, "Buddy . . . buddy . . . Was ist los, buddy, eh?" He turned back to Gerald and leaning against him forced him back against the bar.

  "Schweinehund, " he said viciously.

  Gerald shoved back.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" he said to nobody in particular.

  "I think he called you a pig," Deenie said without thinking.

  "Just a minute . . ." Keegan started, but Gerald was already bristling from the insult.

  "Well, tell him he's a goddamn clown in that Boy Scout uniform," he said. "I can take all three of these assholes with one hand behind my back. We'll just step outside and . . ."

  Vanessa covered her eyes with her hand. "Oh my God," she moaned, "he thinks he's back on fraternity row."

  Keegan waved Herman over to the bar and whispered quickly, "Get these brownshirts away from here or you're going to have a riot on your hands. Give 'em a free pitcher of beer, anything."

  Herman flashed his most sincere smile and herded the three Germans back into the club, jabbering in German as he did.

  "Let me tell you something, boys," Keegan said coldly. "These guys have all the nickels on their side of the table. Do you understand the situation here?"

  "We're Americans," Donald said with bravura, "we don't have to take this stuff."

  Keegan kept talking.

  "These people have the heart of a weasel, the soul of a rutabaga and pure muscle between the ears. They work in packs. You start something, there'll be a dozen of them all over you. Just ease on out the door and go on over to the Speisewagen. Forget it. No face lost, okay, it's a no-win thing."

  "You're a real hero type," Gerald said.

  "Listen, kid," Keegan said, and his voice became harsh and brittle, "I don't like the odds. I don't want to spend the rest of the night sitting beside you in the hospital or calling your folks to tell them you've just become part of the cobblestone walk out front. This isn't football weekend at Harvard, these people are dangerous."

  Deenie's tiny voice piped up.
"Please," she implored. "I'm frightened."

  "Ahh . . ." Gerald said in disgust.

  "We're going to the American diner," Donald said as assertively as he could. "Are you two coming or not?"

  "No," Vanessa said.

  "Then good night."

  "Vanessa . . ." Deenie began.

  "What, Deenie?"

  "I think we better go."

  "Don't be silly!"

  "I want to go with them."

  "Then go. The key is at the desk. Enjoy your breakfast."

  "You really should come along, you know," she said, her voice barely audible in the din.

  "Good night, Deenie."

  Deenie and the two boys left the club. Vanessa turned to Keegan.

  "Guess what," she said. "You're stuck with me."

  "You have a real stubborn streak, lady," Keegan said.

  "No," she answered firmly, "I just know what I want . . . and I usually get it. Are you going to take me to Das Goldene Tor?"

  He thought for a moment and shrugged. "Why not," he said. "But I have something to do first."

  When he got backstage, Jenny Gould was about to leave the club, having finished her last set for the night. She stood near the door, wrapped in a raincoat, waiting for a sudden downpour to clear.

  "Miss Gould?" Keegan said.

  She turned abruptly, startled to hear her name. She stared at him with her big eyes.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm Francis Keegan," he said. "I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing."

  "Danke, " she murmured, looking away.

  "I was wondering . . . if we . . . might have lunch tomorrow," he said.

  She seemed frightened by the suggestion, her eyes darting toward the door as if hoping the rain would suddenly stop.

  "I don't think so," she said, managing a weak smile. "If you'll excuse me, I must go."

  "It's raining so hard," Keegan said with a smile. "At least let my car take you home."

  She looked at him again, then shook her head.

  "That's very kind of you," she said softly. "But I must refuse."

  And just like that she was gone, huddled against the rain as she scampered out the stage door and down the alley toward the street.

  When he got back to the bar, Vanessa studied the look in his face. "It looks like my last obstacle has been removed," she said. "Shall we go upstairs?"

  THIRTEEN

  They entered a room that smelled of perfumed body oil and candle wax. At its center was a carpeted circle perhaps twelve feet across and on it were two large mats covered with yellow satin sheets. Around its perimeter were a dozen head-high candlesticks, which provided the only light in the room. Behind them, three tiers deep, were the loges, each with a full-length, thick-piled couch big enough to seat four. Eight to each tier.

  The price for the one-hour show was a hundred dollars a person, payable in either American dollars or British pounds, enough money to feed a German family for a month.

  A tall, lean hawk of a man in tails strolled among the boxes, greeting the patrons, his long, aesthetic fingers caressing the hands of the women as he brushed his lips across them. Conrad Well was the owner of the club and had spawned the show that was to follow, a manifestation of his own corrupt fantasies. The Gold Gate was a private club, by invitation only, and the man who extended the invitation was Weil. He also could waive the rules at the door if you looked prosperous or important—or if he did not have a full house, since there was only one performance a night.

  Drinks were provided by three men and three women, their bodies oiled and glistening in the gloomy light of a half dozen blue spotlights. The women, although heavier than Americans preferred, were young, voluptuous and handsome. The men were built like Charles Atlas and looked like they had a combined IQ of twelve. All were blond and wore loincloths. The women were bare-breasted.

  They took orders and delivered drinks without expression, their robotic attitude ingeniously designed to separate them from the audience, to assure their inaccessibility and heighten the erotic expectation of the show that was to follow.

  Vanessa immediately responded. Her cheeks flushed. Her breath came a little faster. Mesmerized by the promise of the evening, she was the perfect spectator, an affirmation of Weil's perverse creation. And she did not escape his eye. The moment they entered the arena, Weil saw them, watched her as she walked to the couch and sat down, her dress twinkling, reflecting the blue lights like stars on a clear night. She sat with her chin up, accentuating the long, regal sweep of her neck. She was keenly aware of her allure, flaunted it in fact, and Well was hooked and reeled to her like a trout on a line.

  "Francis, an honor to see you again," he gushed, without taking his eyes off Vanessa. And to her, "I am Conrad, your host," as he kissed her hand.

  "Conrad, this is Vanessa, a friend of mine from the States."

  "Ah, Fräulein Vanessa, what a marvelous distraction," he said. "You will make life difficult for our performers. No one can take their eyes off you."

  She was properly dazzled by his schmaltz.

  And Bert Rudman was dazzled by her. He sat across the room next to a heavyset, Teutonic man with a thick mustache who slumped on the couch with his chin on his chest, nodding as if by rote as Rudman jabbered in his ear. Then Rudman saw Keegan. He looked at him with exaggerated surprise. And then he saw Vanessa and his mouth gaped.

  Keegan smiled, first across the room at Rudman, then at Vanessa. When their eyes met, he realized the room and the anticipation of the show were having an effect on him, too. He wondered if the sudden hunger showed on his face.

  The music began softly, built slowly. It was Oriental, an eerie melody dominated by bells and drums. Its tempo, slow and sensuous, segued into a soft, steady beat and two blue spotlights faded on, each focused on one of the pallets. Three women and three men wearing yellow silk robes seemed to materialize from the shadows, emerging into the spotlight, standing back to back. They were all dark-haired, not an Aryan in the bunch. The women, more sensuous than beautiful, looked French. The men were more Mediterranean-looking, possibly Greek or Italian.

  Weil had selected the cast of his erotic show personally. During a search that had lasted several months, he had assembled six women and six men for his show, rotating the members of the cast each night since only three couples were required for each performance. Well himself had choreographed the exhibition, sitting in different places in the auditorium and giving directions as the sex-actors performed for him.

  At first their moves were subtle. They began to sway slightly with the music. As the tempo picked up, their movements became more pronounced, more provocative. They brushed briefly against each other at first, barely touching, then moving away. In the soft light of the masked spots, they looked at first like a moving sculpture.

  Vanessa stared at them, transfixed.

  They moved out slowly, widening the circle of the spotlight, and broke into groups rather than pairing up. Two women and one man, two men and one woman. The two men began stroking and petting the most petite of the three women, moving their hands lightly over the silken robe, touching every part of her body. She swayed with them and began to hum very slowly as they kissed her neck and shoulders, slipped their hands under the robe, burnishing her body with oil. Finally, they removed her robe. One of her partners stood behind her, glossing her stomach and breasts with oil. Her breasts swelled, the nipples hardening. The other partner used the oil to glaze the insides of her thighs, moving up slowly, slowly, higher, until . . .

  A tiny cry slipped from her throat. She fell back against the other man while the one continued to knead oil into her with the flat of one hand, his fingers tantalizing her. Her knees buckled and they lowered her to the mat, never losing a stroke, always massaging her breasts and mound. The tempo of the music increased.

  The other two women concentrated on their subject, who stared unblinking as their fingertips flitted across the silk.

  One of the women opened her robe
and moved against him, swaying to the music. The other girl dropped her robe off her shoulders and stood naked, caressing both their backs, also swaying in cadence with them. The first woman shrugged her shoulders and dropped her hands straight to her sides. Her robe slid down her back and fell away.

  They removed the man's robe slowly until it too fell away. It was obvious he was aroused. One of the women leaned down and took a bottle of oil from under the corner of the mat. Both girls oiled their hands, then began to spread the oil over his body, starting just under his chin and moving down to his fingertips, across the flat of his stomach and down to his groin. He closed his eyes and his head fell back and they lowered him to the silk sheet. Hands and lips seemed to devour him, stroking, kneading, urging him toward a climax.

  "Seen enough?" Keegan whispered in Vanessa's ear.

  She opened her mouth but nothing came out, so she just shook her head, never blinking or taking her eyes off the sexual gladiators. The music grew faster and with the increase in the beat, the activity in the center of the arena became more frenzied. Vanessa's fingers dug into Keegan's thigh and she sank deeper into the down cushions of the sofa.

  The two ménages à trois became totally impassioned, oblivious to the room full of voyeurs. The two women urged their male performer erect with lips and hands while he felt for each of them, touching them, arousing them until they stretched out beside him, one stroking, the other kissing him.

  On the other silk pallet, the woman began to moan, rocking her hips slowly back and forth while the men kissed and petted and stroked her entire body. She arched her back, her breathing erratic and labored. Finally one of her partners lay on his side, lifted her leg over his hip and entered her. Her cry—half anguish, half joy—shocked the spectators. But only for a moment. She moved with him, head back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her lips trembling as the other partner kissed her body, first her breasts, then her stomach, moving down until all three were moving in concert.

  "Oh my God," Vanessa muttered under her breath. She moved tighter against Keegan, began to stroke his thigh with her fingertips. Keegan put his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled under it, her breasts crushing against his side. She was breathing heavily as they watched the performers reach their climax.