It got into the morning papers. Carol picked up the Herald-Tribune from her desk and saw the headlines. "JEWEL THEFT IN RYE."
Below was a picture of plump gaily-clad Mrs. Albright standing amidst the wreckage of her dressing room. The caption read "GYPSY GYPPED." Carol was alone in the pastel office. Without taking off her coat, she phoned Boris.
"Yes dear. For cocktails? Of course." He smiled anxiously. "Fine, at five o'clock, then." He hung up, then went into the shower. The hot water eased him, and after a while he began to sing his Russian version of a Flamenco. He bumped his hips, then let himself go and ground his stomach against the heated tiles of the shower. Five o'clock, five o'clock, five o'clock jump.
Then Carol called Phillip. "How did it go?"
"Didn't you read our write-up?"
"There was no mention of the featured performers."
"Good, good," Phillip beamed. "You see it went perfectly."
Carol laughed. "I've got an appointment for cocktails with Boris,"
she said as her secretary came in.
"Good," Phillip approved. "Come here for dinner afterwards."
"Business?" she sounded wistful.
"No, my dear, pleasure," and he hung up.
Carol laughed again. "Here are proof pages 17 and 34," the secretary announced. "The color plates are lousy." She proudly, like a new mother, laid the problem on Carol's desk. Carol's face became serious, and her day went into full swing.
At 5:30, Harry, rested and shaved, arrived at Phillip's apartment.
This time the project was his. He carried a small notebook that Phillip recognized from their prison days. He had watched Harry lying flat on his back, holding the notebook balanced on his chest and writing small legible letters on to the page.
"Recording you past?" Phillip once asked.
"No," Harry was humorless, "my future. I'm recording my future."
This afternoon, Harry put the notebook conspicuously on the table.
He was composed, deliberate. He picked up the U.S. Social Register and started to turn the pages.
"At my reference books again?" Phillip scoffed. But he was nervous at Harry's reserve. Phillip's reserve was of a different kind: conscious, elegant. Harry's was inward, selfless and lost. It was always Phillip who had to break their silences.
"That was a fair score we made last night. I'd say $45,000, at least."
He watched Harry's reaction.
"Forty-five," commented Harry. There was an almost involuntary tone of condescension in his voice. "That was a lark."
Phillip looked at him with repressed anger. "A lark, you say. But that's only one strike. There are four others that need more work. Five larks make an eagle. Or, don't you agree."
Harry said, "Yes, it adds up. But what about one job that's as big as five of those put together?" He looked at Phillip questioningly and then got up and walked about the room smoking.
Phillip spoke when he stopped moving. "One job as big as all of mine. Sounds majestic. What is it Harry?" Harry reached for his notebook. Then he noticed a small, antique, carved-wood stand with a square slate blackboard. It was bordered by a tray of colored chalk. He put the book aside and pulled the table toward him. Phillip watched closely.
"Every hear of Kit's Island?" Harry began. "It's in the Florida Keys.
It's the original Golden Goose."
"It could also be called the Llewellyn's Island." Harry looked up.
"You must know the Llewellyn collection?" He picked up the notebook and fingered through the pages. He came to a list of numbers with items and numbers next to them. The kind of book the ideal accountant would have.
"Mrs. Llewellyn," he ran his forefinger across from one column to the next, "has one pendant that is worth more than all of Mrs. Albright's madness." He picked up a piece of chalk and studied the board for a second.
Then, with incredible dexterity, he drew the outline of a goose with an elongated neck, almost a swan's neck, and thin beak. When he completed the goose, he drew crosshatched directions and meticulously initialed, N. E. S. W.
Lastly he drew an egg-shaped circle and marked an X through its center. "That's the house," he explained.
Phillip watched the controlled deftness. The execution of the drawing had been impressive. In that gesture, Harry had revealed something so essentially himself, carefully hidden, for the first time.
Harry's secrets had nothing to do with his prick. Couldn't devour him that way. Phillip was not going to be destroyed by going all the way, to find out what was really there. Phillip was afraid. The man seated before him was so obviously rational and so completely mad.
Phillip smiled slightly to himself and Harry continued.
"Here's the mainland." He sketched in a waving line. "This is a drawbridge." He took another color and inserted a bar before the crook of the goose's neck. "With armed guard," he added. His eyes did not leave the board. Working with different colors, he was like a painter, absorbed and professional. "There's a short break-water here, and a lagoon with a sixty-foot pier." He gestured a pattern around the island, then sat back for second and observed the drawing. He looked at Phillip for the first time. "Minimum staff at any time is fourteen. Not possible to approach by boat without being observed."
Phillip had been sitting quietly. He smiled and said in his contained voice, "Perhaps a magic carpet?"
Harry gave him a sharp glance. "That's exactly it," he explained.
"They think they're safe. They've probably thought so for fifteen years.
There's never been an attempted strike on any of the islands there."
He walked to the sideboard. He looked down at the decanters and thought of mixing a drink. Then he walked back toward Phillip, saying, "But how the goose is waddling! It's lazy and secure, waddling with age and the weight of all that golden ice." He sat down and looked directly at Phillip. "Do you know how much?"
Phillip got up nervously. At the sideboard, he reached for the gin and vermouth and opened the refrigerator for ice cubes. He appeared completely noncommittal.
Harry was looking at his drawing again. "The touch has to come in broad daylight. The freedom you need can only be that of a guest. You don't happen to be a distant relation or godfather to the Llewellyns?"
For the first time he smiled.
"Of course," said Phillip brushing aside the question, "Of course the guest, the uninvited guest, must carry a gun, right?"
"Right."
Phillip moved toward him with the martini. "You've given this job a lot of thought, haven't you?"
Harry stared back at him. "Too much." He held Phillip's eyes. "It's big. A really big touch."
"That's just it, Harry." His hand almost crushed the glass in his intensity. "For someone fresh out of Sing Sing, it's too big. It seems to me that you would want to cool it for a while. Why take any extra chances at this point?" He looked into his glass. "Don't get me wrong.
I appreciate the suggestion. I admire the plan, but the way I feel is that it just isn't the right time."
He felt he was talking to a frothing maniac, though Harry was sitting coolly, placidly. He wished, for an instant, that they were back in prison, that he could run his hands over Harry's body and feel the tense spots jump at his touch. "My moves…" he tried to get back to his incoherent refusal, "My moves don't require going in heavy. Never go in heavy. My plan, as always, is to keep out of the criminal category.
And we still make out." Phillip's voice, at the end, was imploring.
"I have a little job for us to pull this weekend. I'm catching the midnight flight to Boston. Most of the research is done." He was all business. "What little more there is, I'll take care of tomorrow. Wait here at the apartment for me. I'll telephone exactly one half hour before your flight is due."
Harry was silent, but nodded in accord. At least they'd be moving, that was something. Keep ready for the really big jobs.
"I'll wait for your call," he agreed. "I'll be right here like a good little boy."
They were silent together for a moment. Phillip knew how separate their thoughts were. The door buzzed. He checked his watch and said,
"That must be Carol." They waited as the maid let her in.
"What do you think of Carol?" asked Phillip.
"Think!" Harry seemed amused at the question.
"Yes." Phillip sounded like an offended father. "Isn't she worth thinking about?"
"I never think of women," Harry explained.
"A mistake Harry," Phillip interjected.
"When the time comes to think, it's over. They've had it. I like my women when my mind is empty, vacant, and I don't like to have it filled with 'becauses' and 'ifs' and 'maybes' that women can hand you."
"My boy, it's like a job. When the time comes to think, it begins.
Never cut out just when it starts to get interesting."
"When what gets interesting?" They both looked up at the female voice. Carol was standing at the doorway in a gold leopard coat, collared by her golden hair. Her face was fresh, her mouth covered with a deep cherry lipstick. "What gets interesting?"
"You, my darling," Phillip intoned. "We were just talking about you."
"I had the idea," Carol nuzzled against Phillip, "that Harry never spoke about women."
"I do," Harry explained. "Whenever I'm asked a direct question."
It took a while for Carol to understand. She looked accusingly at Phillip. "What do you mean direct question? Were you two gallant men masturbating with my name?"
"Carol!" there was note of admonition in Phillip's voice. "Really, my dear, we don't all know each other that well yet."
Harry reached for his coat; he was hatless, as always. "I think I'd better go." He turned to Phillip. "If not, I'll start thinking. Can't tell what could happen then, Phillip."
"What is this?" Carol's blush had turned to a flush of anger. "How dare you speak in code to each other! I think it's disgusting." She turned to leave the room. "If you'll just give me the stuff Phillip, I'll be over tomorrow evening after I have seen Boris."
Harry was standing at the doorway, and Phillip realized intensely and jealously that he didn't want them to leave together. "We're not going to have another scene, are we Carol? I mean, you're saying thirty times you must leave, and me saying thirty-one times you must stay, and then we do what we started out to do."
"Phillip," she was really hurt, "don't make everything sound so cheap and predictable."
"It's not cheap because it's predictable, my young beauty. I can tell you exactly what's going to happen between the three of us. It will happen, you know. I don't know who's making it happen, but it will happen. And none of us will be any cheaper for it, or any the wiser.
Just a little older and a little more tired."
"You make everything sound dreadful." She was near tears. It was the second time in his life with Carol that Phillip had seen her near tears. "You kill everything. You ruin everything. I wish there was something that could happen to me that you wouldn't know about long before I do. I wish I could have a little more life of my own and not feel…"
"But, my dear," Phillip interjected. "You'd feel so much more if you had a life of your own! That's what I'm protecting you from."
Suddenly, surprisingly, Harry spoke. "It would be nicer if you used your gun, Phillip. So much cleaner and quicker."
"I think you should leave, Harry," Carol said. Her voice was still and distant. "Have your dinner and then come back. I'll be gone by then and you and Phillip can finish your conversation."
"There are a few things," Phillip said quickly, "that we must talk about."
"Yes," Harry said quickly, "of course. Don't be so outraged." It was shocking to hear his voice, suddenly filled with sympathy and knowledge, "Phillip is no prophet. We know what will happen too. It's just that Phillip's not afraid to say it. He's afraid of a lot of things, but he's not afraid to say what we're thinking. Maybe his paintings give him that courage. I'll be back, Phillip," and he left with the crown jewels.
"You seem to have outlined my entire evening," Phillip's words were bitter.
"Phillip, you say that after you've outlined my entire life."
"An evening," he explained, "is infinitely more important than a life.
It lasts much longer."
Carol laughed. "Mix me a drink, sweetheart. We'll get very dull if we don't have a drink."
"I've never heard you complain of impending boredom before."
"Do you think I'm rebelling, Phillip? Do you think I'm finding new interests in life?"
"I can't imagine why you would." He cupped her pale face and kissed her on the mouth. "I think it's all been very interesting."
She rubbed casually, cat-like against his body. "You're the most interesting man in the world."
"Is that enough for you, Carol?"
"It's always been too much for me, my dear. I'm just beginning to catch up."
"How dreadful," he murmured. "I thought I was miles ahead of you." He had removed her coat and hat and pulled off the gloves that encased her hands, finger by finger. She wore a brown and orange tweed dress. It was beltless and tight on her hips; below, it flared out into a many-gored skirt. There were thirty-two buttons from the neck to the hem. He began methodically and silently to unbutton them. She stood motionless as the mannequin in her office. The slip with the stiff crinoline skirt zippered smartly down the back. He lowered the straps over her stiff arms, and pushed her gently to step over the heap on the floor.
Her brassiere snapped shut in the front, between her small, high, full breasts. His fingers played with the hook. Then he pulled the cloth back, unpeeling her breasts like exotic fruit. He held his four fingers tightly below her armpits and massaged the nipples of her breasts with his thumbs. They became rigid under his caress and Carol was standing, eyes closed, mesmerized, naked except for the thin nylon panties and the garters and stockings they supported. He put his mouth against her neck and ears and the small cavity just above the swell of her breasts.
"Come darling," he guided, "let's get into bed."
"I feel like a bride, Phillip. You make me feel like a bride."
She opened her eyes and saw him standing fully dressed before her.
His dressing gown reached to his knees, and she could see the dark striped pants under it. An ascot covered his throat, and she felt her nudity with a tremor.
"Take off your clothes, Phillip," she begged.
He stood silently studying her. "We usually do it my way, Carol."
"Take off your clothes," she repeated, and at last she found her tears.
She clawed at his scarf until she had it loose, and pulled it off in one long motion. When she had it loose in her hand, she billowed it open and shielded her naked body with the large square.
"Take off your clothes," she screamed again.
Phillip took the scarf out of her hand. He walked to the mirror, fastidiously tied it around his neck, returned to Carol, standing defeated where he had left her, and slapped her powerfully across the face. "We do it my way," he repeated. Picking up her limp body, he carried her into the bedroom and threw her across the enormous satin tufted bed.
He pulled the cane out of his dressing room and struck her across the buttocks. "We do it my way, do you understand?" She was silent and he struck her again, the welts forming beneath the springy wood. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Phillip," she sobbed at last. "Yes, Phillip."
"Weep," he hit her again. "You've been trying to weep for days.
Cry, it's easy." He struck her a final time and threw the cane into the corner of the room. "Don't have me despise you, Carol," he warned.
"It makes me want you too much, and then I'll never let you go free.
Not for a minute of your life. I can have you as long as I want you.
I've made you and I'll have you, and this will be no fairy tale, no Pygmalion. You'll never enchant me and go free."
He knelt over her body and kissed her tenderly on the tear-wet mouth. "If you want me naked, take my clothes off. Just ask nicely, baby, and you can have anything you want." Her hands trembled, afraid to touch him. "It's all right, go ahead," he consoled her.
Once more she undid the scarf, this time gently, as if the patterned silk, too roughly handled, might bruise his flesh, as if it were a child's game, and he might suddenly pound her trembling hands fleshless. He nuzzled his mouth against the small tender depression at the base of her neck. He stretched out muscleless on the huge bed and whispered, exhausted and deeply excited, "Undress me, my angel. Put me to sleep, my angel."
He pulled her body flat on his, naked against his robe and trousers.
She hid her face on his exposed chest. Her body pulsated pain. "My angel is hot," he comforted her. "She wants to be fucked, but she hates her Daddy." He ran his finger along the wet sucking edge of her vagina. The finger traveled carelessly around and around the opening, not touching the feverish inner wall. Finally, almost thoughtlessly, he slipped against the small erect mound of feeling. She moaned with need, "Phillip, Phillip."
He removed his hand and mixed his fingers into her soft yellow hair.
"Maybe there isn't time for me to undress, baby?"
"No, no," she begged, "now." And out of the maze of words, Phillip knew that she wanted him now. His prick was high and urgent and he quickly, wordlessly, forced his arm between their pressed hips and let his rod come free over the folds of his robe and the striped diplomat pants.
He forced the bone of flesh sharp inside her cunt, inside the hungry mouth. She howled and sucked it up. He was motionless under her and she rotated her ass eagerly, feeling him on every side and back to the wall of her womb.
Then he put a hand tightly on her buttocks, and held her stiff and paralyzed above him. She collapsed at his touch and waited, waited.
He moved up and down in her cunt, slowly, surely, all the way. Up and down till his prick was a narcotic, fucking all the way into her brain.
She stretched her arms free on either side of him and rolled on his stomach, fucked coolly and thoroughly into her soul.
The first time she shuddered and came, he kept the speed of his throbbing, penetrating prick unchanged, moving in and out as if he had not felt the trembling, screaming body above him. He kept the steady fuck that she thought could go on all night, that she wanted all her life, in and out of her with monster precision, rubbing the center of feeling with deadly detached accuracy.
The beat inside of her was as irrevocable, as essential as the uncontrolled thumping of her heart. His prick was a heart inside her, or a hand, or a mouth, or a spoon, shoving in food, feeding her poison.
Her second orgasm, hypnotized and uncontrollable, was coming from deep inside, from the well that was spilling her juices on the cover of the bed. Her hips got frantic, her vagina swelled and spread, incredibly wide, as big as the biggest black cave to get him all in, and to get more in.
Then Phillip cried, "My God," and came shooting into her before her time, a second before her time.
She shrieked, "Phillip!" But he was spent, his fingers resting on her back, seemingly asleep. "More, Phillip," she demanded, ready for his mouth or fingers or the wooden bedpost. Anything, but more.
"Not now," he said quietly, but he looked at her strangely. "Why didn't you make it, my dear" You had plenty of time." He was like a punishing father, but Carol knew he was afraid, terrified that she was lying there hot. He would not do with his mouth what couldn't be done with his prick. He buttoned his pants and walked to the adjoining bathroom.
He took a transparent hypodermic out of his medical cabinet and stuck the needle into a rubber corked vial. He walked back into the room, holding the needle straight up to pull up the colorless liquid.
Carol said, "No," her eyes wide and frightened. Phillip sat on the edge of the bed, took her arm nervelessly in his hand and pierced the blue vein with the needle. She watched him, fascinated, as the liquid disappeared into her flesh. Her eyes were wide and hysterical when they met Phillip's, but already she was too tired to speak.
"Go to sleep," he warned, his voice not untender, but still strange.
She was watching him, her green eyes fading into sleep. He returned the questioning gaze. "Go to sleep Carol. Forget about your empty hot cunt. It's good to be hot, gets you close to God."
She was deep asleep when he left the room. He hadn't told her that tonight he'd leave for Boston. She wouldn't be awake when he took off. He poured a drink when he reached the study, still unwilling to think of the unsated plea. But he couldn't fuck her anymore; her cunt felt like a trap, like a swamp.
When he heard the door buzz, he remembered Harry. He walked swiftly to the bedroom, saw Carol deep in a trance, a prick-devouring angel. He locked the door from the outside, and put the key in his pocket. Harry was sitting on the couch in the studio when Phillip reentered. "Harry, did you have a good dinner?" he asked.