Girl Artist by Ben West - Chapter 01

Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Artist

DULCE WAS BAD!

There was nothing that beautiful Dulce Gereau did not shamelessly try—no taboo she did not violate. Was it because Dulce born out of wedlock, inherited passions too wild to control? Or was she merely succumbing to use careless morality of the art world? After all, she was a struggling young painter, living among people who took sexual indulgence for granted...

It was no surprise that she threw her seductive self at such as Wallace Harper, who paid her bills. But it was carrying matters too far, when she sought men in the streets and invited them into model for her. Worse still was her tumultuous fracas with shapely Jane Yancy, who wanted Wallace—and with pretty Lillian, who wanted no men at all. Obviously, Dulce's own desires—and those of her friends—were unnaturally warped!

Here is a fearless blast at license tolerated in the name of art—and an intimate portrait of a girl twisted by illegitimacy!

CHAPTER 01

DULCE GEREAU put the phone back on the wall hook.

She had not exactly lied to Wallace. There was a good reason for not meeting him uptown for dinner. The sketch had to be done while the idea was hot. It had to be roughed out on drawing paper so she could study it. Wallace would get what he wanted later, when he came to her studio. She preferred to see him here, anyway.

If they went to his apartment, she would have to stay all night.

Dulce crossed the studio to a large foam rubber couch by the French window. The top of her brunette head was a bare five-feet-two above the paint-splattered wooden floor. Her work clothes, a pair of chino shorts and an unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt, put a large expanse of her sexy, svelte body on view.

She sat cross-legged on the couch with her sketchbook.

Her dark eyes, under long black lashes, were bright with interest as she took up where she had left off when Wallace called. With sure strokes of the heavy pencil, she shaded in the muscles of the virile youth who stood, strong and confident, against a high-keyed background which, to Dulce, represented the edge of space. She worked an hour then held the sketch at arm's length.

"It really looks like the fellow!" she muttered.

Her mind's eye was seeing a taxi driver, whom she had noticed in the Village the other night. He was young, extremely handsome, Gable-like in voice and grin. His eyes, meeting Dulce's for only a split second, had exhibited a half-mocking defiance. That brief but penetrating glimpse into his personality had aroused her interest.

She had tried to capture his vitality with her pencil, and she had succeeded. She smiled with satisfaction, put aside the sketch and stood up.

All at once she became aware of the gnawing in her belly. She could have had cornish game hen and white wine at the Pent House Club tonight. She smacked her lips as she thought of it. But Wallace would have come with it, and what a bore he was! Good old, paunchy, moneybags Wallace Harper. He could afford a harem if he wanted one, but apparently all he wanted was Dulce, even if the harem came a little cheaper.

Dulce believed in high price tags. Her studio was costing Wallace plenty. Her clothes even more. And, by God, she'd wangle a one-man—rather one-woman-show out of him, along with a good press agent to put it over.

She came high, but she earned her keep. Sleeping with Wallace was no fun. It was more of an annoyance, especially with a nice hunk of cab driver running around loose. If she put that sketch of him into oil, it would be her most exciting work. What shoulders! What biceps!

What loins?—well, that remained to be seen.

Dulce Gereau smiled to herself as she entered a screened section of the studio that served as boudoir. Off came shirt and shorts. She creamed face and hands, removing the stains of lead and charcoal, then ran a tub of steaming water and soaked herself in a bubble bath. It took her another half hour to do her up-swept hair and get into a narrow-waisted dark sheath with a tight, tapered skirt. Then she was out the door, downstairs and around the corner, off to a dank cellar by way of the taxicab stand.

Dulce had lived in the Village for four months, and already was something of a legend. Her small, feminine figure caused a stir wherever she went. She had a face like an angel's and the determination of a devil. She had friends along Fifth A venue and around Washington Square. She could change from hon ton to beatnik with the rapidity and ease of a chameleon. No one knew exactly what made her tick, but all knew that she was hot stuff, ticking toward a soul-shattering explosion.

Dulce had studied dance until the age of sixteen, when a broken ankle ended a promising career. She had turned to art and had studied in Paris until her inheritance ran out. At that point, Dulce always drew the curtains over her past, leaving friends to speculate.

And with good reason. For Dulce's father—at one time the golden-voiced darling of Broadway—had never bothered to marry her mother or to give Dulce his name, an oversight for which Dulce could not forgive him.

Her illegitimacy haunted her, was an ugly blot on her life. During moments of self-pity she would bemoan her fate: "So I'm a bastard. A love child. An illegitimate daughter." Then her eyes would grow defiant and she would glare at the world, challenging: "Make something of it!"

She, for one, intended to make something of it, to succeed as a painter and show the world that illegitimate or not she was as good as the next person. At twenty-two, she had developed both talent and technique to extraordinary degrees, but she lacked recognition. She was, however, determined to acquire both fame and fortune, and had no qualms about bartering her body to further her career. Salome, Cleopatra, Josephine, all had exploited their charms to achieve their ends. Why, thought Dulce, should I hold back?

Dulce entered Wooster Street at eight o'clock. The evening was balmy. Pink clouds lazily drifted in from the Atlantic. The tradesmen had gone home, giving over the Village to the night operators: Dixieland bands which had never been south of Philadelphia; dark-eyed hustlers who baited their traps with Black Narcissus perfume;

phonies with beards who recited gibberish in dim espresso cafes.

Dulce slowed her high-heeled pace as she passed the stand where drivers idled behind the wheels of their hacks. Her eyes searched for the young man who had fired her imagination. There he was! She caught a glimpse of him as he hopped into his cab, the first in line. Before she could come abreast and get a better look at the fellow, the engine started and he zoomed off with a fare. But she noted the license number and rolled a proof of it on her mind.

A few minutes later, Dulce was ensconced at a table with two friends in Vescovo's basement restaurant.

Emilio brought her a glass of port wine and a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. She savored the steaming heap, then dug in. Presently, she glanced at the bearded youth who sat beside her sipping espresso.

"Do something for me, Petor," she asked in her most angelic manner.

"Your wish is my command, Dulce," he replied with mock gallantry.

"Find out the name of the driver in the yellow cab with this license number." She scrawled the number on a paper napkin. Petor could talk endlessly about qualitative analysis, but couldn't remember his own telephone number.

"What's the matter? You got a beef? Did he try to run you down?" put in Lillian Canaday, a big, bosomy blonde.

"No. I'm just curious."

"How soon?" asked Petor.

"Right away. Could you?"

Petor stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There are zillions of cabs in the city—and nine-tenths of them are yellow."

"He was parked at the stand upstairs. Run up and ask one of the drivers. Please, Petor."

"For you, with pleasure," Petor announced after needless deliberation.

Dulce smiled to herself as he vanished up the stairs.

She had known all along he would consent. Petor was such a softie. A month ago he had declared he worshiped her, that he wished for nothing more than the privilege of sitting beside her in Vescovo's, basking in her beauty. To which Dulce had answered: "Don't give me that jazz." But, apparently, proximity was all he wanted—that, and the honor of being her lackey.

"What's the pitch, sweetie?" Lillian queried.

"I'm looking for a model."

"A cab driver?"

"He's got the right build."

"Lay off men. They'll get you in trouble. When are you going to give me a chance?"

"Patience, patience," Dulce replied, making light of Lillian's request.

The blonde had propositioned her several times without success, but kept on trying. Dulce drew the line at inversion. Once she had asked Lillian what made her that way. "You do, sweetie," the blonde had replied with a bland smile.

Petor returned glowing with success.

"Any luck?" Dulce asked, cheering him on.

"His name is Larry Smith."

"Larry Smith?" She repeated the name to herself.

"Sounds like a square to me," Lillian commented.

A nice name, Dulce decided. Nice, down-to-earth and pronounceable. Who could distrust a guy with such a wholesome American name? She had to do that painting.

And Larry Smith must be the model. She would call it, Tomorrow's Hero. It would represent the future of the world. She pictured the canvas, spotlighted in glory, handing in the Metropolitan or the Louvre.

"Anything else you want to know about him?" Petor asked, egging her on.

"No." Dulce missed the tease.

"I found out something else."

"What?" Dulce looked up quickly.

"You're not the first female to spot him."

"Is that so?"

"I hear he's quite the ladies' man."

Dulce's eyes narrowed. Her father had been a ladies' man. And look what that had gotten her mother! A bastard daughter! And look what it had gotten Dulce. A lifetime of hidden shame. Petor and Lillian stared as Dulce bit savagely into a meatball.

"Those kind are poison," Lillian said darkly.

"And selfish," Petor added.

Dulce admitted some disappointment in Larry Smith.

If he really wowed the women why hadn't he capitalized on his looks? Maybe he was a cheap jerk who chased barmaids and waitresses. Muscles and a handsome pan did not mean he had anything between his ears. For the time being, Dulce put him from her mind.

Other friends and acquaintances drifted in as Dulce finished dinner. Vescovo's was a favorite gathering place for artists and poets, for the offbeats and oddballs, for tired whores and penny-ante stock market speculators.

Few tourists ever braved its smoky air and damp brick walls. It was an all-night stand for the Village regulars who came to eat, drink and chew the fat in the atmosphere of a semi-private club.

Dulce was sitting at the bar chatting with Sono Kane, a chocolate beauty, and Alex Rombaur, a would-be artist, who worked the night shift at a Con Ed station, when the latter announced he had to get to work.

"Got to keep the city lit up, you know," he grinned.

"What time is it?" asked Dulce.

"Eleven."

"Mani" cried Dulce slamming her glass to the bar. ''I'm late."

She dashed up the stairs, followed by the youth whose eyes viewed appreciatively her twinkling legs. On the sidewalk she stood gazing toward the taxi stand. Only one cab was waiting. It was not Larry Smith's. With a shrug Dulce turned the comer and hurried home.

"Where have you been?" demanded Wallace Harper, hoisting himself from a deep chair.

"Having dinner."

"All this time?'' Doubt showed in his eyes and his tone was reproving.

"Yes, all this time," Dulce shot right back at him. She took care to maintain her independence.

Harper was a heavy-set man in his early forties with thinning hair, slightly gray at the temples. In his impeccable tailor-made clothes and his smoothly shaven pink cheeks, he reeked of breeding, education and wealth.

Distinguished was the world's word for Wallace. Dulce had a better name„old lard ass. But she kept it to herself.

"You could have dined with me. Obviously, you haven't been working."

"Haven't I?" She pointed to a sketch lying on the coffee table.

Wallace glanced at it, then back at Dulce with uncertainty.

He was never sure of his ground with her. She kept him constantly off balance with her swiftly changing moods and whims. He never knew whether she would disarm him with her guile, or hand him his hat and coat. The few times that he had threatened to withdraw his financial support had ended in disaster—for Wallace.

Once he had stormed out, vowing never to see her again.

He hadn't, for two whole days. And when he returned, she upped the ante.

"I didn't come here to quarrel," said Wallace, moderating his tone, "but you must admit we could have had dinner and then gone to my place, or even come back here, and it wouldn't have taken until midnight. Do you know how long I've been waiting?"

"Let me see." She tilted her head, braced an elbow on one palm and put a finger to her cheek. "Three hours?"

"Of course not."

"Four?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"I know it couldn't be longer than that. I didn't leave until eight."

"All right, all right, come here." Wallace grinned as he pulled her to him.

Dulce decided to melt him right down to his custom-made silk socks. She was determined to settle the matter of her one-woman show. Twice, in the past three weeks, she had brought Wallace close to a promise. Each time he had put her off. Yes, she would broach the subject again this evening, just before she took him on. Then, when having her meant more to him than hanging on to his bankroll, he was weakest.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she purred into his ear and gently rotated her hips against him.

"Forget it."

She mashed her red lips against his mouth. Her breasts heaved against his chest as his arms circled her lithe body.

Wallace's irritation was swept away by the thrill of her darting tongue. They swayed together for a fiery instant then she pushed him back.

"Fix us a drink while I do something corny," she said.

"What's that?"

"I'm going to get into something more comfortable."

"Ah!" He leered.

Dulce darted behind the screen and quickly stripped down to her high heels. She heard ice cubes clink into glasses as Wallace mixed two screwdrivers at the chrome-trimmed portable bar he had so graciously provided. She caught herself wondering if Larry Smith were a good bartender. Well, maybe she would find out someday.

She patted a strand of hair into place and slipped into a short, pongee coolie coat. A moment later she returned to Wallace.

"Try that," he said, handing her a glass.

"Delicious," she said, savoring the concoction.

Wallace beamed. He was proud of his ability as a drink mixer.

"I ran into a friend of yours at the Pent House Club tonight," he remarked.

"Who?"

"Jane Yancy."

"Oh, how is Jane?" Dulce asked sweetly.

Her manner completely camouflaged the resentment within her. It had come to Dulce, through mutual friends, that Jane, having completed her second trip to Reno, had chosen the Harper millions for her next target.

"Just fine. The poor kid has had a rough time, going through a second divorce, you know. But she handles herself remarkably well," said Wallace.

"Yes, poor thing."

The conniving female! Making rich men feel sorry for her was Jane's sole accomplishment; she felled the men like a champion. And now she had made the first move to gain Wallace's attention. Damn it, Dulce thought, I've made a mistake. If I had gone to dinner with Wallace tonight, I might have stopped Jane in her tracks. But I'll be on guard from now on. No mistake about that!

"What do you think of my new sketch?" Dulce asked, changing the subject. She couldn't have Wallace dwelling on Jane Yancy.

"It's good, but all I can make out is the figure of a young man. What's it supposed to be?"

"That's it. A young man."

"Is that all?''

"No. When I paint it, I'll bring it to life. I want it to be all things to young people. The modern age personified.

Youth reaching for the stars. Reaching and getting them."

"Hummm. Very good," said Wallace, taking another drink from his glass.

Dulce couldn't tell whether he meant her idea or his drink. She inched a bare knee toward him. Wallace's chubby hand moved to the knee and rested there.

"I could finish it in time for the show," she said, watching him closely.

"How long will it take you?"

"Two weeks. Maybe three. Depends on how it goes. Of course, a deadline would speed me on. Do you think we could nail down a date for the show?''

"Perhaps," he answered vaguely.

"When?'' She moved her knee closer to him. His hand began traveling toward her smooth, round thigh.

"Have you ever considered asking an expert to appraise your work?" he asked.

"Why should I?''

"Well, personally, I like your work. Good form. Wonderful color. But an art dealer could evaluate it better.

I wouldn't want your show to flop."

Dulce's eyes flashed. "It won't flop. If we get a good press •agent and invite the right people, it can't flop. And a show would be as much to your advantage as mine!"

"Would it?" He looked at her in astonishment.

"Twenty-two canvases." She waved her hand at them, stacked around the studio. "And when I complete the one I sketched this afternoon, I'll have twenty-three. What good are they here? I want them turned into money.

Isn't that to your advantage? You've been shelling out for months."

"Am I complaining?" His hand slipped under the coolie coat and a distant look came into his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like my stuff to sell?"

"Yes, but I don't want to lose you either."

Dulce stared at him. So that was it! Wallace was afraid she would declare her independence if she came up with a bundle. And how right he was. He wasn't as big a fool as she thought. This would take some special handling.

"Do you really think I would be so ungrateful?" She put her face close to his and peered up at him from large, wounded eyes.

"No." His arm crept around her waist.

"Then, may I have the show?"

She made a sleight-of-hand movement and the coolie coat parted. Wallace gaped at the firm, pink breasts jutting proudly from the pongee. All other considerations were driven from his head.

"May I?" Dulce repeated.

"What?"

"Have the show," she insisted.

"Yes, I guess so," he mumbled.

He had given his word and she would never let him forget it. Dulce threw her arms around him in gratitude.

The pillows sagged as she rolled across him and on to the couch. He grabbed her. Dulce writhed under his touch in a simulated passion that was a far greater work of art than anything she put on canvas.

Later, when the lights were out, Dulce lay on the couch, pinned by Wallace's quivering blubber. She rolled her head to one side and stared through the French window at the stars over Manhattan. Wallace wheezed in one ear, but through the other she could hear the night sounds of the city.

Distant music. The whir of traffic. A newsboy shouting a late edition. The cocky, nasal beep of a taxi. The image of the cab driver—handsome, capable and strong-leaped to mind. Suddenly her toes curled. Her hips gave a compulsory, involuntary thrust, releasing taut muscles and nerves. She sighed deeply.

"Was that good, baby?" Wallace whispered.

"Ummm."

Thanks to the cab driver, she added to herself.