Wicked, Wicked Women by Gardner Fox - Chapter 05
1961 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Historical Fiction
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
Men like Mike Gannon and Black John Bennett made their living off the Erie Canal, forever battling one another for control of canal shipping.
Women like Moira Kennally—the wanton widow turned Madam -- and the Egyptian, owner of the notorious pleasure parlor, The Golden Tassel - made their living off men like Mike and Black John, offering their passionate embraces in return for the hard-earned dollars the canalers wrested from "The Big Ditch."
Together and apart they lived and loved in a mad search for power and pleasure during one of the most turbulent eras in the mainstream of American life.
You can download the whole story from the Fox Library.
CHAPTER FIVE
She stared up at him defiantly, fury glinting in her eyes, a lock of her black hair fallen down over a flushed cheek. Her heavy breasts stormed upward into the loosely held nightgown.
By God, she is a trull! Naked under the black silk and flushed from showing herself off to half a thousand men in the big room outside! A married woman with a child, yet with no more shame than any harlot of the streets!
His hand caught her wrist and his fingers tightened. "Canal Street woman, are you? All right, Moira Creegan—if this is the game you want to play, by God! I'll play it with you. Lily ought to have the contracts ready by now—let's go pay her a visit."
She yanked back but his fingers on her wrist were too strong. “At least let me dress," she panted.
His grin was mirthless. "Why dress? I like you as you are, naked under that nightgown. It shows off your legs something fierce." His hand went behind her and closed over a soft buttock, stroking it gently. When she fought to break free his laughter scratched at her. “A Canal Street woman knows better than to fight her man. Time you learned that.”
"You're not my man, Mike Gannon!'
"Sure, you know better than that. But in case you don't, I'll teach the truth to you after you sign your agreement. Come along, now. Lily will be waiting in her cubbyhole of an office.”
She went with him because she could not prevent herself from doing so, with his iron hand on her forearm and his great strength dragging her at a half-run. Anger pulsed in her veins at every step.
And yet ... Moira Creegan realized that she was enjoying every moment of this manhandling. Half in shame, half in delight, she grew aware that her breasts had become hard and swollen with the sudden heat of desire that was in her.
He hurled her into the office so that she staggered and half fell over an easy chair. The Egyptian stared in surprise, first at Moira as the clothes went flying from her hand and she leaned awkwardly over the chair arm, then at Mike as he bulked huge and powerful in the doorway, breathing harshly.
"Sign the paper,” he growled. "Write away your decency."
The Egyptian held out the pen after dipping it into an inkwell. Without taking her eyes off Mike, Moira scrawled her name at the bottom of the paper. Her hand flung the pen away as she turned to face the man in the doorway.
“There, it's done,” she told him, head held high.
His grin was lopsided. "Lily, we'll borrow your bedroom this night. I'm paying a hundred dollars to your new employee for the privilege of spending the night with her."
"You wouldn't dare,” Moira snapped.
"Och, and wouldn't I now?” He laughed and moved on her. Moira retreated slowly, backing toward the rear stair doorway. Then Mike was on her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her to one side while he threw wide the door. Over his shoulder he said, "If she yells a little, don't be alarmed, Lily girl. It's only manners I'll be teaching her."
He slammed the door on an open-mouthed Egyptian.
Moira fought every step of the way but she was held like a child. "Mike, please—let me go. I don't want to—"
"I'm buying you this night, Moira. It's the only thing a Canal Street woman understands. It's time you learned it. Money and a man—or maybe I should have said, a man for money."
"You're hateful! You're like a—like some awful beast.”
Mike was moving toward the open bedroom door. The woman in his arms was soft and warm, sweetly perfumed. She fought him, but her frantic squirmings only added to his hunger for her flesh.
"Mike, you must be joking. You've never been like this before. You were always sweet and gentle. Even that night on the barge, you were considerate. It's why I fell in love with you."
Amusement rumbled into laughter within him. "Love? What do you mean by that word, Moira Creegan? A woman in love will marry her man, and be proud to do it. But not you. I don't think you know the meaning of the word.”
He stepped into the sitting room and crossed the thick Turkish rug to drop her on the Belter sofa. With legs spread, he glowered down at her. "So if you won't come to me for love, you'll come to me for money."
"I came to you on the barge, Mike," she reminded him, leaning forward, a hand outstretched pleadingly.
"Ah, and did you now? I have a recollection it was to thank me for your passage from Rome to Buffalo. You said something about it, I mind, as we played together in the bunk. Christ! I came near hitting you at the time."
He locked the door, then put the key in his pocket. From his coat he took a wallet, counted out ten ten-dollar bills, and placed them on the mantelpiece. "Your fee," he told her crisply.
She flushed and came off the couch. "Mike, for the last time I'm going to appeal to your better nature. Don't do this thing to me. I've always thought we were good friends—all right, even more than that—"
“Save your breath, mavourneen," he told her.
His hands caught her shoulders and drew her to him. His lips touched her soft throat and moved down across the upper swells of her breasts. Moira felt his passionate need for her. He was a big man and heavily muscled, yet when he felt her softness against him, he trembled and his hands pressed into her smooth back.
"Show some life, girl," he growled. "A hundred dollars is a lot of money to spend on a Canal Street floozy."
"Make me," she told him calmly.
Gannon drew back and looked down at her, a queer grin twisting his lips. “So that's the way it's to be between us, is it?"
His hand bunched fingers in her thick black hair, freeing it from hairpins and combs, letting them shower down onto the rug. He shook out her hair, then gripped it tightly in his fingers, yanking back on it. Tears of pain sprang into her eyes.
"Mike, what are you doing?" she cried.
"Making you, sweetheart, as you asked."
Moira felt her neck tendons arch as her head was dragged back and back while her middle was forced forward. Her breasts lifted, pointing their stiff brown nipples at the ceiling. When she felt his lips touch them, she gave a soft cry.
"Mike! Oh, my God, Mike! I'll do it—whatever you want. Only no more of this. It makes me feel like a common streetwalker."
"You signed the paper. You said you belonged to Canal Street. I want to teach you what it means to be a Canal Street woman."
"I never knew it meant I'd be treated like this."
Her belly stirred against him, writhing gently. Mike gasped as realization came to him that Moira Creegan was enjoying his brutality, that the events of the past few days, in which she had given up her genteel way of life for the harsh reality of stripping naked before half a thousand men, required in her mind that she be punished. His hand in her hair was a part of that punishment, as was his savage manner.
His hand sought her hard breasts, gripping them tightly, one after the other. For several moments she endured the agony of his probing, before the ball of need in her middle burst its bonds. A wail of sound lifted from her open mouth. The breath rasped in her throat and became a harsh panting.
"Mike, you bastard! I never thought you'd ever be like this. But I don't mind. I really don't. I like to be handled this way. I never knew I did but it's true. I'll be your Canal Street woman if you want it this way between us. I will, I promise I will. I'll give you your money's worth. Oh, Mike, Mike...."
She was babbling words but Mike was certain she would never remember what she was saying. He was punishing her for the evil things she had done, and she was telling him how grateful she was, no more.
Then she lifted her hands to his face, stroking his cheeks. As his hand eased its grip in her thick black hair, she came hard against him, arms around his neck, open mouth hunting his lips hungrily, voraciously. He shook to the thrust of her tongue.
"Darling, darling," she whimpered. "Do you really like me to be a harlot? I don't mind at all. I've forgotten what it was like to be a gentlewoman. I'm Mike Gannon's Canal Street woman.”
His hand caught the shoulder straps of the black nightgown and yanked them down. Her breasts burst into view, big and white, with turgid nipples betraying her need. She smiled as he bent to kiss her. Her eyelids flickered as she felt the touch of his tongue. She gasped and cried out softly.
"You, Mike. Take your clothes off. Please? Here—let me."
She moved her fingers lightly over him so that his shirt and coat came off together. His belt buckle was undone. Her hands pushed at his trousers. When he was naked, she stepped out of her nightgown and held her arms out to him.
They came together in an explosion of need, forgetting time and identity in this gasping delirium. His hands sought her breasts, lifting them to his caresses. Gently his palms stroked her hips, her thighs. She gave him her own hands, as if to rouse him to a further madness. Her soft cries blended with his labored breathing. And then as they collapsed across the Belter sofa they joined one another in a timeless, ecstatic crucible of sheer sensation.
Much later they sought the bed in the next room and here again Mike drew her to him, kissing and caressing her until she moaned for him to take her again.
"I never meant all those things I said and did,” he whispered into her ear, nuzzling a path through the thick black hair.
"I know, I know," she soothed him. “You gave me the treasure of your love and you thought I was pulling it through mud. I understand, my darling. But you've got to understand me, too. I must be independent, by any means at all. I'm going to care for my baby. I've got to stand on my own feet. If the only way I can do it is by taking my clothes off downstairs before all those men—then I have to do it that way...."
His kisses on her loose mouth halted her words. She gasped and clung to him. "Mike, I love you. I do—just as much as you love me. But I must be a person, can't you see? Because of what happened in Rome, I have to strike out for myself. Something inside is making me."
"I'll try," he whispered, moving closer to her warmth. "I will try, Moira. I promise. Only for now, be still. Only let your body speak to me."
The night closed in and united them in pleasure.
Morning sunlight woke Moira Creegan. She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling of the bedroom for a little while before memory came to her. Rising on an elbow she bent over Mike, smiling tenderly as he slept on. She wanted to wake him. Her hand stretched out. And then she drew it back, blowing him a kiss with her fingertips, sliding naked from the bed and walking toward her clothes in the adjoining bathroom.
Bathed and dressed she moved past the bed where Mike still slept so soundly, tiptoeing now so as not to wake him. In the hallway, as she came through the kitchen, she heard hard voices in the big room. Curious, she opened the swinging door and stared out. A big man with black hair faced The Egyptian. A gold watch chain crossed his checkered vest. An unlit cigar was in his fingers as he gestured.
"I'll find him, Lily. It'll go easier on you if you play the game with me. Now for the last time—where's Gannon?"
Almost of its own volition, her hand pushed the door wide. "Mike Gannon?” Moira asked. “He's been gone for hours. I'd guess he left somewhere around four this morning."
They turned and considered her. Black John Bennett was scowling darkly. "Who're you?” he asked bluntly.
The Egyptian made a little gesture. "My new entertainer, John. If you'd been here last night you'd have seen her. She's going to be very popular along Big Ditch Street. Mike Gannon bought her favors for the night."
A long moment the big Irishman ran his hard eyes over Moira Creegan. She could read no emotion behind those eyes; it was as if he had drawn a curtain over them. She felt repelled by his stare, and now she could understand why Mike so despised and hated this man.
"He paid me a hundred dollars,” she said suddenly.
Bennett grunted and turned away. He said to The Egyptian, "He'll be back to see her again. Next time, I'll be here."
"You keep your feuds outside The Mummy Case, John Bennett," the dusky woman said. "I won't have you making my place your battleground.”
"He burned my offices down, early last night. I'll pay him back for that if it's the last thing I ever do. Anywhere I find him. Remember it, Lily."
He walked out of the saloon and into the early morning sunlight. Moira pursed her lips thoughtfully. This feud between Black John and her Mike was something no man or woman could prevent. It must run its course. If it drew Moira Creegan into its wild maelstrom of hate and violence, that was just too bad for Moira Creegan.
She shivered, running a hand up and down her arm.
Despite the glum attitude of Mike Gannon, Moira discovered as the days went by that she was growing quite content to be a Canal Street woman. Every night she took off her clothes before a crowded house, but once a week she hired a gig and drove to the Buffalo Savings Bank where she deposited an even one hundred dollars. Then she always drove on to the Jennings' boarding house to see Kathleen.
Kneeling, holding her sobbing child in her yearning arms, she knew that she was doing the right thing. She did not mind letting men see her body anymore. The night with Mike in The Egyptian's sitting room had purged her of a sense of guilt. Besides she was doing it all for Kathy. She hugged her little girl and her smile was radiant as she told her that she planned to take her off on a picnic this afternoon to Jefferson Park.
"The child's an angel," Bertha Jennings enthused, accepting the three dollars which was the weekly fee for Kathleen's food and lodging. "I declare, I look on her as my own." The woman hesitated then added, "She needs a mother, Mrs. Creegan. I know it's really none of my affair but—"
Moira nodded, smiling sweetly. “It isn't any of your affair, Mrs. Jennings. My husband is dead. My job requires that I travel constantly. I can only squeeze out these weekend visits. Believe me, if I could spend all my time with my baby, I would."
There was such a yearning in her voice that Bertha Jennings knew pity. She nodded and pressed a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. "I understand, dear. I try to take your place, you know, but it isn't the same. It really isn't.”
They would go on their picnic, or sometimes it might be a drive in a gig out into the nearby countryside, to look at farm animals. Wherever it was, for a little while Moira could forget she was a Canal Street performer and revel in her role of mother. With Kathy, she could forget The Mummy Case.
Frenchy Duval was waiting for her outside her dressing room door, turning a watch fob around and around with his fingers, his eyes roving over her body. He had been leaning against the wall; he straightened as she approached and made her a little bow.
"I'll pay you two hundred simoleons a week, honey," he breathed. "I'm tired of seeing the crowds come into The Mummy Case night after night. I want those crowds spending money at my place."
Moira smiled at the small Frenchman. Two hundred dollars a week. Why, that was a fortune in these days when a girl could buy a fashionable summer straw hat for only seventy-five cents and a dress for less than five dollars! Her heart began to pump excitedly. With two hundred dollars a week she could send Kathleen abroad to be educated and lay aside a small fortune for a dowry
"Two hundred and fifty," a deeper voice said from the shadows of the hall. Moira swung around to see heavy-set Tank Andrews advancing on her, curiously light on his feet for all his bulk, showing his gold teeth in a wide, oily smile. His pudgy hand went to his hat, lifting it.
"Evening, ma'am. I overheard Frenchy making his pitch. I wanted to tell you, anything he offers, I'll go fifty dollars higher.”
"Oh, dear,” murmured Moira, staring from one to the other.
High heels sounded on the bare wooden floor. The Egyptian swept up with a swish of taffeta skirts, inclining her head a little to both men. "It seems I have to be everywhere these nights to keep my girls. What is it now, Tank? Frenchy?”
"We're after this girl, none of the others,” rasped Duval.
"And we're prepared to pay her, jointly—she can spend one week at The Yellow Rose, one week at The Sidewalk Cafe, eh, Frenchy?—the princely sum of three hundred dollars per week. Match that, Lily.”
The Egyptian opened her mouth. She looked at Moira, then at the two men. Her smile was tight with restrained rage. "You both know what you're doing, of course. You're driving me out of business."
The little Frenchman shrugged his shoulders with elaborate politeness. "Oui, we know very well. You're doing the same thing to us. Business has fallen off to a whisper since this belle putaine has been slipping into her silk nightie on your stage. We want our trade back. And yours with it, if it has to be that way.”
Moira hugged her gown to her bosom, eyes touching the two men and the frightened, angry Egyptian. Three hundred dollars a week? It was unbelievable! She wondered what The Egyptian would do.
And then she found herself taking a step forward, saying, "Lily has already made me a better offer than that, haven't you, honey?”
The idea had come to her out of the blue. It would be a step upward in her social status here on Canal Street if The Egyptian would agree to her plan. Three hundred a week? She could make five hundred, maybe a thousand. It all depended on the frowning woman who was staring at her in puzzlement.
As if she sensed the help Moira offered, Lily nodded. “That's right, boys. I did make her an offer. She said she wanted time to think it over."
“Will you do better than three-century notes?" sneered the heavy-set Andrews. "Frenchy and I can do it only by pooling our money."
Moira smiled. “Lily offered me a partnership."
The Frenchman stared blankly, “A partnership? You mean she's actually turning over half of—ah, I don't believe it."
"Come on, Frenchy,” Tank Andrews said. "We'll sit back and wait out developments.” He moved toward the alley door, then turned with a flourish. "Your good health, ladies. Let me know a few weeks from now how you're getting along. Maybe Frenchy and I will get the stripper yet-at a somewhat reduced rate, of course, when The Mummy Case goes bust.”
Frenchy Duval shifted uneasily, lifted his hands expressively, and went after him with rapid, mincing strides.
The Egyptian drew a deep breath. "You think just because you got me with my rump in a sling you can ask any thing and get it."
Moira hardly heard her. She was hugging her gown, eyes dreaming. "Oh, relax, Lily. The idea came from nowhere but I've been standing here thinking about it. A partnership wouldn't be so bad—but we'd have to do something about The Case. Redecorate, for one thing. Buy the house next door and enlarge.”
"Are you crazy?" the dusky woman howled.
"No, no. Listen, come into my room. I think we have hold of a gold mine. Oh, come on—will it hurt you to listen?”
The Egyptian pouted sullenly, but she went into the tiny dressing room and watched as Moira tossed her clothes over a standing screen and sat down at her vanity bench. For a moment she fluffed her thick black hair, then swung around to look at Lily.
"There were some very well-dressed men in here tonight, weren't there?"
Lily shrugged casually. "We get them from time to time. There's been more than usual lately. I guess that's on account of you. Some of them are important people bankers, newspaper editors, stock brokers, real estate men.”
Moira leaned forward excitedly. "That's just my point. We'll redecorate The Mummy Case and give it another name. Something elegant, to attract the posh trade. But for the toffs we have a separate room, a place where they can be safe from the cruder element."
The Egyptian bit her lower lip. Against her will and contrary to her own better judgment, she found herself responding to the excitement of the other woman. A sin palace for the society swells, as part of the refurbished Mummy Case. She was woman of the world enough to know that men were the same when it came to women, whether they wore patched pants or evening clothes. The only difference was in their approach. She was making a good living from The Case, of course, but the society men had the money, no doubt of that; they would order champagne and Scotch, not beer or cheap whiskey. And there was money in liquor.
"Goddamn you, Moira," she said affectionately. "I was enjoying my life until you got me all stirred up about this idea of yours."
“You like it, then?”
"Hell, yes. Who wouldn't? We'd have a chance to be big—really big. But what a lot of work it will be! Two establishments to buy for, to supervise."
"More girls to hire, more accounts to be made out, more food and more liquor to be bought—but a lot more money to be made.” Moira pondered. "We'd have to have cards printed, of course—passports to our society section. We'd have to sign them and pick and choose the men among whom to distribute them. No riffraff behind the velvet ropes, Lily. Only high society. Men with money to spend."
The Egyptian frowned. "Could you do a couple of shows a night? One for the main room, one for this other place?”
Moira stretched white arms high above her head. "For money, Lily, I can do anything." She lowered her arms and held out her hand. "Is it a deal—partner?”
The Egyptian caught her hand and squeezed it.
Business went on as usual at The Mummy Case. Only during the day was there frenzied activity as hordes of carpenters and plumbers, interior decorators and mechanics invaded the premises. By offering a bonus to every workingman, Moira got the job done. There were no lay-offs, no work stoppages. Not a single complaint was heard about coming into Canal Street to do a job. If they did their work within a two-week period, there was an extra bonus.
At first The Egyptian objected to this lavish spending but when she became aware that a dollar spent now might mean ten or twenty dollars a month from now, she grew more demanding than Moira. She would spend hours in the Annex, as they called the house they had taken over, watching walls being knocked down to permit the extension of hallways, supervising the building and furnishings of small rooms where rich clients might take some of the entertainers, if they were so inclined.
Moira had a suite of rooms made for herself in the new building which duplicated those of The Egyptian. She let interior decorators furnish it, too busy to check materials and color effects. The nights were taken up with her act and with projected new ones, since she reasoned that regular customers might grow tired of seeing her against a bedroom background all the time. Her days were filled with the sounds of hammering and sawing.
From time to time the women met and exchanged ideas.
The Annex was to have walls covered with red brocade and gilded woodwork. Its floor was to be tiled. A gigantic mirror was installed along the wall behind the bar. There would be no oil painting of a nude woman—too many saloons were so decorated. The décor was sedate, with elegance its keynote. A toff from fashionable Niagara Square or Dele ware Avenue must be made to feel at home here so that he might indulge his whims against a background with which he was completely familiar. A man must be comfortable before he felt like sinning.
Cards were printed in black lettering on gold paper. Both Moira and The Egyptian inked their names on each individual card. They sent word into the city above The Terrace that these cards would be distributed among influential, well-to-do gentlemen only. The response appalled even Lily. "I never guessed there were so many bored men in Buffalo," she commented, and began to dream of greater wealth.
"All we need now is an opening night attraction," Moira murmured thoughtfully. "I've been playing around with a different act for the old stage. I thought I might put it on as a sort of tryout, to see what kind of reception it gets.”
“What kind of act?” asked Lily.
Moira winked. "I want you to be surprised, honey. That way you can give me an honest opinion.'
The name of the new entertainment palace was to be The Golden Tassel. A huge chandelier of gilded glass in the shape of a mighty tassel dominated the huge main room. The motif was repeated in the wall woodwork, along the seventy-foot mahogany bar, and on the mirrors. It was to be a kind of trademark. Moira wanted to work it into her act but she could not think of a way, as yet.
"I'll put on my tryout act tonight on the old stage. Be sure to catch it. Let me know what you think of it," she said to The Egyptian.
The grand opening was two nights away.
Morgan Davies found The Mummy Case entirely by accident.
He was in Buffalo on a legal matter, representing the firm of Davies, Summerville and Atkins for his Uncle Phineas. A young man in his early twenties, recently out of Harvard Law School, he intended to specialize in corporation law. For some time he had been considering making a break with the firm and striking out for himself. Rome was too small for the kind of legal work he had in mind, so he was combining personal with firm business while in Buffalo, making inquiries around the city to learn what opportunities might be available for his immediate future.
No libertine, he was nevertheless inclined to kick over the traces every once in a while. He had heard of Canal Street and the vices it offered for money. Discreet mention of its name brought amused smiles and fatherly advice from the older lawyers he was visiting.
He ignored the advice as he ignored the smiles.
Dusk lay across the canal as Morgan Davies wandered the cobble-stoned length of Big Ditch Street. His eyes were drawn to one establishment after another, but he rejected them all. He came opposite The Mummy Case just as a brougham drew up and three men dressed as neatly as himself stepped out, paid the driver and walked in through the glass doors.
Morgan Davies pondered. The Mummy Case seemed all right. The three young men who had just entered were his own kind. If this place was acceptable to them, it must rank as a better sort of saloon. Certainly it would do no harm to enter it, if only for a beer.
The bartender was friendly. As he pushed a frothing glass across the bar top, he said, "Show goes on in a few minutes. Moira's putting on a new act tonight. Place is pretty jammed but you might find room if you act fast.”
"She pretty?”
"We don't get crowds like this for no old hag, that's for sure. Go on, take a look. Maybe you'll like her enough to come back again.”
Carrying his refilled beer mug, he moved toward the stage hall. The place was crowded, all right. Must be upwards of five hundred men packed in at the tables. But luck was with him. He found an empty chair a dozen feet from the stage.
He sipped his beer and when that was done he ordered a pitcher. The gas lamps were being lowered—the orchestra began to play. A thrill of excitement chased down his spine in response to the obvious electricity in the air.
The curtain went back with a faint swish of material.
The stage showed a bathing beach, with painted water in the background. A bathing wagon had been placed in the middle of the stage—a four-wheeled cart which could be rented at beaches for bathers to change in. The entire wall facing the audience had been cut away, giving a perfect view into the interior.
A woman walked onto the stage, parasol twirling in her fingers, smiling faintly. She was dressed in the height of fashion, in a somewhat tight princess dress which hugged her full bosom and slim waist, the skirt of which was gathered by a drapery between knees and high-buttoned shoes. Her heavy black hair was coiffed high on her head. The woman paused a moment, staring at the painted backdrop as if considering a dip in the inviting ocean waters.
Then she ran lightly across the stage to the wooden steps of the bathing cart, collapsing her parasol as she went.
Morgan Davies had risen half out of his chair.
“Sit down there," somebody yelled.
“Of course, of course. Sorry," young Davies muttered.
Dazed, he sank back into his seat. The woman in the bathing cart was nobody else but Mrs. Creegan. Moira, the barkeep had said. Certainly! Mrs. Moira Creegan. He had seen her often enough at society gatherings in Rome. She and her husband had been to his parents' home more than once. He had even listened while she played the piano.
Now she was within twenty feet of him and
Morgan Davies swallowed. His throat was very dry. She was unbuttoning the princess dress down the back. God in heaven! Did she mean to take off her clothes right here in public, in full view of five hundred men? He could not believe it.
This was like peeping into the window of a neighbor's house and watching the lady of the house removing her garments. Realization burst on him belatedly that this was exactly the suggestion Mrs. Creegan was making on the stage. He and the other men with him were permitted to see a woman preparing to put on her bathing suit, one of those awkward woolen affairs that would so effectively hide her from throat to knees.
The princess dress, was being pushed down to her hips, revealing the fact that she was wearing a thin linen chemise with white lace on its shoulder straps and at the bodice. Under the linen her full breasts moved loosely, quivering to the movements of her bare arms. First one stockinged leg and then the other was raised to permit her to step from the crumpled dress. The chemise clung tightly to her hips; as she bent over, her buttocks pressed into the tight material, printing their outline for all to see.
Morgan Davies felt the room and the men in it slip away. He was aware only of Mrs. Creegan in the bathing cart as she stretched her arms high above her head and wriggled a little in delight at being free of the tight confines of the princess dress. He had always assumed himself to be a respectable young man. Watching a woman remove her clothing was exciting enough, but when he knew that woman personally, not as a public entertainer but as the respected wife of a now-deceased client, excitement was a mild word for the delight which flooded him. It was almost as if he were enjoying an assignation with her in the bath cart.
The lace-edged shoulder straps came down her arms. Then she lowered the chemise to her middle, baring the magnificent white breasts with their full, rounded nipples. She crossed the cart like that, her naked breasts shaking ripely, to lift down a woolen bathing suit from the wooden wall peg where it had hung. She came back across the room, humming faintly.
Morgan Davies wondered what Elvira Tomkins and Martha Creegan would say to the news that their sister-in-law was putting on an indecent performance in the city of Buffalo. Lately they had been coming into the office with demands that Davies, Summerville and Atkins locate Moira Creegan and institute proceedings against her so they could take little Kathleen away from her.
The hell with Elvira Tomkins and Martha Creegan! I refuse to work for the firm during off hours, when my time's my own. And how better might I spend it—since I came down to Canal Street on the prowl for excitement—than by watching respectable Mrs. Creegan taking off her clothes?
Moira was pushing the chemise past her hips. Now her back was turned to the audience, naked except for black silk stockings and high-buttoned shoes. She shook out her chemise and folded it carefully. There was no sound in the big room as she turned and lifted the bathing outfit, holding it up as if to gauge its size.
The orchestra was playing muted music.
One white leg lifted to thrust into the bathing suit, and then the other. Bit by bit those shapely legs were disappearing behind gray cotton. She was wriggling sinuously, tugging the suit past her hips and on upward to veil the heavy breasts.
Buttoning the shoulder straps, she opened the door and ran lightly down the cart steps and across the stage to the wings. As she disappeared, the big room exploded with sound. Men yelled and clapped, whistling shrilly. Their heavy brogans drummed the floor. Morgan Davies yelled right along with them, standing now and waving an empty beer mug over his head.
The Egyptian threw her arms about a smiling Moira Creegan.
"Darling, you were utterly sensational! If anything, it was better than the bedroom scene. There wasn't even any standing room left. Did you notice?"
"I was too busy concentrating on what I was doing. I wanted to be a woman preparing for a swim, not just act like one."
"You were. Oh, you were! Listen to them!”
"I don't know, though. I don't think it's quite right for The Golden Tassel. We want something a little different, something with well, the only word I can think of is 'class'. Something in the grand manner."
"All I can say is, if you can top your performance tonight, I'll buy drinks for the house out of my own pocket.”
Moira patted her cheek. "Angel! Can't talk anymore. Got to go take a bow. See you later.”
She ran out onto the stage and blew kisses to her audience, smiling down into their upturned faces. A few short months ago she would have died with shame for what she had done tonight in front of them. Repetition brought its own anodyne. She guessed she was growing tougher, here in Canal Street. She was no longer the helpless widow. She was able to stand on her own two feet now.
For a moment, as her eyes ran over the audience, she thought her heart might stop. One face seemed to leap out at her. Morgan Davies.
A swirl of men went past him, hiding him from view. She told herself she must be mistaken. A fine young man like Morgan Davies would never enter a place like The Mummy Case. She must be mistaken! The young man she had seen bore a startling resemblance to Phineas Davies' nephew, that was all.
She turned and ran off the stage, suddenly frightened.