downtown?”
“I’ll think about it.” She gestured to the little bank official. “Don’t bother to see me out. But if you hear something—”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Keith. I’ll be in touch.” Heisinger’s smile of farewell faded as the door closed behind Kay. For a long moment he sat there listening to the receding clatter of her footsteps in the hall beyond.
Then he reached for the phone.
Kay picked up the phone in her apartment and dialed her answering service. There was a message waiting—call the Colbin Agency.
She did, and Max Colbin was his usual charming self.
“Where the hell you been?” he greeted her. “Never mind with the explanations, it’s noon already and you’re due at two.”
“Due where?”
“1726 South Normandie. The Starry Wisdom Temple.”
“The what—”
“Starry Wisdom Temple. One of those freak outfits, advertises in the shopping throwaways. They want somebody for straight head-and-shoulders stuff—no high fashion, no jewelry, just street clothes. Bedard’s already talked to them and if you get it he’ll handle the shooting. But they’d like to see you first.”
Kay sighed. “Couldn’t you just show them the album? You know how I hate these auditions.”
“Look baby, your end is three bills for an hour session, plus the usual step-up if it goes into overtime. For that you can suffer a little, so just get on down there. Ask for Reverend Nye.”
It was exactly two o’clock when Kay’s car pulled up and slid into the vacant parking slot in front of 1726 South Normandie. But for a moment she hesitated before dropping her dime into the meter.
The large wooden sign above the wide doorway of the two-story building plainly read Starry Wisdom Temple, but it was obviously a recent addition, as were the heavy red drapes covering the big windows on either side of the entrance. Kay guessed that the stone structure had formerly been a temple of Mammon—most likely a local savings and loan establishment that had vacated a neighborhood no longer considered worth saving or loaning to.
But someone inside had three hundred dollars to spend for a one-hour stint. Duty called, and Kay dropped her dime.
Duty calls. Is that the way a call-girl feels about her assignments? Driving up to a strange address to keep an appointment with a strange man who will rent her body for three bills an hour?
Moving up to the doorway, Kay reminded herself that there’s a difference between photography and pornography, at least in degree. Of course she’d had her share of passes and propositions; it was, after all, an occupational hazard in the profession. But she didn’t do lingerie shots or nudes, and so far there’d never been any real problem. Voyeurs, weirdos who were into S-M and bondage no longer hired models; they did their shopping in local massage parlors or even the corner tavern.
Kay smiled self-consciously. How quickly she’d become inured to her present life-style! If Albert knew what I was thinking he’d turn over in his grave.
Her smile faded as swiftly as it had come. Albert would never know anything again, and he wasn’t even in a grave. He was thousands of miles away, thousands of feet below the sea, and the fish—
Quickly Kay tugged at the doorknob. It held firm; the door was locked. Perhaps this was an omen and she could leave now with a clear conscience. Then, ready to turn away, she saw the buzzer set beside the door frame. Duty calls.
She pressed the buzzer and waited.
A chime sounded faintly from somewhere within the building. A sharp click of the lock echoed in response.
Kay grasped the knob; it turned now and the door opened. She stepped into a dark entryway extending to a curtained inner chamber. Beside it, to her left, a stairwell slanted upward. From above a male voice sounded.
“Mrs. Keith?”
“Yes.”
“Please come up.”
A light flooded the stairway.
Kay climbed the flight, peering ahead for a glimpse of the man who had called her. But the
“I’ll think about it.” She gestured to the little bank official. “Don’t bother to see me out. But if you hear something—”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Keith. I’ll be in touch.” Heisinger’s smile of farewell faded as the door closed behind Kay. For a long moment he sat there listening to the receding clatter of her footsteps in the hall beyond.
Then he reached for the phone.
Kay picked up the phone in her apartment and dialed her answering service. There was a message waiting—call the Colbin Agency.
She did, and Max Colbin was his usual charming self.
“Where the hell you been?” he greeted her. “Never mind with the explanations, it’s noon already and you’re due at two.”
“Due where?”
“1726 South Normandie. The Starry Wisdom Temple.”
“The what—”
“Starry Wisdom Temple. One of those freak outfits, advertises in the shopping throwaways. They want somebody for straight head-and-shoulders stuff—no high fashion, no jewelry, just street clothes. Bedard’s already talked to them and if you get it he’ll handle the shooting. But they’d like to see you first.”
Kay sighed. “Couldn’t you just show them the album? You know how I hate these auditions.”
“Look baby, your end is three bills for an hour session, plus the usual step-up if it goes into overtime. For that you can suffer a little, so just get on down there. Ask for Reverend Nye.”
It was exactly two o’clock when Kay’s car pulled up and slid into the vacant parking slot in front of 1726 South Normandie. But for a moment she hesitated before dropping her dime into the meter.
The large wooden sign above the wide doorway of the two-story building plainly read Starry Wisdom Temple, but it was obviously a recent addition, as were the heavy red drapes covering the big windows on either side of the entrance. Kay guessed that the stone structure had formerly been a temple of Mammon—most likely a local savings and loan establishment that had vacated a neighborhood no longer considered worth saving or loaning to.
But someone inside had three hundred dollars to spend for a one-hour stint. Duty called, and Kay dropped her dime.
Duty calls. Is that the way a call-girl feels about her assignments? Driving up to a strange address to keep an appointment with a strange man who will rent her body for three bills an hour?
Moving up to the doorway, Kay reminded herself that there’s a difference between photography and pornography, at least in degree. Of course she’d had her share of passes and propositions; it was, after all, an occupational hazard in the profession. But she didn’t do lingerie shots or nudes, and so far there’d never been any real problem. Voyeurs, weirdos who were into S-M and bondage no longer hired models; they did their shopping in local massage parlors or even the corner tavern.
Kay smiled self-consciously. How quickly she’d become inured to her present life-style! If Albert knew what I was thinking he’d turn over in his grave.
Her smile faded as swiftly as it had come. Albert would never know anything again, and he wasn’t even in a grave. He was thousands of miles away, thousands of feet below the sea, and the fish—
Quickly Kay tugged at the doorknob. It held firm; the door was locked. Perhaps this was an omen and she could leave now with a clear conscience. Then, ready to turn away, she saw the buzzer set beside the door frame. Duty calls.
She pressed the buzzer and waited.
A chime sounded faintly from somewhere within the building. A sharp click of the lock echoed in response.
Kay grasped the knob; it turned now and the door opened. She stepped into a dark entryway extending to a curtained inner chamber. Beside it, to her left, a stairwell slanted upward. From above a male voice sounded.
“Mrs. Keith?”
“Yes.”
“Please come up.”
A light flooded the stairway.
Kay climbed the flight, peering ahead for a glimpse of the man who had called her. But the
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