Jazz Age Ch. 03

Chapter Three: Sometimes I'm Happy

Late in the morning Frank Tucker sat in Longchamps nursing a hangover that he hadn't quite chased away yet. He had no idea why he was in Longchamps. He remembered coming out of his hotel about an hour ago with the idea of getting some fresh air. He'd walked south on Fifth Avenue until he thought it might be a good thing to eat something, and now here he was in Longchamps of all places.

Then a slight twinge in his head reminded him that he'd be better off not thinking so much about where he was sitting. What difference did it make if he was in Longchamps or some other place? Longchamps was perfectly respectable, wasn't it? He'd had some scrambled eggs and bacon and now he was drinking his coffee. This was maybe the fifth cup of coffee he'd had this morning and he wondered if the coffee did him any good.

He thought of the night before. The memory of the night before came back slowly. He'd started remembering earlier that morning, but when he first awakened after a night on the town his memory was always dim. Now he could remember more. He'd fallen in with a party of Yale boys and two floozies from Jersey City. They sang songs in the street. They had a drink in a speakeasy, sang a song in the street, then ducked into another speakeasy and had another drink. The Yale boys called him Old Man and they made him tell them stories about his days in New Haven before the war. Well what could you say about Yale before the war? Yale before the war was just about the same as Yale after the war. Of course he'd never finished at Yale, but he didn't tell them that. He knew as much about the damn college as they did anyway. He told them stories about the war and his days in Paris. Oo la la Gay Paree. After the war he never returned to Yale.

Jesus Christ his head was hurting again. It's a punishment, Frank thought. He was being punished once again for the mess he'd made of his life. The country was in the middle of a great boom and everyone he knew was making loads of money, but all he had to show for it was a nearly empty account at one broker and a sizeable debt to another broker. The fact was he was almost broke. Not quite but almost. The only consolation was that he was certain in a short time the boom would go bust and some of his rich friends would be in the same position he was in. He had the distinction of arriving early, that's all. Too much margin at the brokers, too many bloated bonds, too much faith in the German steel industry, too much interest in all the hot tips being batted around town. Three years ago he'd had nearly a hundred thousand dollars in cash and now his assets amounted to little more than a wardrobe of decent clothes and a broken down Lincoln limousine that needed a chauffeur he couldn't afford.

The bust will come, Frank thought. All the Yale boys would be crying. The men like Charlie Desmond that he'd known at Yale would be crying along with the boys. Or maybe Charlie was one of the clever ones. Yes, Charlie was one of the clever ones and he'd manage to avoid catastrophe. Then Frank shuddered as it occurred to him that if a bust did come he'd be worse off than he was now. Well maybe he'd go to live with his old aunt in Albany. He had no one else. Maybe he ought to visit her one of these days just to make sure there was an open door there for him if he ever needed it. Albany wasn't that bad. Oh hell, he hadn't seen his aunt since he'd said goodby to her before he left for France. He couldn't live in Albany anyway. How can anyone live in Albany? No one in the world can live in Albany since living in Albany is impossible. He looked around the room, this large room in Longchamps, and he wondered if anyone was here from Albany.

He did see one person he knew, a woman sitting with another woman at a table near a window. He'd thought she was in London. Her name was Mrs. Reginald Wingrave and he thought she'd moved to London after the death of her husband a year ago. Was it really Mrs. Wingrave? He stared at her as she sat talking to the other woman. He could see only part of her face, but he was certain it was Charlotte Wingrave. She might be living in London and only visiting New York. People do get homesick, don't they? No doubt Mrs. Wingrave had returned to New York to visit some of her friends. Yes, that was Mrs. Wingrave all right. She had the same hairdo, the same brown hair streaked with grey, the same aging pink face. He had no idea how old she was, but she had to be past fifty. She was a handsome woman and before the war she'd had some success as an actress.

Well what of it? Frank thought. He felt a twinge in his head again. He stared at Mrs. Wingrave because there seemed nothing else worth looking at. He didn't know her that well. In fact Mrs. Wingrave would probably say that she didn't know him at all. But he did know her. He'd met her at more than one party in the Desmond house and he did know something about her. What he did know was that she'd inherited a small fortune from her dead British husband.

You won't succeed, he thought.

But he continued to stare at her and before long it was clear to him that he'd make the attempt. He'd make the attempt because he was at the end of his rope and he had no idea that seemed better than this one.

* * *

That evening Frank went to the Rendezvous Club on West Fifty- second Street. He found Tony Provo, the man who ran the club, at his usual table near the bar.

"Well look who's here," Tony said. "It's my friend Mr. Tucker."

"Hello Tony."

"Hello yourself, Mr. Tucker. Why don't you sit down and have one on me? Hey Mike, bring us a double Scotch for Mr. Tucker. Sit down, sit down."

"Nice to see you again, Tony."

"And it's nice to see you. How've you been? Everything copacetic? You look good. I wish I could wear clothes like you wear clothes. You wear clothes like a movie star."

Frank chuckled. "I wish I had a movie star's money."

"Like Jolson, huh?"

"Yes, like Jolson."

"Jolson's money and Ruby Keeler and that big car. Did you see that picture in the paper? Hell, I don't like the guy anyway, he don't sing nothing Italian."

"Maybe you ought to ask him."

"Ha ha. That's a good one."

"Speaking of money, Tony, I've come to ask for a favor."

"What do you need? If it's money it's no problem."

"I need five thousand."

"That much? Well okay, why not? How about ten per cent a week?"

"Oh boy."

"All right, you're a gentleman I'll charge you five per cent a week."

"Thanks, Tony."

Then the club hostess, Texas Guinan, came by with two chorus girls. "Well if it isn't tall dark and handsome," Texas said.

"Hello Texas."

Texas Guinan smiled and turned to the two chorus girls behind her. "Girls, I want you to meet Mr. Frank Tucker, the Sheik of Park Avenue."

The girls giggled.

"Hello Mr. Tucker, I'm Carol."

"Hello Mr. Tucker, I'm Sally."

He looked at Sally. She looked back at him and blushed.

"Sally what?" he said.

"Sally Rich."

"I'll remember it."

Texas Guinan laughed. "See, what did I tell you? Introduce him to a girl and she's already in his tent."

* * *

Frank had no trouble learning that Mrs. Wingrave was staying at the Plaza. At noon the next day he was in the lobby waiting for her when she came down in the elevator from her suite.

"Why Mrs. Wingrave, how nice to see you again."

She turned and looked at him. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"Don't you remember me?"

"Oh I do know you, don't I?"

"Frank Tucker."

"Yes of course, Mr. Tucker. We met at the Peabody house, didn't we?"

"The Desmond house."

"Oh yes, the Desmond house. Nancy Desmond's house. Yes yes, I do remember you. Will you have some lunch? I was just going inside to have some lunch."

"What a nice idea, Mrs. Wingrave."

In a few minutes they were seated at a table in the hotel grille. They both ordered madrilene and lobster thermidor. After the waiter took the order and left, they talked about the Desmonds, and then about some other people they knew, and then about Mrs. Wingrave's absence from New York. She finally smiled at him and said:

"Well, it's nice to have someone with me at lunch. I don't like eating alone."

"You shouldn't ever. You're too attractive to eat alone."

"Bosh, I'm not that young any more."

"But still attractive. In fact, extremely attractive."

Mrs. Wingrave smiled. "I think you're flirting with me."

"Am I? Please forgive me."

"No I won't, you silly man, I like it. Do you make a habit of flirting with women old enough to be your mother?"

"You're not that old."

"I should think I am."

Then the food arrived and for some time the conversation remained as bland as the soup. It was only after the main course was finished that Frank again played his hand. After a comment or two about some of the new speakeasy clubs that had opened, he boldly invited her to a night on the town with him.

Mrs. Wingrave seemed amused. "Oh dear," she said.

"You've done it before, haven't you?"

"Of course I have. With poor Reggie."

"Well then."

She gave him a long look, her eyes searching his face.

"Come have tea with me tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Upstairs in my suite, of course. I'll expect you at three."

* * *

Mrs. Wingrave received Frank with a smile the next afternoon at three o'clock. She had a corner suite, an enormous living room and an adjoining bedroom. A vase filled with red roses sat on a table near one of the windows.

"It's comfortable," she said. "Thank goodness it's high enough to make the traffic in the street bearable."

She wore a pale blue silk negligee with a black velvet collar, the negligee tightly belted in a way that emphasized the ample curves of her bosom and hips. Her figure was more appropriate to the fashion before the war, but she seemed unconcerned by that. The hem of the negligee almost covered her ankles. She wore dark blue slippers and on the front of each slipper was a pale blue pom-pom.

Frank found himself wondering if she was naked under the negligee. Except for the stockings, of course. Her ankles showed the stockings, dark stockings of the finest silk.

He could smell her perfume. Maybe there was too much of it. She chattered at length about some people they knew, but all he could think of was the smell of violets.

"Call me Charlotte, won't you?"

Her eyes were never steady. She looked at him, looked at the room, looked at the windows, looked at him again. She was nervous, of course. He expected she wasn't certain of his interest in her. A woman her age hated to make a fool of herself.

The negligee had no fastenings below the knees, and as she sat beside him on the sofa and shifted her body occasionally, her legs became visible, her ankles and calves, first one leg and then the other, her legs sheathed in the fine dark silk.

He glanced at her legs from time to time as they talked. She had pretty legs and he guessed she enjoyed having them looked at. Then look at them, he thought. He looked at her legs and he looked at the rings on her fingers.

The rings were also something in fashion before the war. He wondered what the largest diamond was worth.

Well you're a rogue, he thought. Yes he was. He was an awful rogue.

They drank more and more of the Scotch he'd brought. She talked about her life in London as he moved closer to her on the sofa. The scent of violets was now much stronger.

"Oh my, I'm getting cockeyed," she said. "Do I look awful?"

"You look marvelous."

He leaned toward her and kissed her mouth.

"Oh you lovely man," she said.

He kissed her again, this time holding the kiss until she opened her lips. He felt her quiver as he slid his tongue inside her mouth. She made a sound in her throat as she moved a hand to the back of his neck and returned his kiss.

He touched her breasts for the first time, one of his hands on the front of her negligee, the hand roaming over the silk and the curves beneath it. Then he slid the hand inside her negligee to fondle one of the large globes. Her breasts were naked under the negligee, the skin warm beneath his palm.

She pulled her mouth away from his.

"You're the first man I've been with since my husband died."

He lightly pinched one of her nipples. "That was a long time ago."

She sighed. "Yes, I suppose it was. Wait, darling, let me unhook this."

She unhooked the front of the negligee and pulled it away to each side to expose her breasts to his eyes.

"Kiss them, won't you?"

He bent his head to take one of the large nipples between his lips.

He held the breast with his hand as he sucked it. Then he moved to the other breast and he did the same. She said something and moaned. He continued sucking her breasts one after the other, biting her nipples and pulling at them with his lips.

She trembled violently as he did it, and then finally she pushed his face away from her breasts and she rose up from the sofa.

"In the bedroom, darling. Let's hurry to the bedroom."

He followed her.

As she entered the bedroom, she slipped the negligee off and tossed it over a chair. He saw her naked body from the back first, the broad curves of her buttocks, the heavy white thighs above her blue garters and dark stockings.

Instead of turning to face him, she remained standing where she was until he came up behind her to kiss her neck. She groaned as she pushed her buttocks back against the front of his trousers. She moved her hips from side to side, grinding her ass against him.

"Oh Lord, I can feel it there."

"Let me undress."

"Yes! Please yes."

He stepped away and she turned to watch him as he quickly removed his clothes. She held her breasts in her hands until he was naked, and then she dropped her breasts and she came forward to grasp his stiff penis.

"Perfect. It's quite perfect."

"And you too."

She smiled, gripped his penis more firmly and then released it. Then she turned to the bed and she knelt on the counterpane on all fours.

"I suppose you can use some of that cold cream on the nightstand."

"Cold cream?"

"Yes, I want you to bugger me. Reggie always did it and I've missed that more than anything. You don't mind, do you?"

She knelt on the bed with her head and shoulders on the counterpane as he carefully smeared the cold cream over his penis. Her knees were wide apart, the pouch of her sex visible, the large lips in a mat of brown hair, and above her sex the small brown opening between her buttocks.

She cried out when he pushed himself inside her. But the cry was a cry of pleasure and not of pain. His entrance into the small passage was easy enough to convince him it was well travelled.

Well prepared by poor Reggie, he thought. Well prepared and well received.

He stopped thinking now and he devoted himself to the pleasure of it. He kept his eyes fixed on the shaft of his cock as he slid it slowly in and out of the stretched opening, her anus opened like a stretched gasket. He tried to imagine what it felt like to her. It was obvious she liked it. He gripped her hips with his hands and kept his cock moving at an even pace. Good, he thought. So far so good.

* * *

They did the speakeasies that night: the Chateau Rouge, the New Yorker, Leon and Eddie's, the Marlboro Club, the Tree Club. The only place he kept Charlotte away from was the Rendezvous Club. He did not want Tony Provo to see him with Charlotte. As far as anyone else was concerned, he didn't care one way or the other. They met some people he knew. They met some people Charlotte knew. She seemed to enjoy herself immensely as they moved from one speakeasy to another until it was five in the morning and time to stop it.

During the next two weeks he passed some time with her nearly every day. They went to dinner at one expensive restaurant after another. They visited the nightclubs after dinner: the Stork Club, El Morocco, the Sutton Club, Ciro's. It was always Frank who paid. He paid for the restaurants, the nightclubs, and he bought her expensive presents: a watch, diamond earrings, a fur stole. He didn't mind at all. It was what he wanted.

And in the intimacy of her bedroom at the Plaza, Charlotte's needs were always the same. She wanted what her husband had liked. She wanted to be buggered like poor old Reggie had buggered her. Frank didn't mind that either. The entry was easy and he was intrigued by how completely decadent she became once she had her clothes off.

One evening he took Charlotte to a party at the Desmond townhouse. She was discreet enough not to let on that they were anything but casual friends. But Charlie Desmond wasn't fooled and he showed his amusement when he caught Frank alone:

"You can't fool me, dear boy. Don't let the lady wear you out."

In the following days it seemed like she was trying, all right. She wanted the buggering done with more variety. Sometimes on her back. Sometimes with her clothes on. Sometimes with her sitting on him. Her face flushed, her teeth biting her lower lip, she would take the entry with her eyes closed.

"Oh Lord, you're so much like Reggie."

He enjoyed watching her face while they did it. One moment there was passion in her face and the next moment a look of calm acceptance as if what they were engaged in was quite ordinary. In the living room of her suite she sat on his lap with her bowels fully penetrated while she fed him eggs Florentine from a silver tray on a rolling cart.

But his money was dwindling. The money he'd borrowed from Tony Provo was almost all gone. It was time to consider his future.

* * *

The next afternoon in her suite she came out of her bath and she found him seated on the sofa with a pensive look on his face.

"You seem unhappy," she said.

"I do?"

"Yes, darling, you've seemed very unhappy all afternoon. Don't you want to tell Charlotte?"

"I've had some problems."

"Oh dear. What sort of problems?"

Frank sighed. "It seems I've lost a great deal of money at the Stock Exchange."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Reggie never liked Wall Street. He said the people on Wall Street were all highwaymen or something like that. Do you know what a highwayman is?"

"A robber."

"Yes, that must be it. He said they were all robbers."

"Whatever they are, I've lost nearly everything."

"Oh dear. No wonder you seem so unhappy."

"I can't go on, Charlotte."

"No, you don't mean that."

"Yes I do."

"But that's not sensible, is it? How much money do you need? I'll lend you some until---"

"No, I don't want that."

"Darling, please."

"It's not right. Not from you. It just isn't."

Five minutes later he accepted a loan of twenty thousand dollars.

* * *

The next evening Frank caught the last act at the Rendezvous Club and he persuaded the chorus girl Sally Rich to take him home with her. They drank Scotch in the taxi all the way to the Village. She lived in a small third floor apartment that she shared with another dancer.

"Just make yourself comfortable," Sally said. "Oh, I'm plastered. I almost tripped."

"What time will your friend be home?"

"I don't know. Maybe in the morning. Maybe she won't be home at all. Who knows?"

There were three rooms, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room. The furniture in the living room looked about twenty years old. He pushed some newspapers off the sofa and he sat down. When she came out of the bathroom she smiled at him and he looked at her legs.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"I'll make some coffee."

He'd repaid the loan to Tony Provo. Of course Tony had been amused to receive back his five thousand dollars with interest in only a few weeks. "That makes me happy," Tony said. "I'm always happy when the money comes back."

Now Sally was half out of the kitchen and half out of the living room, moving back and forth as she undressed at the same time. When she had her dress off, she pranced around in her bra and panties and stockings. He'd already seen her wearing less at the Rendezvous Club. She had small breasts and firm little buttocks, almost a boy's body. Maybe the best thing she had was her legs. They were perfect, the perfect legs of a chorus girl with a pretty face. More perfect than Charlotte's legs. Charlotte's thighs were too heavy. Oh stop thinking about Charlotte, he thought.