“There’s no time in the morning. I’ve got too much to do tomorrow.” He leaned and kissed her nipple, but she didn’t respond, didn’t move her fingers. “There’s an extra fifty in it for you,” he said.
Babe wouldn’t have to know. She could keep it all. “All right,” she said. Barnhill moved to her, but she said, “Let’s see the fifty.”
“Jesus Christ.” He rolled away from her and got out of bed. He rummaged in his trousers in the darkness, then got back in bed and handed her a folded bill. She switched on the lamp to make sure it was a fifty. “You’re a trusting little soul, aren’t you?” he said.
“It pays to be careful.” She opened her handbag and put the bill in and laid the bag back on the table.
“You ought to be in politics,” he said, and she remembered that he was a senator or something. She moved her hand toward the lamp switch, but he said, “Let’s leave it on this time.”
“The customer’s always right,” Sheila said. She settled herself back into the bed, and Barnhill moved against her and tried to hiss her on the mouth. Pretending to misunderstand his intention, Sheila turned her head aside so that the kiss landed on her neck. She spread her legs, and Barnhill positioned himself between them, and she grasped his erection again and guided it into her and closed her eyes. In the darkness, Sheila always kept her eyes open, gazing at the dark ceiling, but when they wanted the light on, she closed them. She didn’t like to see the faces looming over her. She disengaged her mind from what she was doing and began to move her hips as if she were doing her dance lying down and made little moaning sounds.
“Is it good?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, it’s good. It’s so good.” Shelia had had better, but worse, too. Much worse. Kinky worse. Barnhill stuck to the basics, and it wasn’t bad. She wouldn’t be worse for wear when morning came, and she appreciated that. He might be pretty good with the right woman. She wondered if he was married. He didn’t wear a ring, but he probably was. He was pretty good-looking, a brown-eyed blonde—pretty prosperous and pretty nice. Well liked, probably, since somebody had elected him to something. Barnhill wasn’t with her because he particularly needed to be, and that made him a pleasant enough trick. He was on the verge of coming, so she quickened the rhythm of her hips and moaned more loudly. He came then, and collapsed on her, breathing hard. She breathed hard, too, and made a gasp.
“Did you come?” he asked.
“I—I think so.”
She hadn’t, of course, but he probably believed her. Most men knew that orgasm wasn’t part of the bargain, but every man thought he was different, the exception, the one who could make a woman forget she was involved in a business transaction. Most men didn’t ask if Sheila came, but if they asked, she always said she thought so. Barnhill probably believed it, but he apparently wasn’t going to crow about it as some did, telling long stories about other women they had made come and how they did it. Barnhill just lay quietly on her, so quietly that she thought he was asleep. She nudged him. “I have to pee.”
He disengaged himself and moved to the other side of the bed, and Sheila went to the bathroom and peed and washed herself. She wished she had a toothbrush. She usually carried one in her handbag but had left it in a suite at the Baker the night before. She would try to remember to buy another in the morning. She went back to the bedroom and opened her purse and got the Price Albert tobacco tin and the packet of papers. “Would you like a joint?” she asked.
“A what?”
“A joint. Marijuana.”
“No. I don’t do that. It’s a felony, you know.”
“Mind if I do?”
“Go ahead.”
“It helps me sleep sometimes.” Sheila licked her thumb and peeled two papers out of the packet and stuck them together. She rolled the joint quickly, expertly, and lit it with a match from the hotel matchbook on the table. She inhaled the smoke deeply and held it in her lungs as long as she could, then exhaled and watched it swirl toward the heat of the lamp. She propped the thin pillow against the headboard and sat upright against it.
“You told me you didn’t smoke.” Barnhill was lying on his side, watching her, smiling. Sheila knew she made a pretty sight, sitting with her knees bent so he could see the firmness of her thighs and calves.
“This doesn’t stain your teeth,” she said. “Anyway, you don’t smoke it all day like cigarettes.”
Barnhill leaned on his elbow. “You’re a good-looking woman,” he said.
“Thanks. I know that.”
“Sitting there smoking like that, you remind me of Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel. Did you ever see that?”
“No. I’ve seen pictures of her, though.”
“It’s about a nightclub singer in Berlin before the war. I sort of feel like I’m in that movie tonight. You’re Marlene Dietrich, and Dallas is Berlin. It’s not hard to imagine.”
“How’s Dallas like Berlin?”
“It’s full of Nazis.”
“And what are you? A Communist?”
Barnhill laughed. “See? You’re doing it. If you’re not a Nazi in Dallas, you must be a Communist. I’m a Ralph Yarborough Democrat. That’s close to being a Communist here, I guess. He believes in labor unions.”
The marijuana was taking hold of Sheila. Her head was lighter. She was relaxing. “Politics is boring,” she said.
Barnhill watched her breathe in the sweet-smelling smoke.
“You didn’t have to come here, did you?” she said.
“Jesus, you sound like you’re from Highland Park.” Barnhill shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. He moved the ashtray to the mattress between them. “You’re not from Highland Park, are you?” He was mocking her, but she didn’t care.
“I’m from Greenville,” she said.
“And Sheila Towers isn’t your real name.”
“How do you know that?”
“Nobody’s named Sheila Towers.”
“Babe named me that. I wanted to call myself Greenville Green, but he wouldn’t let me.”
“Babe was right. What’s your real name?”
“Thelma Ruth. Thelma Ruth Green.”
Barnhill snickered.
“What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing. I just can’t imagine a stripper named Thelma Ruth Green.”
“I’m an exotic dancer.”
“Whatever.” He rolled over and picked up the telephone. “Give me a wake-up at six-thirty, will you?” he told the operator.
“You’re an early riser,” Sheila said when he hung up.
“I’m not. Barefoot Sanders is.”
“Who’s that? Sounds like a comedian.”
“Barefoot has his funny moments. Makes his living as a US attorney, though. And I’ve got to get to him before anybody else tomorrow. He’s my best chance of getting a ticket to that damn luncheon tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you have a ticket? Aren’t you important?”
“Berlin ain’t my town, baby.”
“So you’re going to beg a Nazi for a ticket?” She was getting nasty, but didn’t care. He had started it.
“Barefoot may be the only liberal in Berlin. Except maybe Judge Sarah Hughes. Kennedy appointed them both. To