The Promoter Page 6

  “Well,” she announced with a smile, “I suppose I should be flattered to have a writer take an interest in me. But I’m not. Believe me, I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “It’s a waste of time. Who cares about the Montana Model Agency?”

  “Mr. Willis told me you had thirty girls working out of here. Somebody must care, Mrs. Lord.”

  She arose, still smiling, and dabbed at her mouth with a Kleenex.

  “Perhaps you are right. Frankly I’ll help you only because it won’t take much effort. There isn’t much for me to show you or much for you to know.”

  Cooperation, I decided as she led me to the rear of the loft, was not one of Gladys Lord’s stronger points. She was in business for a buck and the rest of it could go to hell.

  “We interview only twice a week,” she explained as we entered a large room. “Our applicants are girls we sometimes locate ourselves, those who may be seeking to change from another agency, or simply young kids who think they have something.”

  Four girls, all of them exceptionally pretty, were seated on a wooden bench that extended along one wall, the full length of the room. On the opposite side four large windows, streaked with dirt and grime, permitted a minimum of light to filter through. To the right of the windows was a small stage, perhaps six by eight feet, and this was ringed by a battery of floodlights which, when Gladys Lord flipped them on, brought everything in the room into sudden sharp relief.

  “Good morning, kids!” Her greeting was met with enthusiastic nods and hopeful smiles. “Are any of you experienced?”

  Three of the girls, two blondes and a brunette, stood up.

  “In what?”

  “Bras and underthings,” said one.

  “Coats and suits,” said another.

  “Dresses.” The brunette’s voice filled with pride. “I was with the Hemple Agency until Mr. Hemple died.”

  Gladys Lord told the three to be seated and then she addressed the fourth girl, a dark-haired, bosomy little thing in a tight gray dress.

  “And you’re not experienced?”

  “No, but — ”

  “What makes you think you could become a model?”

  “People say I have a nice figure.” There was a challenge, a note of frantic optimism in the way she spoke. She stood up, slowly, her hands at her sides. “I think so, too.”

  Of course, I’m not in the model agency business and I don’t know all of the fine points to look for in selecting a prospective model, but this girl had more than her share of several things which could excite a man’s imagination.

  “You know what we model here?”

  “Yes. Dresses and things like that.”

  “Undergarments, too. Bras. Girdles. Panties. Do you think you would mind walking around in front of a lot of men and women dressed in only a bra and panties?”

  There was the faintest glimmer of indecision in the girl’s eyes before she answered.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” she said. Then, adding hastily, “Not if they didn’t touch me.”

  I remembered some of the things Elsa had told me. A few of the buyers not only touched but they hung on. I felt sorry for this inexperienced young girl facing Gladys Lord. She had much to learn.

  “Very well,” Gladys said. “You can use the first room on the left. You’ll find a bra and panties in there. Put them on and let’s see how you stack up.”

  The girl, her eyes registering silent disapproval of my presence, walked slowly into the dressing room.

  “We try all of them,” she told me. “No matter who they are. You never know when you’ll uncover a real doll.”

  The girl reappeared in a few moments, moving timidly into the room, her eyes on the floor.

  “Get over there under the lights,” Gladys ordered her.

  She was even prettier in bra and panties than she had been in clothes. Her breasts, beneath the thin black lace of the brassiere, rose up proud and firm and when she threw her head back, her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. Her hips, both generous and obviously smooth and soft, melted gracefully into shapely thighs and legs.

  “She’s rather pretty,” Gladys Lord admitted. “But she’d never make a bra model. The art is to focus attention on the product, not the wearer.”

  I wondered if she actually believed this or if she had said it merely for my benefit. I decided, after five minutes of watching her make the girl walk back and forth, bend forward, bend back, bend to the side — all of the instructions intended to demonstrate the physical possibilities of the girl’s body — that she had tried to hand me a Trojan horse. I found little in my observations to indicate that she was interested in anything except the potential sex appeal of the girl. Her final decision, that she would start the girl at sixty per week, convinced me that I was correct in this. The girl had little, if any, poise or charm to go with her beauty; much training would be required before she could develop the assured air of a professional. I found myself considering the possibility that I had made a rather wise choice in deciding to delve into the affairs of the Montana Model Agency.

  The other girls, with the exception of the one who had modeled dresses, were treated in a similar manner. Both blondes, it was apparent from their skills at revealing their bodies, possessed considerable experience at it. It was interesting to note that the starting salary for each was the same as it had been for the amateur. I never did have an opportunity to view the brunette; she rejected the whole affair as being too elementary and departed without saying a word.

  “Now you can see how we work,” Gladys Lord told me when we returned to her office. “At least, you know now “that everybody has a chance.”

  I speculated, without voicing my doubts, as to the kind of a chance which the Montana Model Agency offered its youthful aspirants.

  It was close to the lunch hour and Gladys Lord informed me that she always ate with Andy Willis, in his office, so that they could use the time to discuss business matters. I assumed that our interview was at an end and I turned to leave.

  “If there is anything else I can help you with, Mr. Morgan, please feel free to call on me.”

  I nodded and thanked her for her time.

  “I’ll need a few photos,” I said, “of some of your girls. And, naturally, I’ll need releases so that I can use them.”

  “You can see Diana Sanderson about that. You’ll find her in our file room. That’s the third one down, on your right.”

  I thanked her again, assured her that I had most of the information I required and promised to send the agency a copy of the magazine as soon as the article was published.

  Diana Sanderson was an extremely beautiful girl, not at all the kind of girl you would expect to find working as a file clerk in a model agency. True, she was somewhat on the plump side — not fat, you understand; just pleasingly ripe — and she had one of the most exquisite faces I had ever seen. It is difficult to adequately describe the rich, mellow qualities of her brown eyes; the spontaneous upward thrust of her moist red lips; or to honestly explain just why I felt her short brown hair, pulled back away from her ears, made her face look so small and pretty. It is enough, I assume, to relate that she startled me and that she, being a somewhat observant young woman, recognized my surprise. However, she merely smiled at my request for photos and turned to one of the metal files.

  “We have thousands of pictures of pretty girls,” she told me. “It hadn’t ought to be difficult to locate something you can use.”

  While I leafed through several folios of photos she asked my name, what I did, and a dozen or so other questions which were, I felt, meant to be friendly. It occurred to me, as I completed my selections, that lunch with this girl, if it could be arranged, might be helpful. She accepted — gratefully, I thought — and a few minutes later we left the agency and descended to the street. “Let’s go to Eddie’s,” she said.

  I didn’t know where Eddie’s might be but I told her it was fine with me. It developed
, however, that it was a small combination soda fountain and luncheonette around the corner on Third Avenue. We sat in a booth in the back. I followed her suggestion and ordered the tuna fish salad.

  “You’re so awfully pretty,” I told her finally. “It seems hard to believe that you aren’t a model.”

  She smiled and her glance lowered to a very full bosom that pushed out across the top of the table.

  “I’m too — heavy.”

  “But you have a beautiful face. It would seem to me — ”

  “Let’s talk about you, Mr. Morgan,” she said, interrupting pleasantly. “That’s why I accepted your invitation. So I could talk about you.”

  “Really.” I tried some of the salad. It was very good. “I failed to realize, until you mentioned it, that I was so fascinating.”

  She had a nice laugh and I liked to hear it. It was a low musical laugh, but there was something sad about it, too.

  “You say you’re a writer. Is that true?”

  “Yes. It’s quite true.”

  “And you’re writing a story about a model agency?”

  “That’s the general idea.” I grinned. “Though, of course, I intended to question you, Miss Sanderson. That is why I asked you to lunch. Is there anything you could tell me that I don’t already know?”

  She inquired about what I had learned and I told her. It wasn’t a great deal.

  “You’ll never get the true story about the Montana Agency,” she said while we were having coffee. “No one ever will. I’ve been there two years and I don’t know it. It wasn’t the Montana Agency when I started, though. It wasn’t until after Mr. Willis came into the business that it was called that.”

  “And what makes you think there is another story — other than the one I know?”

  Her brown eyes regarded me with slow deliberation.

  “Perhaps I can’t trust you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “And perhaps I can’t trust you,” I said.

  She lifted her cup very slowly, looking at me across the brim.

  “I have to trust someone.” It sounded more like a prayer than a statement of need. “You seem honest. I hope that you are.”

  Diana’s story wasn’t, I’m sure, at all unusual, except that it concerned her sister, Blanche, and that Blanche had, as far as could be determined, disappeared from the realm of the living.

  Blanche and her sister Diana, whose real name was Stella Jahlowski, had been born and raised in Pine Island, New York, in the heart of the onion-growing country. Both had been blessed with traditional Polish beauty and Blanche, shortly after her graduation from high school, had left home to go to the city and become a model. She had written only three letters, all of these to Diana, and in one, the second one, she had mentioned the name of Gladys Lord. That had been more than three years before and no one had heard from Blanche since that time.

  “I thought I might find her if I got a job with Miss Lord,” Diana confided bitterly. “But I’ve been with her going on two years now and I haven’t found a trace, not a hint. Until a couple of months ago I worked as a secretary, typing letters and things like that, and when she put me in the filing room I thought I really had my chance. But I’ve been through every picture, every folder, and I haven’t found a thing.”

  “Perhaps there is another Gladys Lord,” I said.

  “Yes. I thought of that, but — oh, I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. It all seemed so hopeless until — well, I had this thought. Some of the girls who used to work for the agency — girls who were there when I first started but who aren’t there any more — there isn’t anything in any of the files about them, either. It’s almost as though they hadn’t — existed.”

  “That seems strange,” I admitted.

  “And it’s why I think I’ll some day locate my sister, Mr. Morgan.” Her big eyes were intent on my face. “There are eight girls that I know of, not counting Blanche. I call them — and this may sound silly to you — but I call them the Legion of the Lost.”

  I felt a long, electrifying shudder pass up my spine. If there was any truth to what she told me and if the implications were as grave as I thought they might be, then she had chosen a quite descriptive name for the girls in question.

  After lunch we walked together to the corner and stood there talking for a few moments. She asked me for my phone number and I wrote it down for her on a small piece of paper.

  “I’ll call you if I find out anything, Mr. Morgan. Honestly I will.”

  I told her to be careful, that her suspicions might be unfounded; and then I said goodbye. She waved to me as I got into a cab and then it began rolling uptown. I wondered, without any real reason for doing so, whether or not I’d ever see her again.

  6

  ALTHOUGH the letter I received from Dr. Call was somewhat critical — what, actually, had I accomplished so far? — there was a check for one hundred fifty dollars enclosed. I folded the check, placing it in my wallet, and severely chastised myself for not having sent along a bill for my expenses to date.

  My reply to the good Reverend required more than two pages of single-line typing and consumed an hour of my time. I outlined, in detail, my actions to date and related, in the most optimistic terms possible, that I had every reason to believe I would be able to obtain the address of his daughter in the very near future. Upon completion of the letter, I attempted to fashion a bill for the amounts of money I had spent on the photos and books but, unable to present the matter satisfactorily in writing, I finally gave it up and mailed the letter from the corner, special delivery.

  I had by this time accumulated a rather imposing selection of questionable photographs and books. In fact, my inventory had now increased to a point where I found it necessary to carry a briefcase. Many of the photos I had received from the western outlets were duplicates of those I had purchased in the east, lending further credibility to my suspicions that the supplies originated from one central source. The association which I had managed to establish with several book stores was friendly, if not profitable, and I had, I felt, successfully implanted the thought in the minds of most of the store owners that I was in need of more appealing supplies.

  As soon as I had mailed the letter to the Reverend I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Darwin Circle. I reflected, during the trip downtown, that it would be far more convenient for me if I could get my forty-nine Ford into operation. This, however, remained for the distant future since the convertible was in a custom shop in Cannonsville and had been, for more than six weeks, in the process of complete engine and body modifications. I had made arrangements with the proprietor, an extremely competent hot-rod enthusiast, to take photos of every phase of the work. By the time the job was finished I would not only have a beautifully distinctive car but also material for a series of articles which would more than compensate for the expenses incurred.

  I left the cab at Darwin Circle and walked crosstown toward the tiny store where I had made my first sale. The briefcase, which was quite heavy, banged unpleasantly against my knee.

  The store, fortunately, was deserted and I was able to get right down to business with my client.

  “Hell,” he said, following a casual inspection of my offerings. “You’ve got nothing here that I want. This stuff is old hat.”

  “Well, at least it’s something to sell,” I said defensively. “If your own man doesn’t come around you haven’t got anything, anyway.”

  As I have said before, he was a grubby little fellow. The hand he brought forth from beneath the wooden counter resembled the hand of an auto mechanic after installing a new transmission.

  “This is what you need, pal,” he said. He broke open the cellophane bag and placed several photos before me. “Believe me, you’re just an amateur without them.”

  There were eight pictures and the packet’s price, I noted, was three dollars. The photos were in color and the reproductions were of good quality. All of the shots were of the same girl, taken against an outdoor background.

&n
bsp; “Great,” I admitted. “Just great!” I pushed the pictures aside and dug into my briefcase again. “Now, here are a couple of books that might hit your fancy. The first one — this one — is pretty well illustrated. It deals with a guy who has a dream about a pretty girl and — ”

  But he wasn’t even mildly impressed. He’d stocked the book some months ago, and his customers would not buy the same thing twice. The current rage, of which he showed me a copy, was sixty-four pages in length and incorporated more than twenty erotic photos. The contents of the book, I might add, made me want to go out to the sidewalk, lie down in some desolate spot and heave my guts into the gutter.

  “Five bucks,” he told me. “And they go like crazy.”

  I shrugged and closed my briefcase.

  “Well, I’ve had it.” I said. “I can’t do business if I can’t get a hook-up. I wish you’d mentioned me to your friend when he was here.”

  “I did.”

  I casually examined the books on the shelves above his head. Some of them were good titles. “And what did he say?”

  “He said to call him the next time you came in. If you want me to, I’ll give him a ring and see what he says.”

  I felt elation building up inside of me, though I tried not to show it. Perhaps, at last, I might be getting somewhere.

  “Please do,” I said.

  He went to the rear of the store, behind a huge rack of books, and I waited impatiently near the door. In a few moments the old man returned.

  “Do you know where Sibyl’s Cafeteria is on Parsons Boulevard?”

  I told him I didn’t but that I could find it easily enough.

  “He’ll be sitting at one of the tables near the back of the place. Just past the door that goes down to the johns, he said. Look for a man sitting alone with a silver-colored box on the table in front of him. Just go over and sit down and tell him that Harry sent you. All right?”

  “Sure,” I said, opening the door. “Fine. And thanks — Harry.”