PRINTED AND BOUND
IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_McCarten Had Raped Her_--
that had started it. She thought at first she would kill herself,
but Laura was a strong girl, a hungry girl, fired with smoldering
passions that often threatened to engulf her. So she did what seemed
logical--she sold her young body for a price. At first is was ten
dollars a customer, but when Phil Spinelli picked her out to work the
Syndicate's party girl role, she found herself going for higher and
higher prices. This is a searing, uncompromising novel of the big city
today, glittering with the shattered pieces of women's lives. It's a
story no one with a weak conscience should miss. Because Laura Haynes
could be
_Any Wife, Any Sister!_
_CHAPTER ONE_
The moment she walked into the theatrical agent's office, Laura
Haynes found herself regretting it. There was no receptionist, only
an owlish-looking man of about forty, and he stared up at her with
intimate curiosity. His gaze seemed to go right through her clothes;
it was as if with his eyes he could lay bare her full, firm breasts,
her tawny thighs, her sleek, satiny buttocks. Laura had never been
appraised in such a _knowing_ way before. She felt color rising to her
face, and fought back the urge to turn and run out. She stood grimly
where she was.
"Are you Mr. McCarten?" she asked hesitantly.
His eyes were riveted to the rising sweep of her breasts. It was like
being stark naked in front of him, Laura thought uncomfortably.
"That's right," he said. "Ned McCarten, just like it says on the door
behind you. What can I do for you, Miss--Miss--?"
"Haynes. Laura Haynes."
"Sit down, Laura." He gestured to a chair to the left of his desk. As
Laura walked across the room toward it, he followed the fluid sweep of
her hips and buttocks eagerly with his eyes. She lowered herself into
the chair and crossed her legs, hiking her skirt up above the knee.
_Might as well give him a show_, Laura thought. _He's going to want to
look anyway._
He took in the display. Laura moistened her lips uneasily. McCarten
said, "I suppose you want a job in show business, Miss Haynes?"
"That's right, Mr. McCarten." Her voice came out thin and squeaky,
little-girlish.
"Make it Ned. Ned and Laura. Saves breath." He reached for a pad.
"Okay, Laura. Let's start at the beginning. What can you do?"
"Well," Laura said nervously, "I can dance, I sing, I've done some
acting--"
McCarten made idle scribbles on his notepad. He seemed uninterested.
The telephone rang, cutting Laura off. "Excuse me," McCarten said
mechanically, and picked up the phone. While he talked, Laura glanced
around the office. It was a squarish, cluttered room, opening onto
a smaller room at the right. The larger room had a desk, a piano,
an old leather couch, some bookshelves, and a table piled high with
sheet music, magazines, and old copies of _Variety_. The prevailing
impression was one of sloppiness and clutter. On the walls were
several dozen framed and signed photographs, none of them of people
Laura recognized. Most of them were women. Laura was a little surprised
to see that one picture, directly behind McCarten's desk, showed a
totally nude girl, wearing not even a G-string. She was grinning gaily
into the camera; her breasts were full and heavy, her hips ample, her
thighs round and thick. Squinting, Laura made out the inscription in
the corner of the photo: _To Ned McCarten, the man who made me ... what
I am. With love from Dawn Ryse._
She wondered what sort of a girl would give a man a photo like that,
with everything showing. Probably some strip-teaser, Laura thought,
that McCarten had helped find work. She wondered about the inscription,
whether it was just a joke or if perhaps there were some truth in it.
McCarten finished his conversation and hung up. "The damn fool," he
muttered, looking up. "Expects me to produce miracles for him every
time he snaps his fat fingers. Oh, well. Where were we?"
"You were asking me what I could do."
"Oh. That's right," McCarten said. He chewed speculatively at the end
of his pencil. He was a short, squat man, going bald in the middle of
his scalp. His face had a loose, sensuous look, but the eyes behind the
thick glasses were fiery and intense. "You sing, you dance, and you
act," he mused. "Any professional experience?"
"Not--really."
"What does that mean, 'not really'?" he asked sharply.
"I mean, not for very much money. I did some singing at county
fairs, local dances, you know. But you can't really count that as
professional, can you?"
"No, you can't," McCarten agreed sourly. "Where are you from?"
"Kansas," she said. "Marshall, Kansas."
"And how long have you been in New York?"
"F-four days."
"And you're living with an aunt," he said. "Or else you have a room at
the YWCA. Which is it?"
"I'm living at the Y," Laura said in surprise. "But how did you know?"
"It isn't telepathy, honey. Do you think you're the first girl who ever
came from Kansas to New York to get into show business?" He drummed his
pencil on the scarred desktop. "You're a rank green-horn, no experience
worth a damn. Well well well. How old are you?"
"Twenty-one."
"That on the level?"
"Of course. I was twenty-one last month. March 23 is my birthday."
"Okay, skip the genealogy. Parents living?"
"They died when I was a little girl. I lived with my grandparents."
"On the farm, I suppose. And you read the picture magazines and dreamed
of coming to New York. And now you're here, expecting to be showered
with gold."
"You're making fun of me," she said, reddening.
"I'm just feeling sorry for you, honey. I see so goddam many of you
come this way. Apple-cheeked flowers of American womanhood, you know.
All of you beating a track toward fame and fortune." He shrugged.
"How'd you come to pick me out of the book?"
"I looked up theatrical agents in the classified telephone directory.
Your office was the closest one to the Y, so I came here first."
McCarten smiled. "Okay. You sing, you dance, you act, and you implore
me to find work for you. Got anything special in mind? A Broadway lead,
or prima ballerina at the Met, or--I'm sorry, Laura. What kind of work
would you like to do?"
Laura was confused. Half the time McCarten seemed to be poking fun
at her, the rest of the time he appeared almost paternally concerned
about her. After a moment's hesitation she said, "I'm willing to begin
anywhere, Mr. McCarten. A chorus line, if I have to. Just so I'm in
show business, even at the bottom--"
He looked at his watch, as though growing bored with the interview.
"Chorus girl, eh? Well, just for a starter, let's hear you sing." He
pushed himself up out of his swivel chair and stalked across the room
to the piano. "How about--ah--the Mary Martin thing from the Rodgers &
Hammerstein show. Starts off _I'm as corny as Kansas in August_. Kansas
girl ought to know that one."
"All right," Laura said.
McCarten gave her a brief introduction, nodded her a cue, and she sang.
She was so nervous that she started off sharp, but after the first
bar she got back on pitch and everything went well. With his back to
her, McCarten's expression was hidden. He played through the first two
verses, then suggested another Rodgers & Hammerstein tune. Laura sang
that one for him, and a third.
After the third song he swivelled around. "Okay," he said. "You can
sing. Nothing spectacular, but at least it's easy on the ears and you
can carry a tune. You started sharp on the first one."
"I know. I guess I was scared."
"Well, after that you were okay. But the country's full of girls who
can carry a tune. You've got to have a figure, too." Again he eyed her
in that speculative way, as though undressing her. He went from the
piano to the closet, reached in, brought out some sort of costume.
"Here," he said. "Get into this and let's have an idea of what's under
the dress."
"Right here?"