“There’s someone I haven’t mentioned yet,” Genevieve said the following Monday evening. They were in her car on their way to an after-dinner meeting at the home of Morris Niebold, Borden White’s senior partner. “A woman,” she continued. “Her name is Carla Volt.”
“Who is she?” Cloud asked.
“She’s a legal assistant to Borden White; at least, that’s what she calls herself.”
“You don’t like her,” Cloud observed.
“I don’t,” she replied almost impatiently, “and don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s just intuition. Or something in her eyes. Her close association with Borden White. The fact that she’s thinner than I am. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be meeting Carla tonight,” Genevieve said. “You can draw your own conclusions about her. I just wanted you to know how I felt.”
Genevieve guided the car off the freeway onto a four-lane boulevard with a divider of cypress trees down its center. She followed the boulevard north into the plush Madre Grande district, an area of wide, walkless streets fronted by the grounds, mostly fenced, of large estates.
“I think this is it,” she said, as she turned into a long, straight drive. The extensive manicured grounds on both sides of the drive were subtly lighted. In the distance stood what Cloud supposed must be the closest thing to an English manor that northern California could boast, complete with ringed hitching posts on one side as they approached the house. Genevieve drove onto a cobblestoned area off the front entry and parked next to a gunmetal gray Continental. Cloud rang and they heard the faint sound of chimes inside. The door was opened immediately by a black butler who greeted them pleasantly and showed them into the library, where their host awaited them with Borden White and Carla Volt.
“Ah, Genevieve. And this must be Mr. Cloud.” White extended his hand. “Good of you to come.”
White led them to a massive fireplace set between two walls of solid books. Carla Volt was standing next to the hearth. Sitting near her, in a shining chrome wheelchair, was their host.
“I’d like you both to meet Morris Niebold,” White said, leading Genevieve and Cloud up to him. He was a darkeyed, bushy-browed man with thick, almost pouting lips, and cheeks slightly too plump for the rest of his face. There was about him such an aura of confidence that one might easily have wondered why he did not simply get out of the wheelchair and walk if it pleased him to do so.
“I am delighted to meet you both,” Morris Niebold said. He squeezed Genevieve’s hand and smiled. “Times like these I regret more than ever being unable to stand and bow.”
“Why, thank you, that’s very kind,” Genevieve said. Niebold turned to Cloud.
“I’ll call you Robert, if you’ll permit me the familiarity of age,” he said, shaking hands. “In fact, nothing would please me more than for all of us to be on a first-name basis.”
“Fine,” Cloud said. He glanced past Niebold at Carla Volt. She was staring frankly at him.
The man in the wheelchair noticed Cloud and Carla Volt with their eyes locked. “I’m afraid we’ve been remiss in the introductions. There are still two of us who haven’t met.” Niebold deftly spun his chair around. “Carla Volt, Robert Cloud.”
Cloud stepped over to where she stood and took the hand she offered. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Cloud said quietly, “Hello, Carla.”
“Hello, Robert,” she replied. Her touch and the huskiness of her voice affected him instantly; the back of his neck warmed and he suddenly felt very good.
They all sat near the fireplace, sipping Niebold’s fine old brandy from handcut lead-crystal glasses, talking quietly about Weldon Whitman and capital punishment in California. Cloud and Genevieve sat together, as did Borden White and Carla; Niebold had wheeled himself to a point between the two settees so he could attend them all conversationally, although he obviously concentrated on the two newcomers.
As they talked, Cloud observed Carla Volt. She was wearing a bright flowered jersey in two pieces: a long-sleeved blouse open at the throat, and a long skirt. It was impossible to tell much about her figure, except that there was not a great deal to it: barely any bustline interrupted the flatness of the jersey top, and all that could be distinguished of her hips was that they were extremely angular. Cloud was fascinated by her hair—the sheer pitch of it—and by her too-wide mouth with corners that turned down, so her smile had to go a little farther to reach the surface. Cloud kept his eyes on her as much as he dared throughout the evening, and several times she caught him watching her. And then several times when he looked away from her and then brought his eyes back, he caught her watching him. It became an obessive game with them all evening.
“I’m sure you’re all waiting to hear my ulterior motive for our little get-together this evening,” Niebold said after almost an hour of generalities. “Being cognizant of the fact that I am an attorney—and one whose specialty is constitutional law, at that—I am sure you must have suspected something underhanded.” He paused to allow his guests time to chuckle respectfully, then said, “As a matter of fact, I do want to propose something, and I’d like to get the opinions of all of you on the merits of that proposal. Our main purpose, as we all know, is to save from California’s gas chamber a young man whom we all feel is being punished unjustly. Guilty or innocent, it matters not: Weldon Whitman should not have been condemned to death.” He leaned over and patted Genevieve’s hand. “And I’m sure we all know that but for the gallantry of this young lady in determining to help a fellow human being, none of us. would even be aware of the injustice being done Weldon Whitman.”
Not quite true, Cloud thought. But he let it pass. Like Weldon’s book, he decided, it really didn’t make that much difference. Besides, his mind was busy with Carla Volt.
“What I want to propose here tonight is that we incorporate and formally establish an organization to be called the Weldon Whitman Foundation—”
Genevieve started to object. “But we—”
“Wait, please,” Morris Niebold stopped her with a slight but commanding movement of his hand. “Hear an old man out first,” he said, with a smile, “and then I’ll listen to objections all around.” He sipped the last bit of his brandy and put the glass aside. “I realize that you, Genevieve, and you, Robert, already have what you call the Save Whitman Movement, and I think that is splendid; I wouldn’t suggest changing that in the slightest. After all, it is fairly well known by now and already established in some circles as the Whitman organization. What I’m proposing in the foundation, however, is not merely a movement to save Weldon Whitman, not merely a movement to remedy the injustice being done to one person, but an organization which will attack the very principle of that injustice, an organization that will ultimately benefit all Weldon Whitmans. Do you begin to see what I’m driving at? Robert, do you?”
“Yes, I think so,” Cloud replied. He was already thinking of the publicity and feature-article possibilities.
“Good. Let me touch on a few advantages I think will interest all of us. First, of course, the foundation would at once remove the suggestion of our fight being personal, being a battle strictly to save one man from the gas chamber. Instead, it would immediately become a drive to combat general judicial injustice; it would become something that—superfically, at least—could be identified with by many, many more people than would ever cast their lot with one condemned man.” Niebold smiled and spread his hands before him as if pleading. “Now, I don’t advocate that we actually attempt to help anyone except Weldon Whitman; certainly, he is to remain our primary interest. But in the mind and eye of the public, he will gradually become the symbol of something far bigger.” He paused and looked intently at Genevieve. “Am I beginning to make any sense to you, my dear?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Genevieve said. Her caution had been increasing daily since she met Borden White.
“Exactly how would you go about establishing this foundation?” Cloud asked.
“You tell him, please, Borden,” the older man said.
“Certainly,” said White. “There’s not much to it really. We would first draw up a statement of intent and purpose, much the same as for any nonprofit corporation. We would have to elect officers, of course—I”
“That would be no problem at all,” Niebold interjected. “The only logical, the only acceptable, president of the foundation would be Genevieve.”
“Oh my, I don’t know,” Genevieve said uncertainly.
“And Robert here for her next-in-command, her vicepresident,” Niebold continued unabashed. “One of the other of us could serve as treasure, or we could elect an outside member from some accounting firm. Carla could serve as secretary.” He turned to Cloud, whom he sensed to be on his side—or at any rate not against him. “Tell me, Robert, do you think Weldon would like having a foundation named after him?”
Is the Pope Catholic? Cloud thought. “I think he would probably agree to it if we all decided it was the right way to go.”
“And how about you, Genevieve?” he asked, patting her hand again. “Do you still have reservations?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said, although not as adamantly as Cloud expected. “I would have to have time to really give it some thought—”
“Well, of course,” Niebold said patronizingly. “It isn’t as though we have to make a decision tonight. I think that’s enough business for one evening anyway. Suppose I have some chocolate mousse and coffee brought in—” He quickly wheeled himself to the desk where he had an intercom.
“None for me, thanks,” Carla Volt said. “I have to run.” She went over to a side table where she had left her purse. Cloud put down his brandy glass and followed her.
“It’s still early,” he said. “Do you have to leave?”
“I want to leave,” she said simply.
“I was hoping we might have a few minutes together—”
“We still can.”
“How?”
“You leave, too.”
Just like that. You leave, too.
And just like that he said he would. “Give me a minute—”
He went over to where Genevieve was sitting. She was momentarily alone, Niebold on the intercom and Borden White pouring more brandy. Cloud sat down beside her.
“Gen,” he said quietly, “I’m going to leave with Carla, if you don’t mind.”
He face clouded at once. “Oh that’s great.”
“Look, I know you don’t like her—”
“You apparently do.”
“I don’t know if I do or not. I’ll probably find out tonight.”
“I’m sure you will. Meanwhile you walk out and leave me with young Kildare and old Dr. Gillespie there.”
“I’m surprised at you, Gen,” he said, taken aback. “A few months ago you wouldn’t have dreamed of saying a thing like that.”
“A few months ago I didn’t know the things I know today,” she countered. “Look, just run along if you want to.” “Not if it’s going to upset you.”
“It isn’t going to upset me.”
“You sound like it is.”
“Will you just go,” she said through gritted teeth.
Borden White walked back over to them, smiling, and Cloud rose and said goodnight.
“Glad you and Carla are hitting it off so quickly,” the lawyer said. “She’s a fine girl.”
Cloud exchanged amenities with his host, who also uttered high praise for Carla Volt, and they all promised to meet later in the week for further discussion of the Weldon Whitman Foundation.
Once they were in her car, everything happened very quickly. She put the key in the ignition but did not turn it on. She merely sat behind the wheel, looking straight ahead at the windshield, waiting for him to touch her.
Cloud turned partway toward her, resting his elbow on the seat back. Her profile was etched as clearly in the gray night as if it were on a coin, and Cloud studied her with growing desire. His hand, when it finally moved to her, stroked the straight fall of her hair where it covered her neck.
“Your hair is incredible,” he said. “It’s like the wing of a big, shiny blackbird.”
“Poetic,” she said, tuning toward him for the first time.
Cloud’s fingers parted the thick drape of hair and found her neck. He slid his hand lightly around and gently pulled her forward until their mouths touched. Their lips parted and their tongues slipped together.
“We mustn’t stay here,” she said when their kiss was over. She started the car and drove away from the house, down the long drive toward the boulevard. “Where do you live?” she asked. He told her. “That’s too far,” she said. “I live closer than that and my place is even too far for the way I feel right now. I’m a strong believer in seizing special feelings, special moments, when and where you can seize them.”
They came to the gate, she slowed, then turned into the wide boulevard and drove toward the lights of the business district that preceded the freeway.
“Too often a special feeling comes and goes without being taken advantage of,” she said. “Then it’s gone forever.”
Like a hard-on, Cloud thought. He decided that he could wait no longer. He had to know if she had any tits at all. He slid over next to her and put his right hand on her right breast. It was small, barely filling his palm, but firm and coned, like the breasts, he remembered, of teenaged girls, but the nipple, he could tell, was large, the areola large. He massaged the breast; there was nothing between it and his hand except the jersey blouse.
Carla pulled into the first motel that had its vacancy sign on. She drove past the office, parked next to the pool area, and turned off the headlights.
“Walk back and register,” she said. “Try to get one of the back rooms.”
Cloud got out of the car and went back to the office. He used the Los Angeles address on his driver’s license, and signed them in as Mr. and Mrs.
They drove down on Room 128 and parked in front of the door. Cloud opened the motel room door and she went in ahead of him. She turned on the lights and looked around.
“This isn’t bad,” she said. She walked back to the closet, unbuttoning her shirt blouse as she walked, and took it off. With her naked back to him, her inky hair streaking it in black, she calmly put her blouse neatly on a hanger and hung it up. Then she slipped out of her long shirt, folded it with equal care, and draped it over a trousers hanger. Finished, she turned to face him. He was still fully dressed, standing by the door.
“You’re not shy, are you?” she asked.
“No,” Cloud said, shaking his head. He looked at her tall, thin body, clad at that moment in shoes and pantyhose. “You don’t wear much, do you?”
“Only what’s necessary.” She sat down on a corner of the bed and smiled at him. “You are shy.”
Cloud smiled back at her. “No, I’m not, really. I’m just fascinated by you.”
“I’m not moving too fast for you, am I?” she asked in her throaty voice. “I wouldn’t want to frighten you away.”
“You won’t,” Cloud said.
He tossed the room key onto the bureau and began undressing.
One week later, the Weldon Whitman Foundation was formally established in Morris Niebold’s richly appointed law office near the capitol.
“Here is the original document incorporating us as a legal nonprofit foundation,” Niebold said from his chrome wheelchair behind his specially built U-shaped desk. “Essentially what it says is that we will use whatever funds are at our disposal to press a perpetual fight against capital punishment for crimes in which no life was taken. Naturally, our primary efforts in that direction will be in behalf of Weldon Whitman, who has graciously consented to the use of his name as founder.” Niebold handed the bound document to Carla Volt, who stood near his side. “My dear, pass this to Genevieve, please.”
Carla came around the desk and gave the document to Genevieve Neller who, along with Robert Cloud and Borden White, sat facing the big desk. As she stepped over to hand the papers to Genevieve, Carla’s leg brushed lightly against Cloud’s knee, and they exchanged quick glances.
“Genevieve, as we all agreed, is unanimously elected president of the foundation, and is also employed as a general fund-raiser and speaker at a salary of twelve thousand dollars per annum. Genevieve, if you will sign in the appropriate place there on the front page and then pass the document to Robert—”
After Genevieve had signed and given the papers to Cloud, Niebold asked that he put his signature beneath hers. “Robert is elected vice-president of the foundation and is hired as an investigative reporter and publicity writer, also at a salary of twelve thousand dollars per annum.”
The last person to sign before notarization of the document was Borden White.
“Borden will serve as treasurer of the foundation and chief legal counsel, at a retainer of one dollar per year. The three of you, along with myself, will constitute the board of directors of the foundation, and I will serve as chairman of that board, if there’s no objection, with a vote, but not as an officer. Carla here, who will now witness and notarize the signatures, will serve as the foundation’s official secretary, also at a salary of one dollar per year.”
When all the formalities were over, Niebold leaned as far back as he could in his wheelchair and smiled a wide smile that spread thin his naturally pouting lips and puffed up his round cheeks slightly.
“Thank you all,” he said in a pleased tone. “I think we have taken a very important step here today, one that will well serve both Mr. Whitman and the cause of true justice in California.”
“I’ll second that remark,” Borden White said cheerfully.
“So will I,” said Cloud.
The three men looked at Genevieve Neller. She pursed her lips slightly, then said, “Forgive my pessimism, gentlemen. I prefer to reserve my enthusiasm until the foundation has done something positive for its namesake.”
Morris Niebold pounded his desk exuberantly. “Well said, young lady!” He chuckled loudly. “Every board needs a stabilizing influence, and it looks like you’re going to be ours. You’ll keep us in line, all right! And you’ll see something positive being done for your Mr. Whitman too, I’ll guarantee that!”
When they were ready to leave, Cloud and Genevieve walked out to the reception area and Cloud asked her to wait a moment for him. He stepped to an office just down the hall and stuck his head in the door. Carla was back at her desk.
“Hello, Miss Volt.”
“Hello, Mr. Cloud.”
“You going to be home tonight?”
“You coming over?”
“Like to.”
“Then I’ll be home.”
“Okay. See you.”
She smiled. “I imagine you will.”
He hurried back down the hall where Genevieve waited. They walked out to the parking lot.
“I don’t think you’ll be sorry about the foundation, Gen,” he told her. “I think you made a wise decision to give your approval.”
“A reluctant decision,” she said. “And one in which I really had no choice. After you decided to join with Niebold and White, it was three to one in favor of the foundation.”
“I didn’t exactly join with them, Gen—”
“It amounted to the same thing,” she said firmly, stopping and facing him. “I know you have to do what you think is right, Rob, but I want you to remember one thing: Weldon is my main concern; as a matter of fact, he is my only concern. I don’t intend to let anything or anybody—or any foundation, for that matter—jeopardize any chance he may have for freedom. I’m going to see him out of that place, Rob, do you understand me?—out!”
“Gen, relax, will you, please?” Cloud said urgently. “We all want Whit out; and nothing we do is going to jeopardize him in any way. The foundation is a good idea, Gen. Please try to believe that.”
“I want to believe it, Rob, Very much so. But I can’t help feeling that the foundation might survive and Weldon might not. It’s like naming the thing after him because he’s already dead, or because they know he’s going to die. I just have a cold, creepy fear that this foundation is looking for a built-in martyr and that it’s picked Weldon for the honors.
“That’s not so, Gen,” Cloud said. “You’re mistaken—and as soon as we all begin to function as a team, you’ll realize that you’re mistaken.”
“I hope so,” she said.