The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  Rochester was closing in on me. Small minds were at every turn. I not only wanted to escape; I needed to. Graduation day could not come soon enough. I would be on the first train to New York City the morning after the graduation ceremony, in June of 1968, with my model friend Susie, and Linda, another model from Boston.

  I’d leave, thinking I could leave the baggage behind and never look back.

  Chapter Three

  The train pulled in to Grand Central Station at dusk. Aboard were three young models in search of not just fame, but their own identities. New York was no longer a distant dream, but a reality. I was on my own in the city that never sleeps.

  Linda, Susie, and I burst onto the scene looking like hicks. We had dressed comfortably for the train ride in shorts and T-shirts, but we now felt a little out of place. Sweat dripped from our foreheads as we dragged our luggage out to the street.

  We hailed a cab and headed to the Barbizon Hotel for Women. The brochure had described both its security and stringent rules, which was the reason my reluctant mother had allowed me to go. The Barbizon was famous for attracting young women who came to New York from around the world seeking their dreams on Madison Avenue.

  “Wait here till we check it out,” Linda said to the cabdriver.

  Linda was a platinum blonde with gorgeous blue eyes, but a hardness glinted from within them, as though she had lived far longer than her eighteen years. Linda and I met at a photography studio while shooting for a Sears catalog in New York City about a year earlier. She’d been living in Boston and we’d both been flown in for the shoot. Like me, she wanted to move to New York City after finishing school, so we kept in touch until the day finally came.

  We followed the matronly-looking lady from the front desk down the narrow hallway to what was supposed to be our room. The hatchet-faced woman stood looking down her nose at us as we stared in disbelief at the tiny room.

  “All the girls are quite comfortable here,” she said indignantly with a clipped and very precise English accent.

  “This is smaller than my bathroom at home!” Susie said, wide-eyed.

  Susie was a twenty-year-old Southerner from Charles-ton whom I’d met, along with her gorgeous boyfriend, Ralph, when I was fourteen at an after-school soda fountain called the Candy Kitchen in East Rochester. We became instant friends. She had done some modeling back in her hometown, so I took her under my wing and introduced her to the modeling scene in Rochester. She stood an inch taller than me at five-seven, and had a mane of light blond hair almost reaching her waist. Famous for her gorgeous legs, she’d always beat out the other models whose milky thighs just didn’t measure up. Although she came across as a bit of an airhead, I soon learned that this impression was primarily due to her Southern accent.

  “Speaking of bathrooms, where is it?” I asked.

  “It’s just down the hall. You’ll be sharing it with all the girls on this floor. We lock the doors at two o’clock, and there are no men allowed in the rooms,” Ms. Indignant said as she paused to look at each of us with a raised eyebrow. “You can have your gentlemen friends wait for you in the lobby,” she added sternly.

  We looked at each other and, without saying a word, we turned and walked outside to our waiting cab. I’d worry about explaining this to my mother later.

  “Take us to a hotel where they allow men past the lobby!” Linda commanded, and we all cracked up.

  The cabdriver took us to a hotel on 46th Street near Broadway. I can’t remember the name of it now, but it was a real dump. The three of us stayed together in one small room, but it was cheap and we needed to economize until we could find a more permanent place to live. Little did we know the hotel was a haven for hookers.

  With adventure in our hearts, we quickly rummaged through our suitcases, pulled out our favorite bar-hopping garb, and hit the streets for our first night out in the big city.

  We’d heard about a place called Friday’s, which was supposed to be the “in” spot. TGI Friday’s are all over the country now, but back then that was the only one in existence. We had no idea which direction to go to get there. Spotting a cop standing on the corner, we walked toward him to ask directions. He eyed us as we approached.

  “What are you girls doing, working?” the cop asked before we had a chance to speak.

  “We’re not working yet, but we’re looking for work,” Susie answered innocently.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, looking kind of sad. “But you girls are too pretty to be working.”

  “Well, how are we supposed to make any money if we don’t work?” I asked quizzically.

  The conversation went on for a few more minutes before everybody realized we were talking about different subjects. We were right in the heart of hooker’s paradise. I guess the cabby had taken Linda literally.

  It started to rain. Not heavily, but enough to take the curl out of the hairdos we had taken so long to get looking just right for the evening.

  “Look, I’m gonna to be off in ten minutes,” the cop said, glancing at his watch. “Why don’t you girls duck under that doorway for a bit, and let me take you to Friday’s? I think I need to enlighten you on some facts about life in the Big Apple.”

  We entered the smoky bar and began to make our way toward the back in search of a vacant table. Imitation Tiffany lamps hung everywhere from a high tin ceiling, and the red-and-white-checked tablecloths set an inviting atmosphere. Excited and ready for action, we pressed forward. Between the loud music and noisy patrons we practically had to yell to be heard.

  I bumped into an overweight slob at the bar who obviously had eaten too much pasta and who was smoking a cheap cigar. He swung around in his stool.

  “What can I do for you, honey?” he asked with his best I’m a stud smile.

  “You can refrain from calling me ‘honey’ for a start. After that, nothing,” I answered flatly.

  Linda and Susie giggled as we continued walking. Next bar stool to the right of that disgusting old fart sat a pockmark-faced youth with a wasted bleached blonde draped all over him. They both looked like they were in desperate need of a life.

  The scene got better as we moved along. Pushing our way through the crowed bar area, we noticed plenty of trendy men with great physiques and lingering, hungry eyes.

  Louie was a pretty nice guy for a cop. He was probably in his late thirties, and not bad-looking either. Although we were skeptical at first, he really did have good intentions. Over drinks he lectured us about the many dangers for young girls living in New York. We listened the way most teenagers listen: in one ear and out the other. I wondered how he would have reacted had he known he had just bought a drink for a minor. I had a month to go before I turned eighteen, the legal drinking age. I took the innocent route, agreeing with everything that he had to say. Louie stayed long enough to finish his drink and then got up to leave.

  “Well, gotta be going. You girls be careful now,” he said, trying to sound authoritative.

  “Thank you, Officer. Nice talking to you.”

  Soon after Louie departed, three men who had been eyeing us from the bar headed our way. They were exactly the kind of guys we had just been warned about.

  As they approached, Linda sat up straighter, flashing a megawatt smile and plenty of cleavage. Susie shifted in her chair, crossing her impressive legs and flipping her blond mane behind her shoulders.

  They were slick-looking guys, weighed down with heavy gold chains and a bit too nicely dressed for the place we were in. I recognized the type immediately. They were Italian and exhibited the same traits as my Rochester friends. With the way they talked and carried themselves, I felt as if I hadn’t left home. I had seen the tough-guy syndrome many times before. The familiarity of these fellas made me immediately at ease with their presence. If nothing else, I knew they’d be amusing.

  “Mind if we join you?” asked the big man with the squashed nose as he shook a cigarette loose from a pack of Lucky Strikes.

  “Not at all!” Linda
answered quickly, pushing her chair aside to make room.

  As they squeezed into the tight space around the table I inhaled a whiff of their potent cologne and immediately got a headache.

  The man with the squashed nose said his name was Vic and introduced his sidekicks as Chippy and Billy.

  “Whatcha girls drinkin’?” Vic asked, lighting up his cigarette.

  After we stated our preferences, Linda immediately went into her act, engaging Chippy in small talk. She laughed flirtatiously, her huge blue eyes sparkling, capturing his undivided attention. Trouble was emblazoned on her forehead in big red letters. She had an incandescent presence that made men drool.

  “So where ya girls from?” Chippy asked while attracting the attention of the waitress. “Bring us all a Dewar’s and water and put it on my tab.”

  “Rochester. We just arrived today,” I answered.

  “Huh? You girls don’t look like country bumpkins to me,” he said, eyeing us even more closely. I wondered if he would’ve had this thought had he seen us earlier at the train station.

  “So this is your first night out in the land of fruits and nuts?”

  “Yeah, it is,” Susie answered shyly.

  “Well, ya ran into the right guys. You’re in for a wild ride,” he said as he picked up a handful of peanuts and tossed them into his mouth one at a time.

  As I’d expected, the guys turned out to be funny and kept us laughing from the moment they sat down. It didn’t take much to amuse girls our age, and these three had their bar act down to perfection.

  Chippy, I thought, could have been a professional comedian. He had a quirky, offbeat kind of presence. A short, stocky guy, dressed in a yellow sweater over a navy blue shirt and gray dress pants, he looked too refined to act like such a nut. He kept us in stitches, twisting his face by doing imitations, sticking cigarettes up his nose, and other silly antics. When he laughed, he cried, which made everyone laugh even harder.

  Acting more like twelve than thirty, they’d all burst out laughing at nothing. Watching them together was like having our own entertainment channel.

  Vic didn’t have to try to be funny; he just was. His mannerisms were what made him comical. He had a habit of waving his hands in the air when he got excited, and couldn’t speak a sentence without some contortion of his face or body.

  Baby-faced Billy was the handsomest of the three in a subtle, been-around-the-block sort of way. Although the quiet type, and more serious than the others, he didn’t hesitate to partake in the laughter.

  Susie and Linda both vied for Billy’s attention, but I was immune. Vic had his eye on me, but I wasn’t interested in him either. They apparently lived under the impression that they were irresistible to women. Wrong. These guys were fun, but fatigue was beginning to set in. It was three thirty in the morning and no one seemed to want the night to end.

  Billy’s eyes glittered dangerously when he spotted a short, rotund man with bulging eyes, hairy hands, and no chin approaching our table. Oblivious to the agitation of our companions, the man asked me if I cared to dance.

  Vic took a long pull on his cigarette and inhaled deeply. His whole demeanor changed, and he exhibited an anger so dark and overwhelming that he couldn’t control it. It seemed to go a lot deeper than male pride to me. Squashing out his cigarette, he stood slowly, stifling what appeared to be a murderous urge to smash this guy in his fat head. Towering above him, he put his bulk in the man’s face and they exchanged long, chilling looks.

  Vic poked his thick index finger repeatedly into the man’s chest as he growled, “Don’tcha have no brains in your head? Can’t y’see these girls are busy? Get the fuck outta here while ya can still walk, ya fuckin’ moron.”

  Everyone in proximity pretended not to watch the intense confrontation. One look at the size of Vic was enough to quicken anyone’s pace in the opposite direction. His nose, broken more than once, exhibited untold tales of a violent past. The bug-eyed man shot out of there in a big hurry.

  “Fuckin’ jerk,” Vic murmured under his breath as he sat back down, adjusting his collar and resuming his composure.

  Ooh, the temperature’s changing. Maybe it’s time to leave. I wanted to say something to ease the tension, but no flip remark came to mind.

  Chippy squinted while dragging hungrily on his cigarette. “This place is gettin’ boring. Whatta ya say we all go over to an after-hours club,” he said, while expelling a stream of nauseating smoke in my direction, which only served to increase the intensity of my headache. I’d had my fill. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  “Hell, yes!” Linda answered without hesitation.

  “Linda, why don’t we go back to the hotel and go to bed? It’s been a long day,” I interjected, knowing I’d be defeated.

  “Yeah, maybe we should call it a night,” Susie added.

  “C’mon, girls. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Whatta ya hafta get up early for? You’re in New York. Gotta start livin’ like New Yorkers—y’know what I mean?” Vic persisted.

  “Yeah, sleep tomorrow. Give it a shot; you’ll have a good time,” echoed Billy.

  Linda was determined to go. Susie and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Afraid to let her go off by herself with these guys, we all left for the after-hours club. Like it or not, it was going to be a long night.

  The six of us drove down 2nd Avenue in Billy’s banged-up black Buick. The fresh night air was a pleasant change from the smoke-filled bar. “Hey Jude” blasted on the radio as a soft breeze flowed through the open windows. The streets were empty at three thirty in the morning. No horns honked. No people hustled forward to their destinations. The nine-to-fivers had already fled for their weekend retreats. We made a right turn onto East 23rd Street and pulled into an empty parking space. We finished listening to “Hey Jude” before Billy turned off the ignition.

  Rain had fallen earlier. The pavement was a little wet, drying in spots from the warm summer air. I took a deep, sleepy breath as we crossed the street. The clean smell after the recent downpour reminded me of country mornings when I was a kid.

  The guys started up a flight of narrow wooden steps, taking them two at a time. We followed. A dim light emanated through a peephole in the second-floor door when Vic knocked lightly three times. A water buffalo in a light blue suit opened the door, blocking the entry with his imposing bulk. A stubby cigar hung from the side of his mouth as his squinty eyes gave us the once-over. He nodded and allowed us to enter.

  Above the bar a sign read: “The Sundowner.” Music of the Four Seasons played quietly from the back room. A black material covered the walls, giving me a closed-in feeling I didn’t like. Other than a few suspicious-looking guys in dark raincoats, the place was deserted.

  “This looks like a really fun place,” I chided Linda.

  “It’s not even four o’clock yet,” Linda retorted. “This is an after-hours club, Georgia. It won’t start jumping for another half hour,” she retaliated.

  “Oh, great. I’d rather be sleeping.”

  Flip, a short man resembling a leprechaun, was sweeping the floor and chatting with his partner, Frankie, who nursed a Scotch and water at the other end of the bar. We’d learned that the two of them had recently opened this club and had high hopes for its success.

  It was Frankie’s penetrating black eyes that first drew my attention. He was a handsome man with dark olive skin, which I assumed he’d inherited from his Sicilian ancestors. I liked the way he stood: self-assured, with a hint of arrogance.

  “When we gonna get a porter?” Flip asked Frankie. They both burst out laughing.

  “The guy from Harlem called, said he’d be down tonight,” Flip added in a more serious tone.

  “Good,” Frankie answered. “We’ll find out what he wants.”

  “Hey, Chippy, Vic, and Billy just walked in with three knockout blondes,” Flip announced, setting down the broom and turning his attention toward us.

  We started to walk in their direction. Frankie looked up.r />
  The closer I got, the more his face came together. He wore a cobra’s smile as he watched me approach. His slicked-back black hair heightened the intensity of his deep-set, hooded Valentino eyes. His medium-size frame was casually dressed in a dark, open-collared shirt and a light-colored sports coat. A sparkle from his pinkie ring caught my eye as he lifted his glass in slow motion to his mouth. His intense dark eyes never blinked.

  “She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, Flip,” I heard him say. “Look at that face . . . a porcelain face.” Silky long blond hair rested loosely on my shoulders. Just a little blush of color, thick lashes, pale shade of lipstick. No expression graced my face, except maybe boredom. Frankie seemed awestruck, stunned by his perception of beauty.

  But I was oblivious to him. My head was throbbing and I was more than ready to go home. Not once did my eyes linger on his. I stopped two bar stools away from where he stood, sat down, curled my arms on the bar, laid my head down—and tried to fall asleep. In a dreamy state, I occasionally opened my eyes and saw him reflected in the mirror. He stood watching me until Vic appeared at his side.

  “Frankie, how’s it goin’?”

  Irritated by the intrusion, Frankie looked up at Vic and reluctantly came back to reality.

  “Where did you find her?” Frankie asked.

  Vic thrust his chin out with pride. “Friday’s. They arrived on the train today from Upstate,” he answered.

  “She’s beautiful. . . .” Frankie’s voice trailed off as he shifted his gaze back to me.

  “Beautiful, young, and naive, the best kind,” Vic replied in a voice he thought I couldn’t hear. Frankie shot a disgusted look at Vic, who studied Frankie’s face as he stared at me.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Frankie; this one’s mine. I found her, so put it back in your pants.”

  “This one’s different, Vic. I’m not asking your permission.”