As I told in my “last installment,” after watching the Borderville Transfer for a month, I had a bee in my bonnet about that thing, and it struck me that this thing might be something like it.
And that was why I began to get at Opal Ledbetter at that chapter meeting, because I knew right then that I would have to see the inside of that club if it killed me to do it. But at the same time, I wanted someone to go with me. Maybe someone to keep me in line! Though as you’ll see, I didn’t exactly stay in line.
Now, I know that I have the reputation for being bold. The way I behaved when I was a girl was the despair of my poor mother. But there are some things that stump me just a little. Because of what I suspected, I was a little put off with the idea of going through the front doors of that club. Of course, the way Opal was talking about it, it sounded worse than a whorehouse, and I never even dared speak that word until I was in my dotage. Still, that wasn’t what bothered me about going there alone.
Well, who was there to go with me?
My first thought was about Helen Delaporte. But she plays the organ at the Episcopal church, and we just couldn’t have her going in to look at those naked men. What I needed was a companion like myself, so that people would put our actions down to senility. I thought of different ones, and then that little Mrs. Hardacre solved the problem with her motion.
So it was to be Opal Ledbetter and me. Bless Opal’s pure, Baptist soul. It was going to kill her to go into that place, but she saw it as her duty, and I’ll hand it to her: She’ll do her duty in spite of the devil and Ned Drummond.
I warned her. I said, “Now Opal, you just sit there. I’ll do the ‘vestigatin’.”
Well, the place opens at nine o’clock. With the daylight saving it is so light at nine that going into a place like that at that time is a downright public event. But anyhow …
I got myself all dressed up for this act. I painted my nails bright red and loaded my face with all the make up I had. I even got an eyebrow pencil. To look at me you would have thought I was the worst old harridan that ever was. And that was just the impression I wanted to give.
As for Opal, she just looked like her own Baptist self. Nothing could ever make her look different.
We went in my car and parked on Poplar Street—quite a distance away, you see.
There was a time when this bank building was used as a dress shop, and the big show window that was installed then is still there. Of course, that wouldn’t do for a nightclub. So they had the glass all painted over in black and here and there great huge gold coins painted on it—I guess because it is called the Gold Coast.
Inside, it was very different. To tell the truth, the room wasn’t convenient for a nightclub. It’s too long and narrow. If they had put the floor show down at one end, the people at the other end wouldn’t be able to see; and then there is the problem of what you would do about the doors.
There was the front door, naturally; and then only one door down at the other end that used to lead to the safedeposit boxes and Baker Comming’s office and all that. Well, you can see that a nightclub has to have a kitchen and dressing rooms and rest-rooms. So they had to put all that sort of thing on the other side of that door at the back. But fortunately the back of the building made an L, and there was enough space to crowd it all in.
I must say that given the problem they had, the decorators absolutely transformed the place.
All along the west wall, as you go in, the floor has been tiered so that there are three rows of tables elevated enough to give a view of the whole room. Then there is a long dance floor along the opposite wall. At the far end of the dance floor is the bar, and near the bar an electric organ thing. And then there is a combo that sits there by the organist. The cash register and all of that is actually in what used to be the show window when the building was a dress shop.
It all looks very snappy. The dance floor looks like it is covered with some kind of vinyl or polished linoleum with gold-looking coins for a design. Then the tiers for the tables are covered with shag carpeting in shades of orange. Hanging from the high ceiling they have some very fancy fixtures. It almost seemed like they were trying to make the place look respectable. Maybe taking off your clothes is respectable now; I wouldn’t know.
Opal and I got a table near the rear door because I intended to give the whole club a good inspection before I left. Opal needn’t have worried very much about being seen, for the lights were turned way low.
When we got there, there weren’t an awful lot of women yet. So a waiter—they have young men for the ladies’ night, I suppose—came up to take our order. Opal said she would like a Coca-Cola, and I took a screwdriver. The organist—that was a young man too; just the whole show was men—started some of that beeping and booping that they call music. It was plenty loud enough to suit me at the beginning, but it got louder as the evening went on. Finally the room was tolerably full and the combo came out and a master of ceremonies.
He was in tails and a top hat and said a number of things of a suggestive nature. I was pleased to see that most of them went over Opal’s head, and I really didn’t understand some of it myself, though I laughed as if I did.
All this time the air was getting thicker with smoke, and sure enough I thought I smelled a kind of sweet smell like they say pot makes. I had my eye peeled to catch any transaction if I could, but the lights were too dim.
You never saw such a gaggle of women in your life. I was glad to see that there weren’t many real young girls. Most of the women looked to be in their thirties. But there were women there in their forties and more.
Pretty soon the emcee announced the name of the first stripper. He must have been popular, because the women went wild, whistling and screaming and banging on the tables.
The lights went down to almost nothing, and a big spot was thrown on the back entrance, and here he came, a good-looking young man in a glittery tuxedo that seemed to be carrying out the “gold coast” theme.
The young man began to dance, and presently he gave a big kick, let out a yell, and took off his coat. He tossed it into the air and the emcee caught it, and the young man went right on jigging. Then in a minute he took off his bow tie and flung it into the air. The emcee dashed out again and caught it.
Each time the young man gave an extra big kick and yelled, it was a sign he was going to take off something else. The women just went wild.
Off came the shirt. Well, there was an undershirt underneath that. Then the undershirt came off, and I’ll have to admit that that young man was right well developed.
The next time something had to come off, he came down to the lowest tier of tables, swung his foot up on one of them, reared back and snapped his fingers, yelling while one of those silly women there unlaced his shoe. Then he took the shoe and tossed it to the emcee.
After he got off his shoes and socks, he took off his trousers; and there he was in boxer shorts like the ones Lamar used to wear, only they weren’t so baggy as Lamar’s.
I’ll have to admit that that boy looked very sexy gyrating around in those shorts; but if there is any art in it, it is an art I am not accustomed to.
Finally he unfastened the boxer shorts one button at a time and did a kind of shimmy as they fell to the floor leaving him in just a gold G-string a little bigger than three postage stamps.
Those crazy women were in a regular pandemonium, shouting and applauding and whistling. And the more eagerly they responded, the more vulgar the dance got.
There didn’t seem to be a hair on his body; and by that time, he had worked up quite a sweat and simply glistened. Meanwhile, from somewhere they had begun to manipulate colored lights so that they flashed on him, and he writhed around there in those changing lights. When he turned his back, there was so little of the G-string back there that it looked like he was totally nude. I didn’t dare look at Opal, though I would have given a pretty penny for a snapshot of her face just then.
About that time I began to see what the
purpose of the whole procedure was. The young man danced up among the tables and came wiggling around among the shrieking women as they stuffed bills into the band that held up his G-string. I saw one woman tuck in a twenty dollar bill, and she looked like she was old enough to be a grandmother. Well, everybody to her own notion!
After he had enticed as much money out of the crowd as he thought he could, he gave a huge leap, gathered up all his clothes from the emcee and went running out the rear door yelling like an Apache Indian. The women were beside themselves.
Then it calmed down and the combo quit for a breather.
I whispered to Opal and told her to stay right where she was, because I was going on my tour of inspection.
Taking my pocketbook, I slipped through the rear door. Just beyond it, I found that I was standing in a hall that led off to my left to an office of some kind and to my right to a door that opened on Seventh Street. Directly ahead of me was a stairway going down to the basement. From odors that wafted upstairs, I could tell that they had had to put the kitchen down there, which wouldn’t be at all convenient. And sure enough, just about that time, I had to get out of the way of a waiter with a big tray. Later on, I found out that the dressing room for the dancers was down there too.
Down the hall a little way to the right was the ladies’ rest room, which was where I wanted to go first. It was done up in fancy wallpaper that didn’t disguise the fact that the place was none too clean. I cased the joint and saw that it would suit my purposes just fine. I was ready to operate.
I went back into the hall and turned toward the end where I had seen the office. The hall itself was not very brightly lighted, which was all to the good for my purposes. I boldly opened the office door and walked quickly into the room.
There were two men sitting there on either side of a big desk. I opened my eyes very wide.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said. “I thought this was the ladies’ room.
Now, who on earth could make such a dumb mistake? An old woman eighty-six years old can. That’s who. And she can get away with more than that too.
I told the men I was eighty-six years old; and while I was saying it, I kept coming into the room.
“I asked them out there,” I said in a dazed kind of voice, “and they said the ladies’ room was to the left.”
One of the men had got his cigar out of his mouth and was about to tell me to go about my business, but I was not ready to let him tell me to do anything. I just came on up to the desk and rested my hand on it with my pocketbook hanging from my wrist. “You know we old ladies get mixed up sometimes, and you just have to put up with us.”
Then I made a motion as if I was going to lift my hand for something and let the pocketbook upset a stack of magazines on the corner of the desk. Some of them slid off onto the floor.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said in the most authentic confusion you ever saw. “Look what I have done!” and I began to reach down to pick up the magazines. Of course, the young man behind the desk got up immediately. “I’ll get those things. I’ll get those things,” he said.
“No, no,” I said, and I replaced one of the magazines on the desk. He picked up the rest. The two of them fussed around arranging them in a stack. By that time they certainly were disgusted. I said to the one who had been seated at the desk, “Are you the manager of this club?”
The other man said, “Jesus Christ!” in sort of an undertone.
I turned and got my first good look at him. And would you believe it? He was one of those drivers we had seen at Borderville Transfer—the dark one that always reminds me of a Confederate veteran. He looked different because he had on a suit.
“Clear out, Joe. I’ll take care of this, and we can do the other stuff later,” the younger man said.
Then he looked at me and said, “I am the owner.”
“And what is your name?” I asked.
“Dunk Yardley,” he answered.
So you see I had him.
“Oh,” I said, “you aren’t Tony Yardley’s boy are you?”
“Grandson,” he muttered.
“Of course! Of course!” I beamed. “I used to know Tony so well—I guess it was sixty years ago. She was one great old gal. We used to cut up together.
“Well, Dunk, you certainly have a fine club here. How long have you been open for business?”
He said he had opened in the last part of April.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve been out of town, and I just didn’t know about it. Now, if you’ll tell me where the ladies’ room is, I won’t bother you anymore.”
And I’ll have you know that he personally escorted me to the ladies’ room! I went in, and he probably thought that was the end of the episode.
Just as soon as the door closed, I put my pocketbook in the farthest corner. I wadded up some paper towels and put them over it. That rest room was just filthy enough that nobody would think there was a purse under that mess. Then I flushed the toilet in case Dunk happened to be close enough to hear.
I stepped down the hall, poked my head into the office, and said, “Dunk, I hate to bother you again, but I think I must have left my pocketbook in here.”
Well, that gave rise to a grand search, which was just what I wanted. While he was looking for the bag, I was getting a good look at everything he had in the room. But there was nothing out in the open that would support my suspicions.
I said, “I believe I may have left my purse in the ladies’ room after all.” And, of course, that was the truth.
So I toddled down the hall again to the ladies’ room to retrieve my pocketbook. If Dunk thought he was shut of me, he wasn’t; for I went right back to his office and flounced in saying, “I found it! I found it!” in a jubilation that should have won me an Academy Award.
“Oh, Dunk, I’m so relieved,” I said as I perched myself on his desk, accidentally hiking my skirt up so I could display my knobby old leg.
There is nothing that puts a man off more than close proximity to a woman that he fundamentally does not want. Age has absolutely nothing to do with this principle, but it sure does diminish the desirability of the woman.
So I sat there and casually opened my bag and began to powder my nose. Oh, he might have felt differently about me if I had been sixty years younger.
“Dunk,” I said as I was looking at myself in the mirror of my compact, “I couldn’t help noticing that a lot of the girls in there in the club were smoking pot. Are you a dealer?”
He was quick to deny it. He said he couldn’t keep his customers from bringing it into the club, but he certainly hoped I wouldn’t get the idea that he was a pusher.
“Oh, Dunk,” I said, “I was hoping I could buy a joint—I think that’s what they call it now—from you. When Tony and I were young, we used to call them reefers.” And I made up one or two escapades about Tony and what a wild crew we used to be.
“Dunk, I want to smoke a reefer again. Won’t you sell me just one?”
“I’m not a pusher,” he said for the third time, “but I’ll give you one of my own if you will smoke it right here.”
“Dunk, you are a darling,” I said; and I’ll probably go to hell for saying it, for he certainly was no darling. He reached in his pocket and took out a little leather case, from which he took this little rolled-up thing.
I put the little cigarette in my mouth. “Light it for me,” I said and leaned forward.
He got out his cigarette lighter and held the flame up for me.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said when he saw I was in business. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a little present.”
With that he turned toward his grandfather’s wall safe, which was closed but not locked. He pulled it open and took half a dozen marijuana cigarettes out of a big box.
Now, all of that was going on behind my back because of the way I was sitting. But I had my vanity in my hand and could get a pretty good look into the safe. I could see lots of little transparent packages, and
I can tell you it wasn’t all pot. In fact, if I had been dumb enough, I might have said some of it was sugar. Of course, he shut the door of the safe right away; and when he turned around, you can be sure I was looking somewhere else.
“How much do you charge?” I asked.
“Just be my guest.”
I told him again that he was a darling and threw my arms around him and kissed him so that he was very happy to get rid of me when I finally left his office with my pocketbook and my reefers and of course the first joint that he had given me, from which I had taken only two real drags.
I went back into the club and announced to Opal: “We can go now.”
JOSEPH’S COAT OF A CERTAIN COLOR
Helen Delaporte
On the twelfth of June, Henry and I celebrated our anniversary by going to the Loft Theater in Ambrose Courthouse. The play was A Doll’s House—not at all the sort of play to commemorate an anniversary—but very well staged.
It was a clear, cool evening with a nearly full moon high above the Blue Ridge as we drove the seventeen miles back to Borderville. I thanked Henry for a lovely evening. We don’t go out together—just the two of us—as often as we once did. There are so many things that pull us in opposite directions: his preparation of briefs at all hours and any number of civic responsibilities, and my music along with so many other things, not the least of which is the Old Orchard Fort Chapter. Thank God for anniversaries and an old-fashioned date with my husband.
Out of our silence Henry said, “Are men really as stupid as Torvald?”
“Torvald!” I exclaimed. “He’s not the stupid one in that play. Nora is the nitwit.”
Henry professed to be amazed at my attitude. But it is a fact. If Nora had had any sense at all, she could have made Torvald Helmer into absolutely anything she might have wanted. I have never come across in life or fiction any man as much a lump of dough as Torvald Helmer. All he needed was to be punched down several times and allowed to rise again. Any intelligent woman could have handled him and had an excellent husband in the final product.
The Famous Dar Murder Mystery Page 13