“Yep, I’m afraid so, Joyce. I’m as rotten as they come, drink gin and tonic, smoke too much and chase pretty women when I can.”
She laughed. “Oh! I’ll bet you’re not that bad…if I were younger…I’d like you…in my…life…Cable…lady….good-night now…” She grabbed her purse from off the bar and disappeared into the crowd.
“Well…” Misty Sheridan said, studying my face. “So you’re a cop moonlighting as a customer, huh? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Oh, I’ve been here once or twice before, Miss Sheridan, but on the nights they only had dancing. I do need to say how much I enjoyed your singing—and all the rest of you that comes in that package you’re wearing.”
She laughed. “I can see you’re a man who says what he feels and doesn’t mince words, uh, was it Denning?”
“Cable…call me Cable.”
“I’ve got to go, now. I have another number coming up. Will I see you again sometime? I always like it when I’ve won over a new fan.”
“Well, you sure won me over tonight. When you’re up there singing, a guy can take that ride to fantasyland…imagine all the dreams he ever dreamed with a babe can come true with you, because he can feel it…feel the electricity run through him as you sing…right down to his shoes and make him feel his life’s been incomplete until now. Then he wants to take you home, own the heart and body that lives underneath that dress you’re wearing, tear down the walls of pretend and become a haunted thing of desire and passion, longing and lust.” She looked away for a minute, searching over the crowd as she leaned against the bar. She was breathing deeper and that ample bosom of hers heaved right along with those wonderful lungs.
“I’ve—I’ve, uh, never heard anyone talk like that, Cable—please call me Misty. I mean, I’ve got no come back words.”
“It’s okay, I blab a bit too much sometimes. It’s part of what I do. So, you see, Misty Sheridan, that’s the kind of emotion you stir up in some guys. You make ‘em want to know you…the whole you…but have to realize one day that something so exquisite can’t be owned, maybe borrowed, begged for, stolen or left dead in a penthouse because you won’t let anyone else have her.”
She leaned forward toward me. “Is that how you feel toward me, Cable? Are you so possessive you would murder me after you have me so no one else can?” She sipped down the rest of her drink. “That was good, thank you. I enjoyed talking to you.”
“No, Misty, that was just a general statement. Actually, my emotion plate is pretty full just about now. I don’t mean just babes, but my cop work has recently taken me into some pretty serious crap.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now.” She extended her hand. It was a bit cool. “Will I see you again? I hope I do….I mean I really hope I do. Maybe we could have a drink together sometime. I like the way you talk, Mister. And maybe you’d like to know a little more about me…oh, and there’s one other thing you should know, just in case.”
“And, uh, what might that be?”
“I’m not into men. I have a female lover and those needs are well taken care of. But that doesn’t prevent me from enjoying the company of a man, now, does it?” Then she walked away, those marvelous buttocks doing that dance in her tight dress. Well…that took me by surprise. I always thought when I heard of a homosexual woman as knock-out gorgeous as Misty Sheridan, that it was a terrible waste of a good woman—that some handsome, virile man could be taking care of that wet, warm womanhood of hers the way God intended. Oh, well, live a little, learn a lot…
As I left the place, Misty had begun to sing a sexy version of Rock-a-Bye Your Baby in a way that made it a million miles apart from the Al Jolson version, which always smacked of the black minstrel parody he did so well. Well, maybe someday when Honey was off and making a movie somewhere, I’d come back and catch Misty Sheridan singing something wonderful at the Café Montmartre.
Dream a Little Dream of Me
A few days went by and I felt restless waiting for Charlie Chaplin to call Honey and tell her when old man Hearst was inviting the United Artists bunch up to the castle in San Simeon. Finally, the day came and Chaplin said it was okay if I went along and that a few other folks would be in his limo party, including a little blonde number by the name of Virginia Cherrill. Honey suspected the little tramp was tramping around, screwing his favorites and maybe whoever slept with him the most during the filming of City Lights would end up being the co-star. Honey told me it definitely would not be her. City Lights was the story of the usual bungling tramp with a big heart who befriends a blind flower girl on a street corner. Eventually he falls in love with her, robs a bank with a buddy and uses the money to pay for a sight restoration operation on the flower girl. He gets caught and put into prison. But now Chaplin was stuck and didn’t know how to end the story. He never used a script and sometimes would dream up an idea and re-work it for weeks at a time while the cast sat around bored to tears until the genius tramp came up with the solution. But I guess you couldn’t knock the guy, he’d had one hell of a track record with that same character over and over, re-working his subtleties until something new or original was achieved. Chaplin told Honey he was absolutely convinced that City Lights would be his best picture ever.
One night after I got off work and had said goodnight to Mario, I was approached by someone I vaguely recognized. He was the man who pursued me that day after Ardizzone’s funeral. Yeah, Joe Lorena was his handle, if I recalled rightly— consigliere for Jack Dragna’s mob.
He walked up to me. “Officer Denning.” He extended his hand. It was a warm handshake. “You may not remember me—but I’m Joe Lorena—we spoke some time ago. A rather awkward day, it was—”
“—after you guys bumped off Ardizzone and some other non-entity. A funeral, Lorena, a perfect place for guys like you to hang out. Just dig a bunch of holes and push ‘em in as you go.”
“That’s uncalled for, officer—and it isn’t what I came about today.”
“So what brings you by?—I’m tired and busy these days. And frankly, I don’t have much patience for hoodlums. The last time we met, you warned me off and told me I was in deeper shit than I thought. Guess what? I’m in even deeper shit now.”
I was looking directly into those fathomless eyes of his. That was the one thing I’d noticed before. He wasn’t a bad sort of character. What in the hell was he doing as the talking head for the syndicate? “I realize you are. Maybe I can help. But this isn’t about my business life, officer—”
“—cut the bullshit and call me Cable, okay?”
“Cable, then…it’s about Honey Combes, now Lana Loren. I need to talk to her and since the two of you—”
“—oh, yeah, you’re the guy who knows everyone else’s love life, aren’t you? Do you get off on the sexual comings and goings of active, young people? I remember now…you mentioned Honey the afternoon we met. So whatta ya wanna see her for?”
“I would like to have a private conversation with her—with you present, of course. Nothing hidden or ulteriorly motivated, I assure you.”
“Well, now you’ve got my curiosity piqued. What possible connection could you have with Honey?”
“Please, Cable. Call me Joe. I would like you both to be sitting when I share with you what I need to communicate to Honey.”
“Sounds strange to me, Joe Lorena. But I’ll ask her. Worst she can say is ‘no.’”
“But I must see her. It affects her entire earth life. And you—”
“—earth life? You sound like a science fiction writer. What kind of crap do you read?”
Of course, I could tell him about the weird shit that’d already been spinning into my life. Things like the Fen de Fuqin, my ultra-dimensional trip with Lei-tao in the Cave of the Seven Truths, Toggth’s arrival and his weird stuff, not to mention the now-deceased Hatchet Man, etcetera. “Just a fifteen minute audience. That’s all I ask.”
“Well, Joe, I’ll do my best. I don�
�t even think she knows you, does she?”
“Yes and no,” Lorena answered, making the mystery deeper.
I told him I’d ask Honey and he gave me a phone number where I could reach him. It was already Saturday and I thought I’d go home, clean up and go catch the last part of Honey’s performance at the Bella Notte and then take her home. I said good-bye to Lorena and got to my little flat. Toggth had done a good job of “disappearing” the Hatchet Man and his goon. I checked my mail and there was a postcard from Chinatown, San Francisco. The front was a hand-colored picture of the Dragon Gate. I flipped it over and read a very neatly printed script in red ink. “Naughty man kill Hatchet Man…Hurt her pride, now she cry inside…” It was unsigned and I thought for a minute that it could’ve come from Lei-tao. But why would she write? Besides, she was off in some other dimension getting recharged or regenerated or something like that.
I washed up, put on some clean clothes and was combing my hair when the door buzzer rang. I reached in my dresser drawer and took out my .38. I crept over toward the side of the door. “Yeah? Who’s there—and it better not be the bogey man.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Let Jack in.”
I opened the door and welcomed one of my favorite, crazy characters. “Hey, there, Crazy Jack—long time no see. You sure nailed things on my San Francisco train trip. Between you and Madame Palladino, who needs fortune tellers, eh?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Cigarette! Cigarette!” he insisted, as he always did around me. I went to my dresser drawer, took out a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes and tucked it in his pocket. Then I offered him one of mine from an open pack. “Want one now? Here…”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Face of Mars like other stars—over your head—but not dead…but I don’t know!”
“What are you saying, Jack—no comprendo the lingo, buddy.”
“Man you see…no strange key to Honey Bee! But I don’t know! I don’t know! Look at eyes, deep surprise—when you realize…things are new…and only few…can know…but I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“Let me see here now…man I see…that must be Lorena…face of Mars—not dead? Something to do with Honey—my singing girlfriend?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! She be smart to quit the ark—for music find a new palace to sing a song—but I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“Crazy Jack—are you saying, as you did before, that the Bella Notte is not a good place for Honey to hang around?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Someone die—who knows why? If bell be rung, Honey Bee get stung. Help her now—someone come who is not dumb—but I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“Wanna take a ride out to the Bella Notte right now with me? I’ll sneak you in the side entrance so we can watch Honey from the wings. Do you like American popular standards—like what they play on the radio?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Music a poem, rhyme in time…make Jack think of a happy time… but I don’t know! I don’t know. The Photes! The Photes are coming!”
“You’re still going on about that, eh? Just when are the photes coming, Jack?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” He was puffing away on his cigarette. “Good cigarette! You are good to Crazy Jack, Cable Denning.”
“Well, Jack ol’ boy, I aim to please. And you’re just as good a people as anybody I know in this world. Never let anyone tell you different.” He hit me affectionately on the shoulder and we left together.
Jack and I rode along on the streetcar. People looked at us and shunned the sight of Crazy Jack. Me? I liked the guy, maybe a screw loose here or there, maybe even his chemistry was out of whack, but you know, he was truer than many a friend others might have in this world. And isn’t that what really counts? Sometimes we get our priorities mixed up, like who’s crazy and who isn’t, who’s good looking enough even though she may be empty inside, or who’s gonna be there for you when the chips are down and most of your so-called “friends” disappear? It was an issue the ego wrestled with—how does a guy not be attracted to a gorgeous young dame with a great body, fun personality and an intelligent enough head to get you the grocery store? And if she’s musically talented, well, in my book that’s the icing on the cake, the thing I couldn’t resist if they tied me to an Inquisition stake and set it afire. I’d still be up there yelling and burning that music was the one thing that kept me sane, kept me alive in the world, brought me the smell of the barroom floor with all the memories in the sawdust you could dream up for a thousand years, the smoke-filled room with the jaunty laughter of people loosened up from the stupidity of taking ourselves too seriously on this nutso planet. Yeah, that’s when I secretly came alive…and add to that a pretty babe with a body that shows through a skin-tight gown, glowing up there on the stage in a see-through show of movement, color and sound. Yep, that was better than going to the picture shows for me.
Crazy Jack and I entered the club from a side entrance Honey had shown me. It was dark and Honey was singing this knock-‘em-out rendition of Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man of Mine. She was so sexy tonight and the lyrics wrapped around her like warm silk in a Swedish steam bath. Crazy Jack was mesmerized by Honey’s performance and never said a word during her song, but twitched his wrists like it was the only way he could be without being totally still.
When Honey wrapped up her tune, I took Crazy Jack by the sleeve and pulled him toward the stage where Honey stood accepting the applause she so richly deserved. “Honey Combes—what, are you living out of Harlem these days? Baby, are you sure you’re a white girl?” I laughed.
She came down and hugged me, took a double-take at Crazy Jack and I hugged her back. “I don’t know, big boy, could be there’s a little black blood circulating around in my tonsils,” she quipped back at me.
“This—this, uh, is Crazy Jack. Remember, I told you about him before. He’s kinda—kind of ‘hooked up’ to the psychic world. Helped me a lot with the San Francisco adventure.”
Honey was never prejudiced and accepted Jack as I accepted him from the start. “Good to meet you, Jack, I’m Honey—you can call me Honey. Which reminds me, Cable, you know you’ve never shared with me most of what happened on your San Francisco escapade.”
“The photes—the photes are coming!—they’ll get you—go…home…I don’t know! I don’t know! Cigarette!”
Jack had gotten very nervous all of a sudden. I took out a cigarette from the pack I had given him and lit him up. I looked at a puzzled Honey. “He—he, uh, keeps talking about these ‘photes,’ creatures or something I’ve never seen. So we kind of go along with him, you know.”
Honey looked out into the crowd. “Do you see any photes in the audience, Jack?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Everywhere! They’re everywhere! But I don’t know! I don’t know!”
The bandleader motioned to Honey to return to the stage as the crowd was getting restless and wanted more of her. If Jack and I had felt our collars get warm with Honey’s arrangement of the Show Boat song, we hadn’t heard anything yet as she launched into the hottest, most sensual version of Makin’ Whoopee I’d ever heard. When the notes reached their naughty ends, the crowd went wild and many people at their tables stood up to hail the new songstress diva, the new queen of the American Popular Songbook.
On the way home on the streetcar with Crazy Jack sitting across from us, I could feel Honey’s body still perspiring from her night of hard work. “Cable, will you marry me?” she said out of the blue.
My mouth was put out of commission. The only thing I knew how to do with it at that minute was to make light of the situation. I looked over at Crazy Jack. “Do you think I should marry the girl, Crazy Jack?” I asked of my friend.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” he cried, tears welling in his eyes as he clenched his hands together and started rocking back and forth.
“I guess that’s a no—or maybe?” Honey purred w
ith her wonderful sense of humor.
Jack’s unshaven, grisly face showed a rare emotion I had not seen before. “Go home now…but I don’t know! I don’t know!”
We let Crazy Jack out downtown. Before he left he put his hand on my shoulder, his arm shook as he spoke. “Funny…ha! funny tilt brings guilt something maybe eighty—but I don’t know! I don’t know!” Then he got off the streetcar. Honey and I looked at each other as we also got off and transferred to another streetcar. Again, what in the hell could Crazy Jack mean?
When we got out near her place, we walked along in silence for a few minutes. “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Policeman,” she said, squeezing my hand.
“That’s because I have the same answer Crazy Jack had,” I said, wincing and hoping that my answer didn’t upset Honey.
“That’s what I thought. You know, Cable, for me it’s getting closer to now or never because I don’t want to live a life with you hanging out in some dirty little flat—when you could hang out in my dirty little cottage with me and Zelda,” she snickered half to herself.
I made a big sigh as we walked along. “You know how I feel about you, babe. That’s not it.” Of course I was also thinking of Adora Moreno in that particular moment. “It’s a crazy time, Honey—for you, for me—new dice have been tossed across the table and I don’t know what’ll come up—boxcars or snake eyes.”
“What if it’s something in between? My life is getting crazy, too, Cable. I need an anchor…someplace to go that’s really comfy and filled with love and put together by the two of us. A real home, my darling man.” She stopped and held me. Then reached up to kiss me. Her warm lips told me she was in love and completely mine, present and accounted for. What made me hesitate? Any other bloke in his right mind would jump at the chance to be with a dish like Honey. Why was I so removed in my heart and mind? It wasn’t that I didn’t love her. I did, and when we were together she was a delight—in all ways.
Golden Throat Page 24