Cease to Blush

by Billie Livingston

  She shades her eyes until she can make out an orange shirt and black trousers.

  “Come join the party, have a few laughs and keep Annie company.”

  “Um, no—thank you—I think I’ll just stay here.”

  He drops down on his haunches. “What’s your clyde, baby? I thought we made nice last night. I thought things were copacetic between us.”

  “I’m about to have breakfast.”

  “So, have it at my place, for chrissake.” He looks at her magazine. “You shouldn’t be reading that junk anyway.”

  “I’d like to be by myself right now. But, thanks.”

  He is quiet a second, then, “You got a problem with that broad? It was Annie said I should come get you. She woulda come herself but she says you don’t like her.”

  Celia shrugs. “I’m just not up to company right now.”

  “Jesus Christ, drop a grudge.” He stalks off.

  She closes her eyes and wishes for Miami. She misses Tina and Glenda. And the Fontainebleau. And her bikini.

  An hour later she is back in the room. She calls the front desk for messages. Nothing. A moment later, the phone rings. “Hello, my lovely. It’s Johnny. How has your day been?”

  “Hi-i-i …” It isn’t Teddy but something about Rosselli smoothes her. “I’ve just been lying outside, reading. I saw Sinatra.”

  “He told me,” he chuckles. “You make a guy work. You don’t even like Annie.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “You said so last night—you called her a liar. Actually you said deceitful, which I thought was a mouthful for a girl in your state. Then you said you don’t like Frank cuz he treated her bad.”

  “Well, no one should—I don’t have to explain myself.”

  “You don’t. Plans this evening? If not, may I escort you again?”

  Celia sits up. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Terrific. Eight-thirty? We’ll have dinner and catch a show.”

  She puts the receiver down and digs her fingers into her hair. Reaching her arms up and back, she stretches, releases a primordial squeal at the ceiling then skips to the radio on the wall and runs the dial up and down until she finds a classical station.

  Sitting down on the floor, she bends forward and begins slowly stretching her body, pulling at each muscle until it aches.

  After a manicure, a pedicure and an hour of fussing her hair into a French roll and her face into Frencher makeup, she puts on two petticoats, holds her strapless red dress up and stands in front of the bedroom mirror swinging the skirt, relishing the weight of it. She slips into her gold-toed pumps then does a foxtrot, dipping herself, high-kicking and flashing enough leg to make her mother shriek.

  The phone rings and she flings her dress across the floor, herself across the bed. She slaps the receiver out of its cradle and a throaty man-voice hits her ear.

  “Hello there, I’m lookin’ for Celia. Z’at Celia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Celia, honey, this is Louis Prima. We met last night in the restaurant.”

  “Hi, Mr. Prima!”

  “Louis to you, sweetheart. Honey, you ain’t heard nothin’ from Keely, did you?”

  “Keely? No, why would I hear from her?”

  “Ah, well, Keely ain’t feelin’ so hot and she might need someone to do a little vocalizin’ in her place. And you gots vocal. You consider doin’ a couple songs with me in the lounge tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he rasps. “You can sing like nobody’s business and hell if you can’t jump.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. How’s aboutchu do the midnight show with us—crowd needs a pretty girl up there or they all gonna take an exit.”

  “Keely won’t mind?”

  “You’d be helpin’ us out. I had to do the last couple shows by myself last night. When she took off with Sam, she—”

  “Sam Butera?”

  “No, d’other Sam—”

  “Sammy Davis.”

  “No, the Sam that threw those fireworks under our chairs.”

  “Lot of Sams around here.”

  Another wheezy laugh from Prima. “You got stage experience, don’tcha?”

  “Um, yes. A bit.” If high school musicals count. And the sideshow at a carnival.

  “I knew you musta. This’ll getchu lotsa people watchin’. Who knows who gonna see!”

  “Oh my god. This is so nice of you, Mr. Prima. And Keely. Tell Keely thank-you.”

  “Stop callin’ me mistah, you gonna give me a rash. Meet me at the Sands lounge round eleven and I’ll clue you on the show.”

  Celia puts the receiver down. She jumps up and down on the bed and screams, “Me! Me! Me!” over and over. She stops and looks at the phone. Her stepfather would drop dead if he knew. Stewart’d jump right up on the bed with her.

  A speck of desolation creeps inward, spreading like lava until she starts to jump again, harder, higher. She forces a giggle until it’s real.

  Over dinner she tells Rosselli every word of her talk with Prima. She’s too anxious to eat; her fork raps a backbeat against the rim of her dinner plate. Rosselli reaches across and stills her hand. He tells her to be careful.

  “Careful? I’m going to be good.”

  “We should get you over to the Sands soon. Maybe get a shot down your hatch so you won’t be nervous. How old are you, Celia?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  He sips his vodka.

  “What? I am. I was born in 1938.”

  “Very good. Don’t suppose you recall your birthday too, do you?”

  Her face reddens and he raises his hand. “Never mind. I hope Teddy gets you out of this town soon. Before they ruin you.” He waves to their waiter.

  In the lounge, they find Prima sitting on his own with a glass of something amber over ice. He stands when he sees them. “Miss Celia and the Great John Rosselli.”

  Johnny shakes his hand and nods. Prima rubs at the back of his neck. “So. So, you two gonna have a—?” The waitress slips in before he can finish. “I was thinkin’—” he takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket “—bout makin’ you a list, but no point cuz I just call out what’s cookin’. You know, ‘That Old Black Magic’—you done great with that last night. You jump in when you know em, sing backup with the boys or you can dance. And ah, you wanna do a solo? You up to doin’ ‘I Got it Bad’?”

  “You paying her for this?” Rosselli’s cool eyes burrow.

  Prima looks at him. “Huh?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to pay me, I just—” she stammers.

  “It’s work, isn’t it? Isn’t this about work, Louis?” Rosselli keeps his gaze on Prima.

  “Sure, John, I’m gonna pay her. What kinda dough we lookin’ at? How’s about—”

  Celia opens her mouth, but the sound comes out of Rosselli’s. “I think three’s fair.”

  “Three hun’red? Dems a lotta nuts for one squirrel.”

  Celia shakes her head. “Johnny, don’t be—” She stops. He still hasn’t blinked.

  Prima rubs his neck again. “Hey, what we gettin’ all serious for, baby? We in Vegas!”

  “What’s Keely think is fair, Louis?”

  “She thinks like me, John: three hun’red’s a good deal for a performer like this gal here, last minute and all.” He downs his scotch and wipes his mouth, keeps his eyes to himself. “Okay, I’m headin’ to the Casbah, catch me a catnap before I hit the stage. You comin’ or should I meetchu a’quarter t’twelve?”

  “She’ll meet you.”

  Celia grasps the bulk of Louis’s arms and kisses his cheek. “Thank you so much for this chance. You won’t be sorry.”

  Rosselli slides the ice around in his glass of Smirnoff.

  She sits, looks at him. “What was that?”

  He pushes his lips out and down, says nothing.

  “I’ve only been working for this my whole life, for crying out loud!”

  “And that’s
a long long time,” he muses.

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “Married man. You don’t want to get in the middle of that.”

  “What, so he just wants to, to—do a. little hey-hey?”

  “Make a little hey-hey.” He smirks.

  “Some people think I have talent, you know.”

  She huffs and looks away until he asks, “How old do you think Keely was when he took up with her? Sixteen.” He gazes out to the casino. “She had talent too.”

  Celia’s eyes flick as she sips.

  Less than an hour later, the Casbah Theater Lounge buzzes with Prima’s announcement. “And tonight’s special guest: New York’s fabulous Celia Dare.” Blood roars in her ears at the sound of her name, and the zoom and pound of the band courses up her legs.

  As the curtain opens, the audience seems to be talking more amongst themselves than anything. Prima waves the curtain closed again. Five seconds later, it opens and the audience continues to babble and gawk. He closes it again. Finally the crowd catches on and whistles and stomps till Prima opens up. “You awake now? You kids bettah perk up out there—Yeah, that’s it, smile when you say my name,” and with that he starts into “When You’re Smilin’” and Celia chimes in backup with the Witnesses, trying to get the feel of Keely inside as the voice falls out. But she just can’t keep up that sly calmness and by the time Prima slips into “Just a Gigolo,” Celia is out-goofing them all. Butera pulls one hand from his sax just long enough to hand her a couple maracas.

  She shakes the bulbous rattles a minute or so then stuffs them in Louis’s back pockets. He clowns a giant “Oh” as if he were getting molested but-good. His ass-end rattle-shakes a rhythm and Celia jives with him. She spins off and dances around Butera as he lambastes the Casbah with his sax.

  Louis stands centre stage, turns round and round: “Anybody seen a good-lookin’ blonde?” He bends forward, stuffs his head between his knees and tries to look up Celia’s skirt as she jumps him from behind, vaults across his back, petticoats flying under the screaming raspberry of her dress. The audience claps and roars her full of euphoria.

  Annie is in the lounge, watching from a table this time, her mouth open. This kid can do anything. She’s a natural, aping Prima’s big-galloot moves.

  Annie’s escort, Ike, lights her cigarette and whispers, “Those things’ll kill ya,” in her ear. She takes a long drag, turns her head and blows smoke in his face. He growls. A tingle up her neck, Annie glances over her shoulder, scanning the people at the bar, jolts when she sees his face again. For chrissake, that has to be him. She nudges Ike. “See that guy over there in the brown sport coat, the one that needs a haircut? He look familiar to you?”

  Ike looks over. “Seen him yesterday. Some drifter hittin’ me up for a job at the Riv. Probably just stick his fingers in the wrong pot and end up in the desert with a busted head. Sent him packin’.”

  She nods.

  When it comes time for her solo, Celia closes her eyes and sings “Night and Day” as though she were back home in her living room, sitting on the piano, her parents’ friends ready to applaud. She opens her eyes only when Louis starts horsing around—“Night and day, whatchu think I’m made of?” Soon he has the beat loping a little faster as he starts harmonizing with “Up A Lazy River.”

  Not only is Rosselli watching from the bar but she can see how many famous kissers are in the crowd too—Shirley MacLaine and Milton Berle. When she catches sight of Cyd Charisse, her stomach turns. She feels foolish suddenly, the audacity of performing in front of a dancer like Charisse.

  Prima catches the look on her face and tries to follow her gaze but sees someone else entirely. The band takes his cue into the shuffle-beat of “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home” as Prima substitutes Baby with Keely.

  The music continues to thump and Celia freezes. Keely is standing right next to Charisse, healthy as a country girl and damn pissed off. Why is everyone such a goddamn liar? She pulls herself together. Striding to Prima’s microphone, she harmonizes with “Cuz your big daddy is fawwl-lin apart …” Smoke curls across Keely’s blank stare. Soon Prima bellows, “My baby’s here! She’s feelin’ better. Sam-there-boy, call up Keely with that-there horn-a-yorn, call my baby home to Papa. Get ’er marchin’ on to me.”

  Butera’s sax howls into “When the Saints Go Marching In,” but Keely doesn’t move.

  Her breastbone ready to crack, Celia dances and claps her way off the stage, as though she is heading into the congregation at a revival meeting. The crowd parts. She heads straight for Keely.

  When she gets there, Celia throws her hands in the air and kneels before Keely, arms outstretched, fingers flicking heavenward. Keely shakes her head no.

  Celia stands, looks into the other woman’s eyes and hears Keely say, “He can’t do this to me, he can’t do it anymore.”

  She takes Keely’s hands and says, “I’m just a poor stand-in while he waits for the real thing.”

  Keely lets herself be led onto the stage, where the gang of them outwail even the best Southern Baptists. Louis gets down on his knees in front of Keely, genuflecting, bowing, prostrate. Celia dances a walk around them, eyes closed, arms flailing.

  The Casbah explodes, every voice and foot onstage and off rejoicing.

  When the curtain closes, none of the performers speak. Louis takes Keely in his arms and Celia floats out into the lounge. She wanders through the chattering and cackles of the crowd, the clinking of the slot machines and hears nothing. Weightless.

  Annie catches her by the wrist. “My god, that was fantastic. You were hotter than hot, girl!” When Celia doesn’t respond, Annie introduces her date. “This is Ike Epstein, he manages the casino at that Riviera. Ike was just saying we should take you for a drink.”

  Celia gazes past them. Finally she says, “Annie, you and I aren’t going to be friends.”

  Ike tugs Annie’s arm. “She ain’t worth your trouble.”

  “Gimme a minute,” she tells him and jerks her arm loose. “Better yet, why don’t you call me tomorrow.”

  “Broad doesn’t want nothin’ to do with you.” When Annie doesn’t budge, he throws up his hands. “I ain’t callin’ you tomorrow.” He makes off toward the craps tables.

  Celia wanders toward the front doors. Annie goes after her. “Just—please, I—” Celia stops and faces her. “I know I’ll never be able to—” Annie swipes her forehead in frustration. “Listen, I’m really sorry for the place I sent you. I didn’t know how bad it was. But I have to tell you, I think I saw that Okie Joe character in here. I heard that you had a falling-out with him and I thought you might want to know.”

  Celia just stares.

  “I met him when I came around to find you at the Sherman show. He told me you were gone and he seemed pretty hacked about it. I saw him in the lounge last night and then again while you were singing.”

  “You want to chase me out of Vegas now?”

  Annie’s chin begins to quiver.

  Celia heads for the doors, leaving Annie limp-limbed in the middle of the casino. Rosselli comes up from behind and hands her a crisp white hankie. “Don’t worry,” he tells her. “She’s just emotional right now: her first big break and getting caught in the middle of someone else’s marital problems. She’ll come round.”

  “No. She won’t.” She dabs at her eyes.

  “How’s about you let me buy you a pink lady?”

  Annie blows her nose. “I think I’ll go to my room, catch up on some beauty sleep.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yup.” She looks at the hankie in her hand.

  “You keep that.”

  Back at the Sands, Annie opens the door to her room and takes a last look down the hall just as Celia swishes around the corner, striding down to her room. A man walks twenty or thirty feet behind her. Celia searches her purse for the key. The man slows and the hair on Annie’s arms stands up. Just as Celia turns the lock he steps in and slaps a hand over her mouth.
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  “Celia!” Annie screeches.

  He shoves her in and slams the door behind.

  “Cecilia!” Annie reaches the room and starts to bang. “You sonuvabitch, open this door or I’m callin’ the cops.” She pounds and kicks.

  A murmur, then Celia’s voice, tiny and scratched. “It’s okay, Annie, go away.”

  “No! Celia, you come out here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m okay.” Her voice is quivery.

  Annie runs up the hall and grabs the house phone. “I need someone with a key at room 502. Please! It’s an emergency!”

  Celia’s shoulders are against the wall, an arm against her windpipe. She can see the glint of a pocket knife from the corner of her eye. Laboured breaths come in and out.

  “What a good little actress you are … It’s okay, Annie,” Okie Joe squawks. “You go ’way. I guess all thieves gotta be good actresses, huh?”

  “My boyfriend’s in the bedroo-kh …”

  He cuts off her air. “Oh, boyfriend!” he calls. “Are you home? He must be sleepin’. Can you breathe or am I leanin’ too hard?” Face red, she is choking. “Oh, don’t go dyin’ on me.” He lets up a little, switches the knife to the other hand and begins pulling pins from her hair. “I like it better down. And I like it dark, the way it used to be before you got all uppity and whorey.” He grabs a handful of hair and yanks her toward the bedroom. “Vegas Vegas Vegas … I just can’t believe my luck.”

  She cries out and falls on one knee.

  “Quit whining or I’ll slit your throat right now and god knows, I got every right to.”

  “I can pay you back and you can get out of here before he comes. I have money.”

  He hauls her along. “I’ll bet you got money if you can afford this joint. You hookin’ these days? You used to be nice when I first met you. Remember that?”

  The phone rings. “Teddy,” she says, her voice tears and gravel now.

  “Who’s Teddy? He got my car?” He kicks her legs out from under her. “Let’s getchu down on the floor just like old times. You were happy then, livin’ in a doghouse. Suited you.”

  “Teddy!” she screeches at the phone. “Please don’t hurt me. He’ll kill you. Teddy the Ghost. He’ll kill you—” The ringing stops.