by Grey, Harry
Eddie was sitting in the office of his hotel with his feet on the desk. He was reading one of his Gideon Bibles. We shook hands.
Maxie said, “How you douchin, Ed?”
“With cold water,” Eddie answered.
Maxie told him about the contract we received from the main office.
Eddie nodded his head. “Yeh, I heard.”
Max continued, “We need a couple of hundred 'zulus' to break heads tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“Okay, HI have them on call whenever you need them. Two hundred enough? Maybe an extra hundred?”
Max nodded. “Okay, three hundred.”
“How about the cops?” Eddie asked. “I'm going up to the office in half an hour, you want me to tell them?”
“Yep, Ed, if you're going up. You'll save us the trip.”
“Okay, then,” Max said. “We're going to relax, Ed. We're staying for the night.”
“With or without?” Eddie asked archly.
“What do you think,” Cockeye cut in, “we're vegetarians?”
Patsy said, “Cockeye's been eating plenty of oysters.”
“I'm not staying, Max,” I said.
“No party?” Max asked.
“I got a private party tonight.”
“Oh, the one with the nice—big ones?”
“Yeh,” I said.
Max smiled. “Okay—enjoy—enjoy—but early tomorrow. Six a.m. at Fat Moe's.”
“Yeh,” I said. “Six, at Fat Moe's. Hey, Max.”
“Yep?” he said.
“I was just thinking. Have Moe spike a couple of bottles of Mt. Vernon. We might need them for tomorrow.”
“With knock-out drops?”
“Yeh,” I said. “Spike them extra strong.”
“Okay, I'll call him tonight to have them ready for us in the morn-
“And a dozen glasses.”
“And a dozen glasses,” Max repeated.
“So long,” I said, “enjoy, enjoy.”
“So long, enjoy, enjoy,” they echoed after me.
I walked towards Broadway. I passed Gerhaty's Cordial Shop. That give me an idea. A good wine for supper, or maybe champagne. Yeh, a couple of magnums.
CHAPTER 34
I swung down Broadway. The weather was fair. It was just edging into dusk. The street was coming to life. The thousands of signs and millions of bulbs that were dead during the day, slowly came alive. At first, they came a few at a time, as if being given artificial respiration, then as the hot current rushed like a life-giving blood through all the arteries and veins, the signs blazoned, obscuring the sky.
And as if the current had magically charged into the traffic and people, the tempo of the street accelerated.
I am part of this, I thought. This infectious, bustling, rushing joy. Pretty prostitutes, neophytes and professionals, sparkled with the artificial brightness of rouge, mascara and lipstick. Their wandering, shining eyes sought among the crowd for the one interesting, generous man to whom to give themselves. Just for one night. That's all I saw: women, millions of beautiful women—all mine.
Already the episodes of the day were a memory. They were far back in my mind. I was in a happy glow of anticipation. I was an excited, happy guy, hurrying down Broadway as if to my first lay. I laughed. Yeh, me, Noodles, excited and anxious, as if I didn't get more than any guy, yeh, more than any guy alive, or in history. I'll bet within two or three blocks I could pick up five, ten, a hundred. This was mine, my Broadway. My happy hunting grounds, my private harem.
Ah, here's something cute.
I tipped my hat and smiled and said, “Hello, cutie pie.”
She smiled and murmured a melodious, “Hello, Baby.” I passed her by. She threw a come-follow-me smile over her shoulder. I laughed like a kid at his first flirt. I was caught in the excitement of the street, m the thrill of the chase. Yeh, this was my private, well-stocked hunting domain.
Ah, here's another doll—umm—nice. Hunting's very good tonight.
I aimed my eyes at her. I tipped my hat and smiled.
“Hello, Doll,” I said.
She smiled and cooed, “Hello, Handsome.” I let that charming piece of game go by also. Goddamn.
I laughed to myself. Am I a bastard. Am I having fun. What the hell, I'm entitled. I'm single at least. Look at Patsy and Cockeye, both married and still chasing. At a party at Eddie's place with some wild chippies this very minute. At least Max is entitled. He's single like me.
Funny how neither of us ever got married. I wanted to, but Dolores didn't want me. Lucky she didn't, for both of us, because I'm a satyr. One woman doesn't satisfy me. I got to have a different one every night. Yeh, lay 'em and leave 'em. That's me, Noodles.”
This one tonight, she's got something. Jesus, she has got something —a beautiful pair of somethings. Boy, could I bury my face in her soft, full somethings right now. For an owner of a pair of beautiful somethings like hers I should get her something special.
I went by a negligee shop. I got it. I'll get her a dozen of those seductive-looking black lace brassieres, like the one hanging in that window, marked down to three eighty-five.
I walked in. The store was crowded with women. It seemed as if they were all staring at me. I felt a little nervous. I pulled myself together. I felt as if I were at my first heist.
A salesgirl came over. “Yes?” she smiled.
Bold as hell, I said, “A dozen of those black lace brassieres you have displayed in the window, size forty, please.”
A few girls near me tittered. The sales girl took boxes from under the counter. She said, “They come in A, B, C and D's. Would you care to look at them?”
“She's pretty large there,” I said. “Use your judgment.” She smiled and nodded.
I tossed a C note on the counter. She examined it carefully before making change. When she gave me the wrapped parcel and my change, she whispered, “If they don't fit the lady, she can exchange them for another size.”
I said, “Thank you, Miss.”
She said, “Thank you, sir, and call again.”
When I got up to my suite, I called the kitchen. I spoke to the chef. I told him, “I want one large thick steak for two, extra large french fries and asparagus.”
Chico said, “I'll have it as you like it, medium rare. Coffee and pie?”
I said, “Yeh, apple pie and a slab of cheese.”
Chico said, “The champagne came. I put it on ice. What time you want?”
I said, “Thanks. I'll call you when.”
I took a shave and a shower. I put on a new pair of covert slacks and a thin corduroy belted jacket to match. I twisted and turned before the mirror. I adjusted my bow tie. It didn't seem to blend with the jacket. I undid it. I chose another. I made the bow over and over. Finally it satisfied me. I put a fresh kerchief in my breast pocket. I stood a full ten minutes before the mirror, taking the kerchief out, refolding it and tucking it back in until I thought it was just right. I kept walking to and from the mirror.
I was disgusted with myself. Boy, am I getting to be a conceited shmuck, I thought. No, it wasn't conceit. I was nervous, nervous as a cat, yeh, a tomcat waiting for his alley pussy. What the hell is the matter with me? For a guy who has laid everything on Broadway that talked, walked or sneezed, this conduct is ridiculous.
I poured myself a double hooker. That helped a little. A little music would help, too. I thumbed through an album. I pulled out a record and put it on the machine without looking at the name. I threw myself in a chair and listened. It was the intermezzo from La Traviata. I liked the part where the violins came in. It was sweet, soft and smooth—like a woman's breast.
I laughed to myself. What a goddamn comparison. To liken soft sweet music to a woman's breast. It just goes to show where my mind travels. That's all I've been thinking of lately.
Am I getting to be some sort of sexual queer? I wonder if this quest for a beautiful breast is normal, or am I developing a fetishism of some sort? Nah, ridiculous, it's
not a fetish. It's a normal desire, maybe a little strong and primal.
The music stopped. I took the disc off the spindle. I pulled out “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody,” set the needle and helped myself to another drink. Of all modern music, I loved this song best. I hummed the lyrics as I played it over and over again.
On the minute of nine there was a knock on the door. I opened it. There she was. What a vision. More alluring than I had anticipated. She was dressed to arouse and impress.
She wore a great big extra wide green lace picture hat and a startling white, bareback, bare-shouldered, sleeveless dress, form fitting and with a plunging neckline. She wore elbow-length green lace gloves and shoes and bag of the same color.
Lightly I kissed the gloved hand she extended. I closed the door and led her into the living room, still holding her hand. I turned her all around.
The hat and you and everything about you is beautiful,” I said.
“You like the hat?”
She stood before the mirror pinning it down more securely.
“Seductive,” I smiled.
“Designed by Mr. John,” she said.
“Mr. John?”
“This is a Mr. John's creation.”
“Oh, he's a milliner?”
“No, he's an artist,” she smiled.
“And the dress by Mr. John?”
“No, Tootsie, he only creates hats. The dress is a Bergdorf Goodman.”
“And the shoes and bag?”
She lifted a shapely foot. “The shoes are Palter De Liso's and the bag by Coblentz.”
She turned and smiled. She put one gloved finger under her chin, gave a mischievous grin, curtsied prettily, and said, “The rest of me is Eve McClain.”
“That's you,” I said.
“That's me. And you?” she asked.
“Tootsie, that's me. You gave that name to me. I like it.”
“I like it, and you, too, Tootsie,” she smiled.
Yeh, decidedly, I thought. She resembles Dolores.
I made a grab for her. I held her tight. I kissed her. I pressed my knee between her legs.
“Please,” she murmured. “Later.”
“A little bit now,” I pleaded.
She shrugged and smiled. She walked over to the victrola. She looked at the record on the table of the machine. She smiled and said, “This is my song, the song I dance to.”
She put the record in motion. She swayed and hummed, accompanying the song, “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.”
“You were in that show?” I asked.
She shook her head and said, “See if you can guess the show I was in.”
She waltzed slowly around the room. She unzippered the side of her dress. She danced around as she unbuttoned the top and exposed her bare shoulders. She dipped her shoulder when she came near me. I kissed the warm pink fragrant skin. She twinkled away.
“Can you guess?” she asked as she slowly continued her provocative dance.
“No,” I said, lying.
“This should give you a better hint.”
She wriggled her body as she danced. Her dress fell to the floor. She wore no slip. All she had on was a white satin pair of panties, and a white satin brassiere. She still wore her large green hat and green full length gloves and green shoes.
She danced in waltz time as she kicked one shoe off then the other. She hummed, “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”
She rolled one stocking down and tossed it to me. Then the other. Her legs were shapely, slender and beautiful. It was thrilling, watching a pretty, well-formed woman undress. It's like the slow undraping of a beautiful piece of art.
She raised her eyebrows as she danced close to me again.
“Well, can't you guess, Tootsie? What show?”
“Minsky's Burlesque,” I said, smiling. “Continue. I'll play the part of the audience.”
I sat down on a chair and beat my hands slowly in time to the music and chanted, “Take it off, take it off, take it off.”
But she didn't take anything else off. She danced in her big green hat, in her long green gloves, her white satin panties and her white brassiere. She stopped; the record had come to an end.
“Some more,” I begged.
She shrugged and put the record on again. I sat watching her rhythmic tantalizing movements.
“This time take some more off,” I pleaded.
“What, this?” she smiled.
“Yes, please,” I whispered.
“Shall I?” she teased.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Only for you, darling. Only for you,” she whispered, “will I.”
She stood directly in front of me, swaying her hips. She had a smile on her face, half teasing, half expressing an inner passion.
Her rosebud lips parted. “Darling,” she gasped, “I am going to give them to you. Love them tenderly.”
She fumbled with the catch behind her back.
In a hot husky voice she whispered, “Here, darling, take them; they are yours.”
She dropped them in my lap. Dazedly I picked them up. They were a beautiful flesh color, a perfectly formed pair of rubber falsies. I was speechless. All I could do was look up at her in amazement. She was a defiant figure. There she stood, her legs spread apart, her gloved hands on her hips. She gave me back stare for stare. I looked at her chest. She was flat all right, as flat as a titless broad could ever be.
In a dumb sort of way I picked up the falsies and looked at them again. I tossed them on the table. They bounced.
“Well?” she challenged.
I shrugged. I was still chagrined and speechless.
I spied the package on the table. Sarcastically I said, “That package is for you. Open it.”
Nonchalantly she opened it. Without comment or any show of emotion, she examined the brassieres, and fitted one on the falsies. She looked at me with the smile of a minx.
“Tootsie,” she said, “thank you, they fit perfectly.”
She held them up for inspection.
“Yeh,” I grunted.
She walked over close to my chair. A smile played on her lips. Affection showed in her eyes. She rumpled my hair.
She said, “My Tootsie is disappointed?”
I looked at her standing there before me. Disappointed? I thought to myself. At what? I looked at her with a feeling of terrific admiration. She was a cute picture with her great big green hat, her long gloves and white satin panties. In spite of her ludicrous attire, she was completely poised. She looked at me speculatively with her large green eyes, trying to understand my mood.
I pulled her down on top of me. Her naked, faintly scented, warm body pressed close to me. She continued running her gloved fingers through my hair. She kissed my cheek. “You are sweet,” she murmured. She kissed me again. “You really aren't angry at your baby for being silly, are you?”
“Angry? I think you're cute and funny.”
I kissed her.
“You know,” she said, “I like you; you're so even-tempered. I'll bet you never get angry.” She continued playing with my hair. “Do you?”
“Never,” I said.
“You're the gentle type that never hurt a fly, aren't you?”
“I couldn't,” I said. “I dislike violence. I'm not the type.”
I was wondering if she mistook the knife in my pocket that she was sitting on for something else.
“You're a gentle person and I know why,” she said smiling.
“Why?” I said.
“Because you're Jewish. Jewish men are so peaceful and even-tempered.”
“Yeh,” I said, “without exception.”
“I like you,” she kissed me. She murmured, “Do you like your shicksa?”
“Yeh, I like you, you're cute and pretty.”
She purred like a kitten, and kept stroking my hair.
She covered my face with warm, moist kisses. Then we looked at each other for a moment and laughed and laughed. She chased me all over
the room, bouncing the falsies over my head, until we were both breathless and hysterical.
She picked up her shoes, stockings, bag and dress and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower going. I stretched out on the couch and waited for her. A half hour later she came out smiling. She looked pretty and well groomed. Her face was freshly made up. She was completely dressed except for her hat and her gloves. Her black luxurious hair was piled up on her head in a regal coiffure.
“You look like a beautiful queen,” I murmured.
She extended a soft ungloved warm hand.
“For that, Tootsie, you may kiss my hand,” she said.
I pressed her smooth fingers to my lips.
“Amuse yourself,” I said.
I waved at the victrola, at the books on the shelf and the small bar. “I'll be out in a minute.”
I went into the bathroom. I took a hurried shower. I was dressed and out in fifteen minutes. I went to the phone and spoke to Chico, the chef. I said, “Okay, send it up as soon as it's ready.”
Twenty minutes later two waiters rolled in a table with the dinner and the champagne.
She enjoyed the meal. We made pleasant conversation, and conducted ourselves decorously for the rest of the evening.
As she went to the door, I opened her bag and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into it.
She smiled, curtsied and said, “Thank you, kind sir.”
She stood at the open door. We looked at each other fondly a moment. She came into my arms. I closed the door. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. I put the lights out. We undressed and went to bed.
I got up at four-thirty, took a shower and dressed. I was about to leave when she woke.
She smiled and called, “Tootsie.” She held up her arms. I bent over and kissed her. She held me for a moment.
She whispered, “I love you, Tootsie.”
I looked at the first woman who had ever said that to me in such a matter of fact manner. I sat down on the bed and fondled her hand.
We looked at each other for a long moment. Her hair framed her face. Her rouge, mascara and lipstick were worn and smeared.
She smiled and repeated, “Tootsie, I love you.”
“You want to be my steady girl?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” she said.