Kiss Your Elbow

by Alan Handley

  But evidently I had become a member of what the ads would call “a distinguished cast” and I was sure of at least two weeks’ salary. I had a few bubbles in my shoes and decided to skate on over to Twenty-third Street while I still had them. And to celebrate I stopped for a couple of drinks on the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE PETERS STUDIO WAS IN a second-floor loft over a store selling dress trimmings. The store windows glittered with sequins even in the feeble light of the streetlamp. In a little entrance at the side of the trimming store was a push button under a card saying “Peters Dancing Studio.” I pushed the button and waited.

  I felt I knew pretty much what to expect. You don’t hang around the theater for over ten years without getting to know the stereotype of the chorus boy. I had imagined from his voice that Peters was going to be that stereotype. But, whatever I was expecting, I was wrong.

  Peters opened the door and I thought, at first, I had made a mistake. He was a good-looking, practically blue-shirt lead, curly red hair—almost crew-cut—a good pair of shoulders under an open-collared shirt. No rings. No bracelets. If I hadn’t known he had been in a show fourteen years ago I would have guessed his age at about twenty-five. I must do more dancing, maybe I can knock a few years off me. The only thing that gave him away was his voice and his eyes—they were both a little too soft, and he had that trick of widening his blue eyes to punctuate his sentences.

  We shook hands and he said that he hadn’t expected me to drop in, really, and I said I hadn’t expected to, really. I followed him upstairs and through a big empty room with a huge mirror on one wall and a battered piano with a portable victrola on top of it against another. He lived in the rear of the studio and it was fixed up very comfortably. Long monk’s-cloth curtains completely covered the high windows and a studio couch had a monk’s-cloth slipcover. A folding screen partially hid an icebox, stove and sink kitchenette. Low, modern, paint-it-yourself bookcases were filled with books and records and the white walls were plastered with photographs—mostly of male dancers with a few of the more angular females of the Martha Graham school, as well as scattered wrestlers and prizefighters popping their oiled muscles and puffing out their chests. There were also a couple of production flashes of different shows. I began to get hopeful when I saw those. Maybe Bobby LeB. was one of the toothy gents making that stock pose with the top hat, cane and modernistic background that dancers seem to love so.

  Peters was apparently getting more hopeful, too, and had broken out a bottle of good Scotch. He went behind the screen and got ice and soda and came back with a couple of stiff ones. I sat in an armchair and he arranged himself on the studio couch. I noticed that my drink was about twice as dark as his. Evidently he was under the impression that we were in for a nice, long evening.

  I asked him about the dancing-school business and he was quite amusing telling me about it. Most of his pupils were children and all doomed to go through life with their mothers convinced that they were better than Shirley Temple and Margaret O’Brien put together. It was, he admitted, quite a racket. You charge them a tidy sum for the lesson and twice a year you’d give a recital and the little kiddies would have to sell so many tickets or they couldn’t be in it. Or, if they were, only as background. A specialty in a Peters recital came high in tickets. Besides that, they would have to buy costumes, which was another rake-off for him. All in all, it was a very profitable business, but, of course, not very satisfying to the “inner longing,” if I knew what he meant. And I did.

  He was about to go more deeply into his inner longings when the phone rang. I studied the pictures on the wall while he answered it. I gathered one of his friends was determined to come up and see Peters, and Peters was just as determined that he shouldn’t.

  “I tell you I won’t have you coming up here.” He all but stamped his foot. I caught his eyes and he shrugged resignedly. “Yes…yes…later…No, I tell you it’s simply out of the question.” And he slammed the receiver back on the cradle. “You’d think people would know when they’re not wanted, wouldn’t you?” he said. “Mais non. Some people never learn.” He came back and sat down and I asked him about Bobby.

  It turned out that Peters hadn’t known him too well. They’d dressed in the same dressing room with the rest of the headliners in Front Page Stuff, but he didn’t see much of him outside the theater.

  “Bobby was more the social type,” Peters said with a double-header widening of those blue eyes. “I don’t wonder that he gave up the theater, he was a lousy dancer really. How well did you know him?” There was a sidewinding look with that one.

  “Oh, I never knew him at all, really. He’s just a friend of a friend back home that asked me to look him up.”

  “And where is back home, Mr. Briscoe?”

  “Indiana,” I said. I don’t know why. “Evansville, Indiana. I’ve never even seen Bobby, you know, and I’m curious to know what he looks like. Is one of those him?” I nodded to the wall. Peters got up from the couch and took one picture down and handed it to me.

  “That’s the headliners. Of course, we were just called that in the show. We weren’t a standard act.” He rested his hand on my shoulder as he sat on the arm of my chair and with his other hand he pointed out the third man from the left. “That’s Bobby.”

  So that was Bobby LeB. His face had about as much expression as one of those animated dolls that hold up placards in cheap store windows. The kind of doll where the eyebrows swivel up and down and the head turns back and forth. The smile was just as frozen and the hair just as painted, black and straight, the face perfectly smooth, eyebrows sharply arched, but, then, the picture had been taken in stage makeup. You could see the black line around the eyes and the carefully bowed mouths. The headliners were all about the same height, all dressed in evening clothes and standing one in front of the other with the left leg pointed forward and the left hand holding the elbow of the man in front. The right hand was waving a top hat. Just the usual corny dancer picture.

  I didn’t know whether I would be able to tell that face again if I saw it or not. It might have changed a great deal and with all the goo you couldn’t tell what the real face looked like, anyway.

  “Have you any idea how I could go about finding him?” I asked when I had finished looking at the picture.

  “No. I’m sorry but I can’t imagine where you could look.”

  “Evansville is going to be terribly disappointed. Well, thanks for the drink. I’ve got to be going.” I started to get up, but his arm very gently held me back in the chair.

  “Going? Going where?”

  “I’ve got to get an early start in the morning back to Evansville.” I shook his arm off and got up. He didn’t try and stop me this time. I didn’t particularly want to get on the muscle about it so I pretended I hadn’t noticed. I put on my coat and hat, which I had thrown on a chair when I came in.

  “But you can’t go now. I mean, I thought we might make the rounds. I know some amusing places. I’m sure you’d like them.”

  “Some other time,” I said. “I’m tired. I had a busy day. Thanks for the drink. Good night.”

  He didn’t bother to see me to the door so I walked through the studio and let myself out and walked down the stairs and on out to Twenty-third Street.

  It wasn’t till I walked half a block that I realized that I hadn’t been so smart after all. I couldn’t be sure, but thinking back, I seemed to remember he had called me “Mr. Briscoe” and I had told him my name was “Kelley.” Another thing, the cast in the Burns Mantle collection had listed six names for the headliners and that picture Peters had shown me had eight little smiling faces all in a row.

  I couldn’t understand why he had bothered to tell me anything in the first place and then asked me up. Why that? If he wanted to lie about it…But there’s a lot of things I don’t understand, and I gave up Mr. Peters as one of them.

  I could see the neon light of an open all-night one-arm joint a block west so I
went in and had some fried eggs and coffee. The coffee was bad and the eggs had been around much too long and it made me sick to my stomach. I left in a rush and the fresh air and sudden misty rain felt so good, I decided to walk up to the Twenty-eighth Street subway station. I couldn’t face right away that subway smell and those little piles of wet sawdust the cleaning people plant now and dig later.

  It says somewhere that there are about eight million people in New York, but you’d never guess it tonight. At two-thirty, Ninth Avenue was as empty as Twenty-third Street had been.

  About Twenty-sixth Street, I began to get dizzy and little sparks were swimming around in my eyes. The eggs must have been older than I thought. I stopped walking and, in a little alleyway, leaned up against the side of a building. I pressed my forehead against the stone and the coolness helped for a moment, but then my mouth started filling with saliva and I simply stood there—waiting to be sick.

  I didn’t hear footsteps behind me. I didn’t hear anything. I just leaned against the wall with my neck wide open for a rabbit-punch—and it came.

  My forehead ground against the rough stone as I slid down the wall to my knees and keeled over on my back. I choked and vomited. Something kicked me a couple of times in the ribs and I spewed again. I tried to get up, but a hand like a brick slapped against my face and I fell back.

  There was water in the alley. I could feel the coldness soaking through my clothes. I lay there gasping for breath. My eyes wouldn’t focus; the stringy wetness all but blinded me. I was vaguely conscious of a couple of looming shapes standing over me silhouetted against a patch of glow between building walls. One of the shapes presently kicked me in the groin. Red searing pain exploded in me and I doubled up, grabbing myself. There was a sharp click and in the dimness I thought I could make out the glitter of a knife blade. I went through all the business of yelling but I couldn’t be sure any sound came out of my throat at all. One of the shapes had a voice. It said softly, “Hold it, someone’s coming.” A foot crashed on the backs of my hands and I was out for the count.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “LIFE SAVER,” A VOICE kept saying. “Life Saver.” I tried to open my eyes. The voice kept repeating, “Life Saver.” I wiped my eyes…. They felt crusty and when I opened them I still couldn’t see anything. Somebody said “Life Saver” again and I realized I was doing it. Flat on my back in a puddle. I groped around with my hand. It got wet cement. I tried to move and pain made me stop. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to roll over and struggle to my knees. Then I tried to stand. I could do it by inching up the building wall, but when I got to my feet the effort made me lean against the building for a minute or two. I was panting and weak, but my legs held. I took a deep breath. It hurt, but not as if there were ribs broken. I felt my body. It was wet and covered with slime, but it would still function. To feel for my hat I had to bend over, and the rush of blood to my neck almost made me keel over. I had to stand up again until the pounding stopped.

  “Here’s your hat, mister,” said a voice and my hat was slapped on the top of my head. Fear washed over me again. I flattened myself against the wall blindly waiting for it to happen. I had thought I was alone—a hit-and-run—but they had come back. I waited for the knife. I was too weak to do anything to stop it. I started to cry.

  “Come on,” said a man’s voice. “He’s okay now. We can’t stand around here all night.”

  “But, Joey, he’s hurt.” It was the same voice that had given me my hat and it was a woman’s voice. “We got to take him somewhere.”

  “He’s just a drunk, I tell you. Come on. He’ll be all right.” The tears must have rinsed out my eyes enough, for, at last, I could see a man and woman backed by the faint light from the street, standing in front of me. He took her arm and tried to lead her back to the sidewalk. She shook it off.

  “I’m not going to leave him standing here like this. He’s hurt, Joey. He’s hurt bad.” She moved toward me. I didn’t mean to, but unconsciously I scraped along the wall away from her. She stretched out her hand.

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t touch him. He stinks. You’ll get it all over you.”

  “Go on if you want to, you jerk, he’s hurt. I’m not going to leave him here like this.” She stepped closer to me. I didn’t back away this time. “What happened to you, mister? Were they trying to roll you? We heard them running up the alley.” I managed a feeble croak. “Know who they were?”

  “No. I couldn’t see them.” Still bracing myself against the building, I patted my pocket. My billfold was still there. My watch was still on my wrist. I began to be conscious of the cold. I was soaked through and my teeth started to chatter.

  “You coming or aren’t you?” said the man. She ignored him.

  “Can you walk?” I tried a couple of steps and almost pitched on my face. She took my arm. “Grab his other arm. We got to find a cop.” The man was carrying a small case like musicians use for trumpets. He changed it to his other hand and felt for a dry place on my arm. Between the two of them I made the street. Ninth Avenue was still deserted. No taxis. No cops. No nothing.

  “If I could just get a cab,” I said.

  “Fat chance this time of night in this part of town,” said the man.

  “There’s a subway station a few blocks up,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I think I can make it okay now, thanks.”

  “We’re going to find a cop,” said the woman.

  “Please don’t bother. I’ll be all right in a couple of minutes. Thanks just the same.”

  “Well, then, come on. You heard him,” said the man. “You heard him say he’s okay.”

  “We can’t leave him like this. They may come back.” I hadn’t thought of that. Just then I stumbled and the man caught me from falling. He swore under his breath when he grabbed me and I couldn’t blame him. I was covered with filth.

  “Look, you people go on.” I was starting to get all swimmy again and I didn’t want to vomit in front of them. “I’ll be all right. There’ll be a cab along in a few minutes or a cop or something.”

  “Well,” said the woman. “If you’re sure…” Footsteps were coming around the corner. “Maybe this is a cop.” But it wasn’t the reassuring gleam of buttons…just another man. The woman called to him as he was walking toward us. “Say, mister. Have you seen a cop around anywhere?”

  “What’s the trouble?” I started to fade again. It was like the blackout in London where you couldn’t see anyone’s faces…just blurry shapes. We had been talking in that hushed voice you use in blackouts even though guns are slamming a few blocks over. Or maybe it was just the way I was feeling that made the voices seem hushed and far away, like a radio with a bum tube…one minute loud and the next so faint you could hardly hear anything.

  “This drunk just got mugged up the street in an alley,” said my savior with the trumpet case. “We was passing by and musta scared them off. You don’t know where there’s a hack stand around here, do you?”

  “No. Can he talk?”

  “I’m all right and I’m not drunk,” I said. “If I could just sit down for a couple of minutes I’d be all right. There’ll be a patrol car or something along in a few minutes. You go on.”

  “Well, you can’t sit here,” said the woman.

  “Why don’t he go to a Turkish bath?” said the last man. “Sober him up.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake let’s get him somewhere,” said the man with the horn angrily. “We can’t stand around all night ya-ta-taing. Do you know where one is near here?”

  “Yeah, not far. I’ll take him. I’m going that way.”

  “Is that okay with you?” the woman asked me. Okay? It sounded like heaven. Hot water. A place to lie down. I told them so.

  “Where is it?” asked the woman.

  “Three up and one over.”

  “That’s right on our way, too,” she said.

  “You don’t have to,” said the man. “I can take him okay.”

  “
Give me your horn, Joey, and help him.” And Joey did.

  I don’t remember much of the three up and one over except that we didn’t pass a cab or patrol car or I would have done that instead. But I couldn’t be sure because I was too busy concentrating on not passing out so they wouldn’t have to carry me completely. As it was we had to stop every little while to give them a rest and the musician got madder and madder.

  At last I could see a lighted sign up the street. Not neon. Just a bare bulb in front of a painted sign. That was Mecca. That was the Bluebird we’d been looking for. That was, when we got up to it, the Regal Baths—Open All Night.

  “Well,” said the woman. “You’ll be okay now.”

  “I’ll take him in,” said the other guy. I almost started crying again when I thanked the woman and musician. I tried to pay them something but they wouldn’t have it. I couldn’t say any of the things I felt and of all the things I could have said, the lousy, Limey cliché “It was damn nice of you” was about the stupidest, but that’s what came out.

  They went on up the street melting into the darkness, and the third Samaritan helped me into the Regal Baths.

  Inside the front doors, there was a counter on the left with an arched opening in the wire netting that ran from the top of the counter to the ceiling. Hanging behind it was a green-shaded drop light. The circle of light fell on stacks of wire baskets, towels and a man tilted back in a chair in the corner absorbed in, of all things, Harper’s Bazaar. I wondered for a moment what he could find in that breathless magazine to interest him so. He didn’t seem quite the type to soak his elbows in halves of lemons, not in his dirty pair of white ducks, T-shirt, grubby sneakers and no socks. But I should have guessed. Just a refined taste in pin-ups. The whole time I stood there he didn’t stop staring at a particularly pneumatic underwear ad.