They left the bowling alley and drove to a place called the Dawdler’s Bar. There were several places, like this bar, where Jordan could go, or Jordan and Sandy could go, and there would be no problems about it. They drank beer in a booth and Sandy put coins in the juke box. Jordan faced the other way, toward the street side, and where the sun slanted in he could see dust move in the light. Then he watched the juke box which had colored lights dancing and spiraling, and after he had watched for a while he discovered the system. The flickers and spirals repeated themselves every three-quarters of a minute.
Sandy thought about Jordan’s four thousand dollars and what he would do with it if he had just earned it. Sandy had no idea what he would do.
“Another round?” he said.
“No.”
“You say no?”
They had not talked, sitting there, and now the talking was not any easier than the mute part before.
“Let’s go to Monico’s,” Jordan said.
There were several places, such as Monico’s, where it was not all right for Jordan to go. Sandy might go there, or perhaps someone like Meyer, a different echelon when it came to the social. Jordan was not known there, which was as it should be, and he was not wanted there, which only made sense.
“They’re closed,” said Sandy. “It’s afternoon and the place is still closed.”
Sandy said other things, much more to the point, but Jordan did not even get nasty again. He got up and said, “Are you coming?”
“But it’s closed, damn it.”
“Are you coming?”
“Of course I’m coming.”
“Then we’ll get in, won’t we?”
They got in. A man in shirt sleeves came to the door; when he saw Sandy through the glass of the door he opened up and said, “Hi, Sandy.” He did not know Jordan and just nodded at him, a little bit puzzled.
“You see?” Sandy waved at the low room, dark with none of the lamps turned on. “Closed. Get it? Nothing.”
Bar, with the bottles shrouded under a long, white sheet, empty tables, empty chairs, empty bandstand in one corner. Frescoes with goats and minor gods capering, grape garlands, looking dumb and useless with nobody looking at them.
“You’re a little early,” said the man. “They’re still rehearsing.”
Sandy did not say anything but Jordan said, “Still rehearsing? Where?”
So they went to the back. They went through a smoking room where you could hear the toilets going off and from there to a room in back with the stage one length of the wall. There were couches, easy chairs, little tables. All the seating equipment faced the same way.
“You want a drink?” asked the man. “Frank isn’t here to mix up anything but if you want a bottle . . .”
“Bring the bottle,” said Sandy. “Hell yes. I was going to say bring the bottle.”
“Bourbon, wasn’t it?”
“Hell, yes, bourbon.”
The room was dark except for what light came from the stage. The stage wasn’t lit for effect, just efficiency. The footlights were off and the two overhead lamps made a dull yellow light on the row of girls who stood on the stage listening to the thin man with the longish, elaborate hairdo. He had black hair, and wore a white shirt, black pants, white socks, black shoes. He explained the dance.
The girls wore almost anything, but very little of it. Jersey striped this way, jersey striped that way, blue shorts, red shorts, leotards, heels. They all wore heels. The piano went thumpety thump and some of the girls did something with one leg and the hip.
“That’s it,” said the man with the hairdo. “Work it through. On the thumpety thump you got to work it through.”
“Mary and Jack,” said one of them. “It’s less work lying down.”
“Pu-leeze!”
It was not very hard because it was not really dancing. It was mostly display. And they were all built alike and for the same thing.
And maybe this isn’t a bad turn at all, Sandy thought, because the place is dark and won’t open for hours and by then he’ll be out of here. He hasn’t slept much and isn’t used to much liquor. He didn’t like hearing about having muffed the job and less, maybe, having to finish it. This’ll tire him out . . .
“The second one from the left,” said Jordan. “That’s Lois, isn’t it?”
“Yeh, that’s Lois.”
From the distance she looked like all the other ones. Round rear, smooth thighs, and the standard-sized breasts.
“That why you came here?” Sandy asked.
Jordan had not even known that the girl worked in the Monico. “Yes,” he said. “That’s why I came here.”
“Listen, Sam. You remember I told you she and Fido’s brother . . .”
“But she works here.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing,” said Jordan. “And that’s why I’m looking.”
Jordan got up before Sandy could stop him and walked to the stage. He stood at one end of it and watched.
“Who’s he looking at?” said the girl next to Lois. “You?”
“Legs,” said Lois and when the piano went thumpety thump she was late with the thing she was supposed to do.
“Pu-leeze!”
They all started over.
“You know him?” asked the girl.
“Once.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t want him. He’s with Sandy.”
“Gee—”
“Pu-leeze! You are not coming through!” The man with the hairdo glared and then he yelled, “Like this!” and did the coming through thing better than the line-up had done it.
“I’m sure he’s looking at you.”
“He can go to hell.”
“Stop!”
The piano stopped and all the girls stopped. All the bosoms went up and down, because of the exertion and all the girls stood on their long standard legs, one straight and one cocked.
“What did you say about me?” asked the man with the hairdo.
“I said you did that well,” said Lois.
“Because I practice.”
“Dry-run Charley,” somebody said, and there might have been envy in it.
But the man with the hairdo did not take it that way and got venomous. He said how more vertical dancing and less horizontal dancing might get them much farther than they thought because a good dancer might even get married some day and last a lifetime.
Jordan stood to one side of the stage and looked at the cigarette in his hand. He felt no interest in the Monico any more and wished he were somewhere else.
“And now, positions.”
They all complained and did very badly on the thumpety thump, and in a while the man with the hairdo gave up and said rehearsal was over. All the girls walked off the stage and some of them looked down at Jordan and a few of them looked farther back into the room. Sandy must be up, thought Jordan, and walking this way.
“All over,” said Sandy behind him. “Let’s go.”
Jordan caught the relief in the voice, and he caught how Sandy looked at the stage and how Lois looked back. What a keen, idle memory, Jordan thought, remembering that pitiful time, that once in her apartment.
“There’s a back to this place, isn’t there?” he said. “For more business.”
“Sam, I’ve told you and you got eyes to see this place isn’t open for . . .”
“How’s Lois?”
“Lois.”
“Yes. How’s Lois. She like the work?”
Sandy looked away and held his breath for a moment. The problem was now that the matter was partly personal, a much harder matter than just dealing with Jordan, important property. But think of it that way: he was property, and because of a wrong job and no time yet for relaxing, in a funk. A matter of discipline. Nothing personal.
“That why you came here? Lois?”
“You asked that before,” said Jordan. “You remember asking me?”
“All right, Sammy
. All right.” He told Jordan to wait for a minute and went to the back part of the place, the part Jordan had talked about.
Behind the door next to the stage was a corridor with a long line of doors. There was faint, artificial light, and a faint, artificial odor. Powder, perfume. Behind the first door Sandy could hear the girls talking, a chatter without any words and as uniform as their looks when they worked on the stage.
Sandy knocked on the door and when somebody asked, who is it, he said his name and then the door opened. The room was full of tables with naked bulbs; the girls were sitting around putting on faces, taking off faces, and some were changing clothes.
“I’ll be right out,” called Lois.
Sandy waited in the door and when Lois came she smiled at him. She still had her jersey on, and the shorts, but was barefoot. “You got rid of him?” she asked.
“No.”
“No? You can’t stay?”
“Close the door.”
She came out into the corridor and closed the door.
“He wants you,” said Sandy.
“Crap,” she said. “Oh crap.” Then she noticed how angry Sandy was, how he had one eye squinted smaller than the other and how he kept pulling one cuff of his shirt.
“Is the bouncer here yet?”
“I don’t know. But if it’s Benny’s day, he comes early. He might be here now.”
“That would be nice,” said Sandy. “If it’s Benny, that would be just right.”
Then he told Lois he would look for the bouncer and she should go down to room three in a while and not worry about it, and how she should behave. Then he went to look for the bouncer.
Benny was in the linen closet where he hung up his clothes and changed into his tux. He also had a mirror there, to check how the cummerbund looked and how his hair was arranged.
“Don’t you knock?” he said. When he saw it was Sandy he wished he had said something stronger.
“I got a job for you,” said Sandy.
“I’m working for you? Since when am I . . .”
“You know Jordan? Guy works for me?”
Benny put his hands on his hips and then let them hang again. Then he put them back on his hips. “So?”
Then Sandy told him. Benny did not like Sandy any better now than at any time, but he said, “Sure, feller. Anything to keep the club clean and for decent folk.”
Then Sandy went back to the room with the stage, where Jordan was waiting. He stood by the footlights, on the wrong side of them, and the room was much darker now. More lights were turned off and nobody else was there.
He looks like somebody asking for a job, thought Sandy. The way he stands there and waits. The picture was neither quite true nor did it satisfy Sandy. For the first time that he could remember his picture of Jordan was mixed up. It used to be Jordan, shy and quiet, then less shy and much more quiet. Now this. Now this ill-fitting, sharp-sitting way of his, where nothing matched, where the meanness came from nowhere, and it showed that Jordan did not know what to do with it.
“Well? You want her?”
Jordan turned and sucked breath through his nose. “Yes,” he said. “Why not?” and they walked to the door in the back.
It had sounded like a real question. It would have surprised Jordan had he gotten an answer, but he would have been grateful for an answer. He felt so little at the moment, he wished somebody would say something to him.
The room was number three, with big drapes over a window and a big pillow pile in one corner. There was no bed, just the vast pillow pile with two low seats next to it and a small table. There was a radio and Jordan sat down by the table and played with the knobs. He got a sudden loud blare of music and turned it down too far so that it only murmured. What a lousy sound, he thought. There’s no sound as lousy as that mumble, and he clicked it off.
The girl said, “Hi, Sam,” behind him and closed the door. She still wore the same things as before, the little shorts and the jersey with stripes stretching around her. She went to the pile of pillows and sat down on it.
“You see that cabinet back there?” she said. “There’s liquor in there. And fixings.”
“Oh. You want some?”
He acts like a hick, she thought. She crossed her legs and looked at him without smiling. She did not remember him being so slow.
He got a bottle, two glasses, and poured.
“No,” she said. “Not for me. For you.”
Jordan sat down on his seat and watched the liquor make a commotion inside the glass. He swirled the glass and then took a small sip, as a gesture.
“I watched you dance,” he said.
“How’d you get in?”
He looked up, but not for long. He watched the liquor in the glass. “How’ve you been, Lois?”
“Fine.”
“Ah. That’s good.” He looked up once and saw her scratching behind an ear. He looked away again, because she had not smiled.
“Well,” he said, “you like it here?”
“Huh?”
“You like it? What you do.”
“What kind of a question . . .”
“When did you get up today?” he said. “What kind of a question is that?”
“Just, I just wondered,” he said. He gave a small, interrupted shrug. “Just in general. How you spend a day.”
“I work and I sleep. Like everybody.”
“And it’s like that all day, full with it?”
“Jesus, Sam, what are you talking about?”
“Just a question. Normal question. Not everybody does the same work and has the same day.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And how’s yours?”
He took a drink and then blew air through his lips. “I don’t work all the time. I don’t think I work as often as you do.”
“Why, you creepy son of a bitch!”
He looked at her, blinked a few times. Then he took a cigarette out and lit it. “We’re just talking,” he said. “Spending time. Why get sore with me?”
“Because you asked for it?”
He looked at the smoke make a spiral at the end of the cigarette and then he shook his head. He smiled and shook his head.
“What you come here for?” she asked.
“I know. You don’t want me and how do I take it. That what you asked?”
This time he looked up and smiled at her and she hated his face. She could say nothing.
“And how do you take it, sitting here with me?” he asked this time.
She felt vicious but had a rule against that, so it sounded prim. “If you’re going to do a thing well you got to perfect the right habits. Good work habits. And that’s how I can sit here with you.”
He took a hot drag on his cigarette and talked the smoke out. “There aren’t that many habits,” he said. “There comes a point and no habit will do.”
It was getting too serious for her and nothing was getting done. For a moment she wondered why he had come but she had work habits and thought she knew. But so far, nothing accomplished . . .
“Why don’t you forget about work,” she said and made a smile.
He looked up too late for the smile but he saw her lean back on the pile of pillows and stretch out. She did it well. When she did this, it said, when I lie down you want to lie down.
“Sit here,” she said. “I can’t see you.”
“That’s all right,” said Jordan. “I’m fine.”
Her work habits won’t do her now, he thought. It’s a painful sight . . . He was done and he wanted to leave. The professional part which would come next did not interest him and he did not want to watch the girl become more forced and he himself awkward.
“Sam?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.” He did not answer right away and she lay on her back, listening for something else. It’s time, she thought. Goddamn all of them. “Come on, Sammy,” she said again.
This time she sat up and pulled off her jersey.
Like peeling a
fruit, he thought, a smooth-skinned fruit. She sat in a small, white brassiere, the red shorts, and then she arched to unhook herself.
“You still have your shoes on,” he said.
She held still for a moment, letting it grow that she was being used, misused and insulted. Then she yanked one shoe off and threw it at him.
“You lousy son of a bitch!”
Jordan leaned out of the way and got up. He felt depressed and felt wrong for having stayed this long. He got up and went toward the door but the girl was in the way. She was loud and foul, very loud, and would not let him pass. She screamed insults at him with a high timbre as if calling for help.
Jordan put his hands on her arms to move her out of the way. He felt wrong and depressed. “We just talked,” he said. “And it wasn’t any good.”
“Damn you,” she yelled, “damn you, you bastard creep,” and the door jumped open.
There was the bouncer, small-hipped with cummerbund and farther back in the dark hall, Sandy was there, and talk, talk, talk, sharp and fast to fit all this. And why, thought Jordan, why . . .
He got in one good punch; it felt like a good one, in his arm and shoulder, but suddenly the girl was silent, they all were, and it killed all of Jordan’s intent. Sandy back in the hall, looking, the girl back by the wall, looking, Benny as close as he needed to be, looking, looking, concentrated and cold. Is that what they see—like Paul, or like Kemp—is that what they see, when I step up to them? No. The bouncer does this for love—I’ve never. I never knew they disliked me this much . . .
Jordan got beaten badly. He had doubled over and had started to cry though nobody saw this because of all the smear on his face and the method in general. Sandy was dim in the hall but was the only one Jordan saw in the end. This was perhaps due to the angle. Then Sandy walked away with the girl. Benny—as a fact—hardly mattered.
Chapter 13
“Can you make it?”
He could make it. He got up and stood. Sandy let go of his arm and held out a wet rag. “Wipe yourself.”
Jordan wiped and gave the rag back.
“Can you make it?”
“Why? Why was this—”
“Rule of the house. The bouncer thought . . .”
Jordan did not hear the rest because he was not listening. I did not know they disliked me this much.
Great Noir Fiction Page 44