Mother Finds a Body

by Gypsy Rose Lee

  “Could be,” she said coyly. “Only I found it in the bottom of a towel hamper.”

  10WITH ALL HER STRANGE MANEUVERS, EVERY now and then Mother does something that makes me proud of being her daughter. At that moment she came through with a quick one-two that made me feel like sticking out my chest so far that the local purity squad would have legitimate small beef. With no dialogue and a take-it-or-leave-it-boys gesture Mother snatched the package from Joyce.

  “I wanted to show you this,” she said to the sheriff as she unwrapped the package.

  The sheriff, watching her, was almost as pleased as I. Joyce had been altogether too cute with her coyness, and the sheriff knew it.

  I suddenly had a more comfortable feeling about the Ysleta police force. It wasn’t Scotland Yard with all the gimmicks like fingerprinting and the business of having a guy named Lombroso who knows from faces if the suspect is a murderer or not, but it did recognize a good performance. And Mother, if I say so myself, was making like Duse. But I mean Duse in her prime.

  “I bought it in Nogales yesterday,” Mother was saying in an almost too-cultured tone. “You see, I sleep in the car alone. Sometimes I get frightened. I haven’t wanted to alarm the children, but I have been followed. Oh, they don’t believe me, but it’s true. Since we arrived in this town two men have followed me constantly. I was a little nervous about it. Not that I’m a nervous woman, but these men are so—so—desperate-looking. Really evil. So when I passed the shop and saw this in the window I stopped in and bought it.”

  Mother uncovered a small gun. It was so small it looked like a toy. It had a pearl handle, and the business end couldn’t have been more than an inch long.

  Mother handed it to the sheriff. He accepted it awkwardly. I could understand that. The two engraved silver-handled guns hanging from a holster at his hips were large enough to arm a battleship. He bent the little gun in a way that made it appear as if it were broken.

  Four tiny pellets rolled out into his hand. He examined the bullets, then the gun.

  “Been fired twice,” he said softly.

  “Oh, I tried it out,” Mother said. The Duse quality was out of her voice now. She was right back on Forty-Second Street, but still good.

  “That’s the way I am. Anything new, and I have to try it out right away.”

  Cullucio leaned over the table and looked at the gun.

  “Hm, short twenty-two,” he said. He smiled at the gun. Then he gave the teeth to the sheriff.

  It was a waste of time. As far as the sheriff was concerned there were two things that mattered. Mother came first; the fun was a slow second.

  “Twenty-two?” Mother said brightly. “That’s what the man told me. The man I bought it from. I told him I didn’t want a gun that would kill a man; I only wanted to frighten them away. A little gun like this couldn’t really kill a man, could it?”

  The sheriff hesitated a moment. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know if it would kill him or not, but if you hit him in the right place it’d make him madder’n hell.”

  Joyce laughed boisterously. “That’s terrific,” she shouted. “I never knew you could be so funny, Hankie.”

  Biff came to the sheriff’s rescue. “His first name is Hank,” he said to Mother. “Everybody calls him Hankie.”

  I don’t think Mother believed Biff.

  Joyce had leaned over the sheriff’s shoulder and was holding her glass to his lips. “Take a little drink,” she coaxed. “Just us two. We’ll make it a loving cup.”

  The sheriff was too busy rewrapping the gun to get the full benefit of Joyce’s attitude. The cerise velvet was cut lower than the blue satin. The contrast of her heavily powdered chin against the bluish tinge of her neck was hardly attractive. But then, I might have been prejudiced. I really enjoyed the sheriff’s unawareness of the private floor show. I liked the way he placed the gun in his pocket and patted it to see if it was safe. I like the way he looked at Mother when he asked if he could keep the gun for a while.

  “It’s a dangerous thing to have around,” he said. “When you flash a gun you have to make sure it’s better than the other guy’s or you don’t draw.”

  “I only bought it because I was nervous,” Mother said softly. “Now that I know you are watching out for us, I don’t need it anyway.”

  The sheriff turned as crimson as Joyce’s dress. It might have been a reflection, though; she was close enough to cast one.

  Then, with a broad, slow smile, she caught on. She let her tired eyes travel from Mother’s flushed face to the sheriff’s.

  “Well,” she said. “Looks like I missed the boat again.”

  The sheriff had the good grace to blush again, but Mother took the line in her stride.

  “There aren’t any boats around here,” she said innocently. “We’re inland.”

  I turned away to giggle and as I did I could see two men standing behind Mother’s chair at the back of the room. They were whispering to each other. Mother caught my eye and turned around. The two men opened a door with a sign OFFICE over it and went into the other room.

  “Those are the men!” Mother said. Her face was very white and she clutched the tablecloth in her tense hands. “Those men have been following me. They went into that room.” Mother pointed to the door.

  As she lifted her arm I could see how it shook.

  Cullucio jumped to his feet. “In that room?” he asked. “Impossible! That’s my private office.” He pushed his way through the crowded saloon and, taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door of his office. He entered and closed the door behind him.

  “Are you sure they are the same men?” the sheriff asked.

  Mother didn’t have time to answer. Cullucio had opened the door and was on the way back to our table. His dark face was wreathed in smiles.

  “Nobody in there,” he said casually. “You must have thought you saw someone. Maybe they went in that other door.”

  There was another door near his office, but I knew which one the men had entered. It was his office, all right, and they hadn’t needed a key to get in. They hadn’t knocked, either.

  Biff was whispering to the sheriff. I knew he was whispering about Mother and her imagination. Mamie heard part of the conversation because she scowled at Biff and the smile she gave Mother was one of deep sympathy. I knew it was up to me to put the thing straight. I don’t have Mother’s imagination and I knew what I saw, but before I could speak I felt Biff’s knee nudge me.

  A telepathic thought came to me. Biff had his own reasons for wanting Mother to be disbelieved. In a flash I knew it. I kept silent.

  Biff turned to Cullucio. “You got a great little show here,” he said. “Strictly four-forty, but have you ever thought of putting in a couple comics?”

  Cullucio leaned back in his chair and put his thumbs through his lucite suspenders. He was businessman enough to know when he was being sold a bill of goods.

  “You talking about yourself?” he asked, half-smiling.

  “How did you know I was a comic?” Biff asked. He was surprised but even more flattered.

  “Certainly not from that short you made for Metro,” I said.

  “Matter of fact,” Biff went on, “I was thinking about a couple of friends of mine. Solid comics. Good team, too. They worked together thirty-four weeks steady at the Republic in New York, sixteen weeks at the Rialto in Chicago, full season at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. Records talk, and believe me those are tough houses to make good in.” Biff looked at me. “Aren’t they, Punkin?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, lying through my teeth. Of all the pushover audiences in the world, Biff had mentioned the three top ones. All a comic has to do is spit in his pants and he stops the show cold. “They really are a tough audience,” I said.

  Cullucio was impressed. He dropped his casual air and took his thumbs from his suspenders.

  “I can’t afford to pay much money,” he said. “This business tonight, well, it’s unusual.”

 
; Where, I thought, have I heard that before?

  “I’d like to see them act, though,” Cullucio said.

  “See them act!” Biff was aghast. “You mean you want Cliff Corny Cobb and his partner, Mandy Hill, to give you an audition?”

  “Well, I dunno . . .”

  What Cullucio didn’t know was the meaning of the word audition. That was obvious. Obvious to anyone but Biff, that is. Biff didn’t give the man time to ponder, though.

  “These are big-time comics, brother,” he said. “The minute I saw your show I said to myself, ‘What this place needs is a couple of comics, class comics.’ Naturally, I think of the two top boys in the business. That is, since I got out of burlesque. I didn’t mention it to them yet. I don’t know how they’d feel about working in a saloon . . .”

  “A theater restaurant,” I said sharply.

  Biff took the cue. “Want to talk business with them?” he asked Cullucio.

  Cullucio lost his you-sell-me attitude.

  “Sure I talk to ’em,” he said eagerly.

  Biff nearly upset the table in his rush to grab Mandy and Cliff while they still could talk. He brought them back with him to our table and introduced them to the saloon-keeping impresario.

  Cullucio wasn’t quite as eager after getting a good look at the pride of the Steel Pier.

  “I’ll see them in my office tomorrow,” he said. He tossed his thumb toward the direction of the door with OFFICE printed above it. Under the OFFICE sign I saw another, OFFICIO. Cullucio wasn’t taking any chances on having his sanctum mistaken for the men’s room.

  The two comics left to join the girls at the bar. Biff asked Mamie if she’d like to dance. When she said yes, he was sorry he had mentioned it, but he helped her to her feet as though she were the queen of the ball. Joyce left us to sit with her friends from St. Louis, and the sheriff danced with Mother. I was alone with Francisco Cullucio again.

  “Maybe you like to work here, too,” he said, after the surly waiter put two drinks on the table.

  I took a good look at Cullucio and another at the waiter. No, I certainly didn’t want to work at The Happy Hour. I didn’t tell him that, though. I knew Biff had something up his sleeve or he wouldn’t have acted as agent for Cliff and Mandy. I had seen Biff in action before. When he felt good and ready, he’d tell me his plans. Until then I was expected to follow through if it killed me.

  “I’d love it,” I said, “but I have a clause in my contract. No doubling. I mean I’m not allowed to hold down two jobs at once,” I added hastily as I saw the bewildered expression on his face. “If you’re looking for a stripper, though, I know someone who’d fill the bill.”

  I glanced over at Dimples and Gee Gee. I couldn’t make up my mind which one to throw to the wolf. At a second glance I wondered if the wolf would sit still for either of them. Gee Gee’s multicolored hair was scraggling over her freckled forehead. Her nose was shiny. She needed lipstick, I concentrated on Dimples. She looked worse, but Cullucio struck me as the type who went in for lushness, and Dimples certainly fit that description. The nickel a drink would net her a nice income, too, I thought.

  “Her name is Dimples Darling,” I said. “She’s billed as the Queen of Quiver.”

  Cullucio’s knee was pressing against mine again.

  “If she’s a friend of yours, I put her to work,” he said meaningfully.

  If the freighted glance and the pressed knee counted, it looked as though I was the one who was going to do the work. I only hoped that whatever Biff was doing was important enough to make up for what I was going through.

  “Maybe we can make a deal with that contract of yours,” Cullucio said. “I want you to be happy here.”

  “I know I would, Mr. Cullucio.”

  “Call me Frank.”

  “Frank,” I gulped.

  Mother and the sheriff returned to the table. The orchestra had gone into a conga, and they were both a little out of breath from dancing.

  “Tomorrow, then, Evangie?” the sheriff whispered as he helped Mother into her chair.

  “Tomorrow, Hank,” Mother said.

  The air was certainly full of June.

  Hank took his hat from the chair and held it in his hands. “So long, folks,” he said.

  “See you tomorrow,” Biff said from the dance floor. He hadn’t heard Mother and the sheriff make their little date, so he didn’t understand the sheriff’s blush.

  Mother picked up her purse and fumbled around for her asthma cigarettes. The conga had been too much for her, I knew. The instant she put it to her lips, Cullucio was on hand with a cigarette lighter. The lighter matched the pen, only it was even heavier and more ornate. Mother inhaled the pungent smoke. As she exhaled, her breathing became easier.

  Cullucio leaned over the table and watched her intently. The overhead lights, reds and blues, made his hair shine like a rhododendron leaf that’s just been sprayed with miscible oil. His face seemed darker, his teeth whiter. He dipped the end of his cigar in his liquor before he put it to his mouth, but he didn’t light it. Instead, he suddenly got to his feet, turned on his heel, and left.

  I watched the padded white shoulders as they traveled through the crowd. When they arrived at the door with OFFICE-OFFICIO written above it I lost sight of them.

  “Well,” Mother said, “if he isn’t rude. You’d think he’d have said goodnight or something.”

  I was thinking too hard to answer her. I wondered what I had said to anger him. After all Biff’s trouble trying to sell Cliff and Mandy, after my hours of playing knees, and after drinking that terrible liquor, I had to say something to spoil things! But what had I said? I couldn’t for the life of me remember.

  Biff and Mamie danced by the table. The rose on Mamie’s hat was hanging down over her thin shoulder. As she bounced around with her own version of the conga, her dress flopped around grotesquely, but she looked as though she were having herself a time.

  Mother’s cubeb smoke was getting heavier. It was a sticky, sweet-smelling smoke like . . .

  “Like Benny, the trumpet player,” I said aloud.

  “Who?” Mother asked politely.

  “Nobody,” I said. “Nobody at all.”

  The noise of the saloon was reaching a crescendo. The conga line raced madly around the small dance floor. I was dizzy from watching them, dizzy from remembering.

  Without realizing what I was doing, I took the cubeb from Mother’s fingers and ground it out in the ashtray. Mother looked at me as though I had gone mad.

  “What in the world’s the matter now?” she asked.

  I couldn’t tell her about Gee Gee and the marijuana. I couldn’t tell her that her cubeb smelled exactly like a reefer. Suddenly I knew why Cullucio had been so rude. He thought Mother was smoking a marijuana!

  “No wonder he was upset,” I said. “He thought you were smoking a marijuana.”

  “A marinello?” Mother gasped. “Have you lost your sense?”

  I shook my head. “No, Mother, I just had a flash. I think I know why Biff wants Cliff and Mandy to play The Happy Hour saloon. He wants an excuse to hang around.”

  “Biff doesn’t need an excuse,” Mother said haughtily, “not when there’s a bar in the place.” Mother put another cubeb to her lips and lit it. “I don’t like this club at all,” she said between puffs. “I don’t like the manager, either. Trying to tell me I didn’t know those two men.”

  “He didn’t say that exactly,” I said. “He just said they didn’t go into his office.”

  “Whatever he said, I didn’t like his attitude when he said it.”

  “Well,” I said. “He isn’t a beauty boy, but maybe he means well. If he puts Cliff and Mandy to work I’ll be grateful to him, attitude or no attitude.”

  11WE WERE AT THE DOOR MARKED OFFICE-officio at eleven-thirty the next morning. Corny, bleary eyed but determined, knocked. Dimples set her mouth in a big personality smile, and I braced myself for the meeting with Francisco Cullucio.

 
; There was no answer.

  A heavy odor of stale liquor and cigar smoke filled the dimly lit room. It hadn’t been a pleasant odor the night before. In the morning it was worse. A strip of white sunlight from the open door splashed across the littered floor. The chairs were piled on the tables. The red-and-white tablecloths were stained and dirty.

  “What d’ya want,” an unfriendly voice asked from the back of the saloon.

  “We had an appointment with Mr. Cullucio,” Biff replied.

  “He ain’t here.”

  That was obvious, but Biff, being in a jovial mood, didn’t mention it. Instead he opened the door wider.

  The pockmarked waiter emerged from the shadows. He held a broom in his hand.

  “Hey, close that door,” he shouted. “Want the place full of customers before we can serve ’em?”

  Biff closed the door. “Perhaps you know where . . .”

  “He’s at the store. Can’t miss it. Name’s The Emporium. Two blocks down the street.” The waiter stood leaning on his broom. If Biff had been intending to question him further, the man’s attitude discouraged it.

  “Thanks,” we said, almost in unison.

  The waiter was right when he said we couldn’t miss the Emporium. We could see the sign from the saloon: FRANCISCO CULLUCIO in letters a foot high, THE EMPORIUM in letters a bit smaller. A canvas banner stretched across the street. On it was written: PERFUMES. LINENS. FINE LIQUORS. CUT PRICES. A large, painted red hand pointed to the store.

  Before entering we looked in the windows. Cullucio dealt in more than just linens, perfumes, and liquors, judging by the variety of articles displayed. Men’s riding boots were shown beside English electric razors and German cameras. Chinese kimonos were folded with the golden dragons showing. Beside them were Japanese lacquer boxes. In the back were Hudson Bay blankets, bath towels, tablecloths.

  Cullucio sat at a teakwood desk in the back of the store. He still wore the white suit, but he had changed his shirt to a bright-yellow silk. It made his face almost saffron. He scowled over a piece of paper he held in his hand.