by P. N. Elrod
“Maybe. He’ll figure some angle, he always does.”
“So you’re free the rest of the evening?”
“At your service, lady.”
“Good. Gordy’s having a private party after the club closes for the night. You’re my date.”
“None other, I hope.”
“No chance of that, lover. Oh, damn, would you get the door for me?” She grabbed up a long silk dressing gown and pulled it on.
It was the stage manager calling the time until the next show. The now open door created a kind of burst dam effect, with people first trickling, then flooding in, all with business to accomplish in a very short time. Bobbi continued to repair her China-doll face and set the wig straight, an island of calm in the noisy waters. I waved mournfully at her from the doorway.
“After the show gimme a chance to clean up and I’ll see you then!” she called over the press of bodies.
“I’ll be here,” I promised, and slowly made my way out front again.
There’d been a modest shift change in the audience as new customers were seated for the next performance. At Gordy’s table the Blooms were gone, along with the bucktoothed assassin, a foursome having taken their place. A good-looking, sharply dressed man was in my chair. Next to him a strikingly handsome couple, and next to them a guy I recognized as one of Gordy’s mob cronies. I’d seen him around the club a few times, Gil Dalhauser. He had something to do with running a truckers’ union.
“’Evening, Dalhauser. Where’s Gordy?” I asked, fastening on him as the only familiar face. The others studied me in a not unfriendly manner, especially the raven-haired woman.
“In the other room, some sort of business. He said I should introduce you around.”
The other room meant the casino, and maybe not everyone at the table knew about it. That, or Dalhauser was just displaying the ingrained caution that came with his work. He was a tall, loosely built man in his forties with a mournful cast about him. He had thinning blond hair cut army short and steady, pale blue eyes, the kind that were shuttered so you couldn’t see in, yet he was able to stare out, usually right through you. He duly made introductions.
The gorgeous woman was radio actress Adelle Taylor; I’d heard her name in lots of broadcasts from dramas to comedies, and currently she was a singing regular on the Archy Grant Variety Hour. She was about thirty or so, elegantly dressed in black velvet with leopard-skin trim on the collar, cuffs, and hat. She held her head high like a queen, showing off the clean line of her chin and throat and the string of black pearls that dipped down out of sight between her breasts.
Her once-over of me with crystal cold baby blues was thorough, her response to my greeting polite but with a wait-and-see attitude. I could almost hear her thinking, Are you important? Do I need to know you? With some show business people this was necessary for survival, so I took no offense.
The handsome man with her was Archy Grant himself, looking the same as he did in the Sunday entertainment magazine inserts. He’d started out as a singer with a talent for comedy, and in ten years built up his reputation and following to the point of hosting, and starring in, his own show. He had a national broadcast once a week out of Chicago that I listened to more often than not. I got a firm, friendly handshake from him and a sincere hello in his familiar voice. He was stocky-framed, all muscle and energy, and his dark eyes were the kind that missed nothing. A useful ability to have, since he was famous for his ad-libbed patter.
Now that my mind was routed in that direction I wondered if he could be persuaded to perform in my club someday. That would be something to see, in which case a five-dollar cover would be entirely appropriate.
Get it bought and open for business first, Jack, I told myself, then worry about what to charge for the acts.
The last man was Ike LaCelle. He seemed as sharp as his clothes and had a good-natured spark in his eyes. His reddish hair was slicked back from his high forehead, but a stubborn cowlick gave the impression that he was more an overgrown schoolboy than a mobster. He pumped my hand, grinning broadly, and mentioned that he’d heard of me, and that it was fine, mighty fine, to meet me at last. I almost believed him. He gestured at Grant and Miss Taylor.
“Archy and Addie here thought they might like to see the show,” he said. “I told ’em I could get ’em in, but they didn’t believe me.”
Adelle Taylor visibly winced at the shortening of her name, but did not correct him. She put an apparently careless hand on Grant’s arm instead. He didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s the ticket,” said Grant agreeably. “Ike said he knew the owner and could get us the best table for the opening. Took a while, though. Thought I’d drink myself blind at the bar.” There was only a hint of a glaze on his face, so he was either exaggerating or had a high capacity for martinis.
“I happened to notice you in the lobby, Mr. Fleming, and saw you going right in,” said Adelle in a tone to indicate she expected an explanation from me.
“Only because I’m a regular here.”
“Ike said you’re friends with the star . . . ?”
“Yeah, Miss Smythe and I have been dating for a few months.”
“Lucky man,” put in Grant, full of warm enthusiasm. “I saw the portraits of her in the lobby. I understand she’s also very talented.”
“You’ll see for yourself shortly.”
Adelle’s chin lifted very slightly and her eyelids dipped for an instant. I thought I’d caught the drift of things and put all my attention on her, smiling with vast appreciation. “It’s such an honor to meet you, Miss Taylor. I hope you don’t mind, but I have to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your work on the radio. Your voice is so beautiful, and now to find that you’re even more so in person . . . ”
She beamed, obviously delighted at the topic shift, and I knew I’d called it right. “You dear man, how very sweet of you to say so. Do tell me more.”
3
I asked Adelle Taylor if she had any new work coming up. Between that and the compliment, the conversation ran itself all the way through to the overture. She could talk fast, a necessary skill in radio, and filled my head with more information about herself than I could ever remember. It made the lady happy. The men were silent, though I caught Dalhauser giving me one of his long steady looks as if to say he knew what I’d done.
Ted Drew got his Melodians going for the second time, and the drunken Bill began making his rounds of the upper tier of tables. You could tell who in the audience had seen the show before and who was new by the grins on some faces and looks of embarrassed horror on others. The same guy knocked Bill onto the dance floor, starting the show in earnest.
Knowing what was coming added to my enjoyment, and the performance seemed even better than before. Everyone was warmed up, confident of their reception, and thus free to have fun. Bobbi’s caperings as the Chinese dragon were broader and more bold, the dancers more in time with each other, the singing more expressive, the muggings at the audience funnier. The reward was laughter, applause, and another ovation. The latter was more raucous but shorter; the hour was late and everyone was pretty well-oiled.
I spared some attention for the others at the table, having the strong feeling that Bobbi might want to know Archy Grant’s reaction to the show. He seemed to like it, laughing in the right spots, listening with concentration at others, particularly when Bobbi had a solo.
Adelle watched a little more coolly, turning away once to order a fresh drink. She asked everyone if they wanted another as well. Grant was the only one to say no, with an abrupt throwing-away gesture; the rest of us took a second or two to give her a whispered yes or no-thanks.
Ike LaCelle was so engrossed I thought he’d leave eyeball prints on the girls. He hung on every word, laughed the hardest at every joke, clapped the longest at every bow. He was trying too hard, but seemed unaware of it.
Dalhauser smiled a few times and applauded appropriately. Once or twice he’d throw a look of mild annoyance at LaCe
lle. He nursed his one drink through the whole hour.
As the lights came up and the applause died down, Archy Grant turned around to the table, a big grin lighting his face. “Well, as the man said, she is one hot pippin—if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Fleming.”
“I’ll pass the compliment on to her. She won’t mind.”
Adelle and Dalhauser both noticed what I had not said about who minded what. She made a tiny smile, hiding it by taking a drink from her empty glass. He shifted his gaze to me for a second and the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. He had my number all right. Archy was a good-looking SOB, famous, and apparently taking the stunning woman next to him for granted. If he was the predator I pegged him to be, then I was more than prepared to keep him a good arm’s length away from Bobbi when she came by for the after-hours party.
Ike LaCelle looked like he had similar feelings for my girlfriend, and though he was also good-looking, I had little to worry about. Bobbi had met hundreds like him since she started singing and knew how to deal with them.
By now I’d long figured out that Archy Grant’s presence at the club was no happy accident, and that he was certainly on the list for the party. Most likely Gordy had invited LaCelle and asked him to bring Archy. The lovely Adelle was a bonus. How Dalhauser fit in, I didn’t yet know, or if he was even part of the group. He and Ike were certainly acquainted, but whatever other links they had, I’d have to learn from Gordy.
Our host had been completely absent throughout, which was not too surprising. He was usually a busy man.
The paying audience thinned and departed, as did most of the performers, though a number of the Melodians and costumed chorus girls remained to keep the place from echoing. Hot food appeared on a line of tables, and everyone but me gorged like starving lions.
“You sure can tell the talent from the rest,” said Archy, nodding at the line. “Never get between an actor and his food.”
I knew that the general idea applied for most other professions as well, but just to be friendly, I agreed with him.
“Are you an actor, Mr. Fleming?” he asked.
One of Escott’s favorite sayings came to mind. “We’re all poor players on the world’s stage, aren’t we?” I asked, quoting him exactly, but without the English accent.
Grant froze for the briefest moment, his lips compressing into a thin line before he forced them into a brief, tight smile. My apparent youth was working against me again. I was probably his age in years, but my condition had shaved a decade or more from my face. Maybe he saw me as some smart-ass kid. Well, he was half-right, and not about the kid part.
Ike LaCelle laughed more than was necessary at my observation; even a chuckle would have been too much, but he didn’t know that now. He’d been packing the drinks away like Prohibition was about to come back, and though he must have had a hell of a capacity, the load was starting to show. He was a happy drunk, though, if a bit boring for Adelle. For the last half hour he’d been trying to tell her some involved story featuring an encounter he once had with Laurel and Hardy. I think she stopped listening after he began with the question “Did I ever tell you about the time I met . . . ?”
“I’m curious, Mr. Fleming,” Grant continued. “What’s your line? I mean, besides playing escort to one of the most beautiful women in Chicago.” He added a laugh, the same distinctive one he used in his radio show. Several heads turned in our direction and some people laughed as well, though they couldn’t have heard anything. Grant had been recognized, and those in the know quickly informed the rest.
“A lot of different things,” I answered, trying to decide how much he needed to hear.
“Yes, I suppose a young man like yourself has all sorts of prospects ahead of him. It might be hard to choose.”
Great. Friendly words, condescending delivery. If I’d really been the age I looked, I might have picked a fight with him.
“Archy, dear,” said Adelle, smiling steadily at me. “You might take a moment to notice that Mr. Fleming’s tuxedo is worth at least a week’s pay.”
“Leave it to you to count how much money a man has, darling.” He said it like a line for his Variety Hour and made his signature laugh to let people know he was only kidding with her. There was just enough edge underneath not to be funny, but Adelle went along with it. Her smile did not reach her eyes.
Before anyone else could fill in the gap a cheer and applause went up across the room. Gordy appeared from the right-hand wings with Bobbi on his arm. She beamed and delivered a mock bow in acknowledgment. There was some hooting from a few, but it came from the other performers in the show and was of the good-natured sort.
I excused myself and made my way along the tables to meet them as they crossed the dance floor. Bobbi looked spectacular in a deep blue dress with a high collar and long sleeves that opened at the shoulder and closed up again at the wrists. It was in a floaty, clingy fabric that made her look like she’d wrapped herself in a slice of midnight sky. She wore a silver necklace with a modest sprinkle of tiny diamonds to serve as stars against the blue background. The only thing about her with more gleam and glitter was her soft cap of platinum hair, where she’d pinned the white orchid Escott had sent.
Wow.
“Something wrong?” she asked, stepping up to me. She had on a special rose-scented perfume that went right through my skull—in a nice way.
“Don’t tease ’im, Bobbi,” Gordy advised. “The poor schmuck’s ready to keel over.”
I woke up fast. “Not tonight, I ain’t. Bobbi, you look . . . you . . . I mean—”
“Just as I said.” Gordy again.
She slipped from his arm onto mine. “Keep looking at me like that and you don’t have to say anything, lover.”
Just as well. I couldn’t think of any words that could come close to saying how I felt. And I had delusions of being a writer.
“I gotta do some business tonight, Jack,” she said by way of a warning. Gordy had gone ahead of us; Ike LaCelle was busy introducing him to Adelle and Grant.
“I figured as much when Archy Grant turned up at the table.”
“It was Gordy’s idea to get him here to see me.”
“I figured that, too. You angling to get on the Variety Hour?”
“Exactly. He’s probably aware of it, so I can’t be too anxious or obvious.”
“Scheme away, my lovely. Make yourself rich and famous, just don’t forget your old friends.”
She planted a peck on the edge of my jaw. “Have you met Archy? What’s he like?”
“He’s okay, I guess.”
“I thought you enjoyed his show.”
“I do, but the jury’s still out on whether I like him or not.” Privately, I’d already pegged him as an asshole, but there was no need to prejudice Bobbi against him. She had enough to think about. “On the surface he’s smooth enough, but he doesn’t give much of himself away.”
“He is pretty famous. Some people have to close themselves off like that to keep everyone from taking away pieces. You’ve seen me do it.”
“I have. But the jury’s still out.” After all, it wasn’t like I was starstruck around him, as other people were. I’d met celebrities before. Hell, once I even lost twelve bucks playing pinochle with Chico Marx. “Grant seemed very interested in you—”
“Was he?” That pleased the hell out of her.
“—but if he gets fresh I’ll see to it his face makes friends with the sidewalk.”
“Oh, Jack!” She squeezed my arm. “You are so damn cute when you get jealous.”
“I’m not jealous, just looking out for your interests.”
“Well, thank you, but—”
“Okay, I know, and I’ll back off. It’s not that I don’t trust you; it’s all the rest of them. They should look at you with respect, not like you’re a piece of fresh meat.”
“You’ll hate this, but Marza said nearly the same thing earlier today.”
Marza Chevreaux was Bobbi’s accom
panist on the piano, and she had no liking for me. The feeling was mostly mutual, but for Bobbi’s sake we lived by a sort of half-assed truce, only drawing blood when she wasn’t around to hear us.
“You called it right, sweetheart. Me and Marza agreeing on something? Did hell freeze over and I miss it?”
“She’s like you in wanting to protect me from the cruel, cruel world, but there’s no need. After all the stuff I’ve been through, I think I can handle most anything.”
“I bet you could.”
“I know I can—but it’s nice that you want to cover my back.”
That called for a kiss. A peck on her forehead seemed the most appropriate, so I delivered.
She straightened my tie a little. “Now, where Mr. Archy Grant is concerned, it is strictly business. I’ll charm his socks off, but that’s as far as the undressing goes. Besides, he’s sort of engaged to Adelle Taylor.”
That surprised me. “Engaged? Jeez, the way he treats her I thought they were married.”
“Oh, yeah? Tell me—no, never mind. Gordy’s waving. It’s show time.”
She didn’t really square herself as others might have done to face an important situation, but a subtle change did take place in her. I could almost feel the electricity she could generate suddenly building to charge through and around her like a small, intense storm. I don’t know what it was she did or how she knew to do it, but when she went into it she seemed bigger and brighter than before. She radiated enthusiasm and energy and people got caught up in it in spite of themselves. Some liked it and hung around like moths wanting to burn themselves up, and others gave her a wide berth, but one way or another everyone felt it.
She was different than she’d been when I’d first met her. The potential had been there, but she was so under the control of her mob lover she didn’t dare use it except onstage. Once clear of him, and once she understood I wasn’t about to make his mistakes, she cut loose and really pressed ahead with the serious business of being herself. It was a wonderful process to watch, and God help anyone, myself included, who dared to interfere.