Mother Finds a Body (11 page)

“Well, so are we,” Dimples murmured.

One of the men named Joe tied a napkin around her neck and placed a bottle in front of her.

“I'm not a baby, you know,” she said with a look in her eye that made the announcement unnecessary.

I followed Mamie and Mother to the table. We had lost Corny and Mandy at the bar. They knew Milly and Clarissima, too. Bob Reed was a juvenile tenor from the Republic Theater in New York, and I had played the Gaiety with the two girls. They were bending an elbow and talking over old times.

If I had ever wondered what happened to burlesque when the license commissioner banned it, one look at The Happy Hour would have given me my answer. All the place needed was a couple of comics and a runaway. I'm glad the orchestra didn't play “Gypsy Sweetheart,” or I would have gone into my number out of sheer habit.

With all the familiar atmosphere, there was something about the place I didn't like, something unhealthy.

“Well, what do ya want?” A pockmarked waiter in a dirty white coat stood at my back. His voice startled me into ordering a double rye.

I would have ordered it without being startled into it. I would have told him so, too, but he was too big for Biff to handle.

“I'll have a hot toddy,” Mother said, “for my asthma.”

Mamie couldn't make up her mind, so I ordered for her.

“Two double ryes,” I said to the waiter's back. He was already on his way to the bar. Something about him lingered on. Maybe it was the general odor of the place. At any rate, I didn't like it. I didn't like the way Biff leaned over Joyce's shoulder, either.

“What in the world is Biff doing talking to that brassy blonde?” Mother asked.

“Probably just schmoozing,” I said.

“Call it that if you like,” Mother sniffed. “In my day we had another name for it.”

The five-piece orchestra hit a sustained note and Bob Reed stepped out onto the stage, dragging a microphone behind him.

“Good evening, everybody,” he said in his nasal voice. “Good evening.”

The lights dimmed and a flickering spot picked him out of the smoke. He has never been exactly an ad for Scott's Emulsion, but now he was really letting himself go. His tuxedo was shiny and unpressed. Most of the shine was around the arms. From leaning on the bar, I knew. His face, without any makeup, was pasty white and pimply. Even his patent leather shoes were cracked and dusty. I blamed it on the climate; semitropical.

“It's good to see so many happy faces, so many familiar faces,” he said. “Over here we have Nat Miller. Stand up and take a bow, Nat. You know, folks, Nat is a very bashful guy. He's in the liquor business. Come on, Nat, shake hands with one of your best customers.”

Nat threw the master of ceremonies a cigar. It was all very chummy, I thought.

“And over here we have a wedding anniversary party.” Bob pointed his cane to a group of people sitting in a far corner of the saloon. It was a relief to see a woman in a street dress. When the orchestra played “Many Happy Returns of the Day,” she stood up and took a bow.

“Yes sir, Mr. and Mrs. Nolung,” Bob announced. “Been married twenty-seven years and they couldn't get a lung.”

The woman laughed and when Bob suggested that she get up on the floor, she not only obliged, but she did a little dance. Mamie thought it was wonderful until the woman showed her bloomers.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, there will only be a short interlude before we begin the first half of our gigantic floor show. Mr. Francisco Cullucio, your host, has brought in a galaxy of stars for your amazement, I mean amusement. First, those beautiful girls, the sixteen lovelies, the Happy Hourettes. Then the dancing De Havens, straight from the Coconut Grove in Sedalia, Missouri. The French Sisters. Yesindeedy. Joyce Janice, the girl who thrilled millions with her dance of the swan. Turk and
Turk, the Turkish Delights. Your humble servant, Bob Reed, and, as an extra added attraction, the one and only, the queen of them all, Tessie, the Tassel Twirler! On with the show!”

As the lights went up there was a general stir in the saloon. From each table girls in evening dresses were hastily finishing their drinks to get to their feet. They all seemed to be saying the same thing: “As soon as the show's over I'll be right back.”

The orchestra returned to their stands noisily. At a cue from the tired leader they played their last eight bars of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”

Almost swallowing the microphone, Bob Reed sang a verse and a chorus of the number. Then he announced the girls.

A tall, thin girl with bony knees was announced as Rio Rita. She paraded around the floor in a Spanish shawl. For a finish she let one side of the shawl drop and showed her bare thigh. It had a black-and-blue-mark on it.

They must be popular in Ysleta, I thought.

The second girl was Miss Whoopee. She wore cowboy chaps that ended where they usually do, but instead of wearing pants under them, she wore a row of beads. She was too busy chewing gum to smile at the audience, but it didn't matter. No one was looking at her face, anyway.

Milly, the chorus girl I knew, was wearing a tremendous shoulder piece of tarnished silver cloth. Paper orchids dangled from it. She worked hard to keep the thing balanced, but the effort was showing on her. Her smile was forced. She was Miss Kid Boots. I didn't recognize the character until I noticed the oilcloth spats that she wore over her dancing shoes.

Joyce was the last one on. I thought she was Miss America. She wore a red, white, and blue shoulder piece. Her G-string was one flittered star. She wore two smaller stars as a brassiere. She wasn't Miss America; she was Miss Ziegfeld Follies.

We got one more good look at the ensemble as they paraded to a chorus of “Lovely Lady.” Just before the lights blacked out the girls took off their brassieres. It was a pretty dull opening.

Then the lights flashed on, Mother was slapping Mamie's
back. The bare breasts had evidently been too much for Mrs. Smith. Her face was a dull purple.

“Did—did you see what I saw?” she gasped.

Biff had joined us, and Mother glowered at him as though he had staged the number.

“Really, Biff, of all the
nice
places to go,” she said, “you have to bring us
here
.”

Two of the girls had shed their shoulder pieces and were back on for a snappy tap dance. Bob announced them as The French Sisters. The dance was more embarrassing to me than the nude finish of the opening, but Mother and Mamie applauded violently.

Turk and Turk turned out to be roller skaters. I've never cared much for roller skaters, so I took time off to look around the saloon.

Cullucio watched the show intently. He applauded first and laughed loudest when each act was finished. He was the only one who laughed at Bob Reed's quips. From time to time he glanced at Mamie.

She did seem out of place in our party. Her black straw hat with the one pink rose sitting defiantly on the battered brim was so incongruous. Mother's dress hanging on her thin frame was so obviously a borrowed dress. Even her leathery, wrinkled face stamped her as a misfit in our crowd.

Bob Reed started his act with, “On my way to the club tonight a very funny thing happened.”

I didn't listen. There was a hat and a pair of shoulders near the bar that were altogether too familiar to me. I recognized the sheriff even before he turned around. He was talking to Mandy and Cliff. I nudged Biff.

“Well, that's nice,” he said. “Think I oughta go over and maybe buy him a drink? And while I'm at it, sort of break it up?”

“Buy him two,” I said. “And quick.”

Bob Reed sang a parody of “I Want to Be in Tennessee.” It was all about a little boy who puts his geography book in the seat of his trousers when he knows the teacher is going to
whip him. With an eye on Biff and one on the stage, I suffered through the first part of it.

Biff slapped the sheriff on the shoulder. I could almost hear him saying, “How are you, Hank old boy?” He had pushed his way between Corny and the sheriff. Little by little he edged Corny halfway down the bar. With a sigh of relief I turned back to watch the show.

The girls did three more numbers, and there was one more act before Tessie, the Tassel Twirler, made her appearance.

She was worth waiting for. I have seen tassel twirlers, but until I saw Tessie I never appreciated that branch of the arts. Tessie had talent. She didn't swing the tassels around any old way. She made them do tricks; one tassel going left, then the other tassel going right, both of them swinging right. Suddenly they began flying in opposite directions. She did tricks with her stomach, too.

I applauded as loudly as Cullucio. It was on the tip of my tongue to say how wonderful I thought she was when I saw Mamie's and Mother's faces. They were livid, I kept my comments to myself.

“Well, did you ever?” Mamie said.

Joyce followed Tessie. She did the same routine Biff and I caught at the rehearsal. She danced with all the gay abandon of a female wrestler. Her face was drawn and haggard looking. She was almost grim.

I didn't blame her. Tessie was a tough act to follow. It reminded me of how H.I. Moss, impresario of the Old Opera burlesque, used to take the temperament out of his most violent stars. He made them follow a strong act, too. The more I thought about it, the more I thought it looked like a put-up job.

Cullucio was standing at my side, one hand resting on our table. He chuckled softly to himself.

“She tells me she was a big star in burlesque,” he said.

“She was,” I replied. I knew then that I was right. Cullucio was learning show business fast. He had one of the tricks down, anyway. It didn't occur to me to ask what Joyce had done to incur disfavor, but he didn't wait to be asked.

“The boys don't think much of her around here,” Cullucio said casually.

The rhinestone G-string made a pinging noise as it hit the tuba. I knew it was the end of the number without Mamie's gasp.

She jumped up from the table and with trembling fingers she tugged at the hat. The rose couldn't stand much more of the abuse she was giving it. She clutched the limp organdy ruffles around her neck and walked toward the door with the word ladies over it.

Mother picked up her pin-seal Boston bag and followed her.

“Whassa matter?” Cullucio asked. “They don't likea the show?”

“It isn't that,” I lied glibly. “It's only that Mrs. Smith has never been in a saloon before.”

“Saloon?” I call this a theater restaurant.” His cold eyes settled on me. His teeth clamped down on the cigar.

I should have let it go at that. After all, he could call it the Stork Club for all I cared. To me, it would still be a saloon. I was uncomfortable with him standing at my arm, though. I didn't like being alone with him. I didn't like the smell of Caron's Sweet Pea and the stale cigar smoke that enveloped him. His white, belted suit was too tight, the black shirt too shiny.

To be sociable I smiled at him, but my heart wasn't in it. My drink gave me a little more courage.

“Saloon, theater restaurant. They're all the same to me,” I said with a prop laugh. “I suppose what you've got upstairs you call a hotel? That crap table in the back room, that's strictly for ping-pong I guess.”

I glanced at the bar to see if I could find Biff. He wasn't there. It gave me a deserted, desolate feeling. Where he had stood, there now sat three women. One of them—I learned later her name was Tanker Mary—was knitting. She didn't watch her knitting needles as she worked. Her eyes were on the door.
Every time a man walked in she smiled at him. Her lips framed suggestions that alternated with “Knit two, purl two.” The other woman flashed two gold front teeth in a beery smile. “Want to have a good time, dearie?” was her standard remark. The third wore black cotton stockings on her fat legs, purple bedroom slippers on her feet. She was drinking beer; it left a white foam mustache on her mouth.

“That's a tasty trio you got there,” I said to Cullucio. “Puts the customers in a happy frame of mind.”

“What I care about their minds?” Cullucio asked. He drew out a chair and sat next to me. He adjusted his trousers carefully and he sat. He pulled them up to the top of his black-and-white buttoned shoes, flashing a pair of bright-yellow socks, brown legs, and purple garter.

I made a quick guess about his underwear. I had an idea it would be silk, with his name spelled out on the chest in contrasting colors.

“The Lucius Beebe of the border,” I said softly.

A waiter passing by with a trayful of liquor stopped beside him.

“Want anything, chief?” he asked. The words came from the side of his mouth. His eyes were furtively casing me.

Too many Warner Brothers movies, I thought.

Cullucio waved him away. “If I did I'd ask for it, wouldn't I?”