Read Online Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 by Angel in Black (v5.0) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Angel in Black (v5.0)
Ads: Link
her latest cigarette or fetch her a fresh drink.
Beth hadn’t wanted a drink: her lips touched neither liquor nor tobacco, she informed me rather proudly. She felt both activities were unladylike and “could make a girl look hard before her time.”
She had no such reservations about banana splits, however, and admitted to being “addicted to ice cream,” though her slender if busty figure didn’t betray that.
Already I was mildly smitten with this girl who so resembled Peggy. Dipping my spoon into her dish, sharing the sundae with her, was at once innocent and sensual.
“Am I the only one here impressed by all these famous people?” she asked, as she sipped tea and I stirred cream and sugar into my coffee, our empty sundae dish cleared away. “Nobody’s asking them for autographs, or even looking at them. . . .”
I shrugged. “That would be gauche. You can see celebrities and would-be celebrities in here any time of day and night, show-biz types and newspapermen and big-time politicians . . . Joint never closes.”
She made a cute face. Those luscious full red lips in the Kabuki mask of her face were startling—would even have been clownish, if she weren’t so beautiful. “I guess I don’t know much about Chicago.”
“Your first time here?”
“I stopped over, a few times before. This is the first I’ve stayedfor any real length of time. I came because I had an opportunity to do some modeling.”
“Not surprising, with your looks and grace. What kind?”
“For newspaper ads—hats, gloves, coats.”
I sipped my coffee. “With what agency?”
“Sawyer Agency.”
“ Duffy Sawyer?”
She nodded, seeming vaguely embarrassed.
“Let me guess why you quit—Duffy expected you to entertain his male clients.”
With a tiny humorless smirk, she said, “He put me up in a hotel—the Croyden—and had me go to dinner with him and various . . . business prospects. He said he wanted me to ‘lay the charm’ on these businessmen.”
Emphasis on “lay,” I thought.
She was saying, “It wasn’t so bad, at first; we went to a lot of hep jazz clubs. But, uh . . . Duffy got mad at me, because—”
“You weren’t charming enough.”
“Something like that. So I quit, and moved out of the Croyden—I’m bunking in with some girls at the St. Clair Hotel . . . know where that is?”
“Sure.” It was over on East Ohio; both hotels she’d mentioned were home to a good share of showgirls and models. “You still interested in modeling?”
“Oh yes—legitimate modeling, and acting. I sing, too.”
“Well, honey, Chicago isn’t what it used to be. Vaudeville’s dead, most of the radio shows have moved east or west, and not much national advertising’s done here, anymore.”
“I can also dance.”
I smiled, shook my head. “Afraid there’s only one chorus line in town, and that’s the Chez Paree—measly six girls, and those positions are golden. Oh, sometimes the Palmer House and the Sherman put on productions, but . . . pretty slim pickings, unless you’re willing to work burlesque.”
“Stripteasing.”
“Yeah. Lots of that in this burg . . . but I don’t think you’d like that any better than dispensing ‘charm’ to businessmen.”
The aquamarines widened. “You are so right . . . though I do have the figure for it, don’t you think?”
“No argument there, and I’m not judgmental about the profession. Some of my best friends are strippers.”
That news didn’t seem to put her off. “Well, anyway, I’d never stoop to . . . stripping.”
“Good. It’s a hard life—and if you aren’t Sally Rand or Gypsy Rose Lee or Ann Corio, you’re lucky to make fifty bucks a week.”
“I’m better off waiting tables.”
“Yeah, and it’s warmer.”
She lifted her chin as if offended—but maybe kidding on the square. “Is that what you think I should stick to? Waiting tables?”
“Hey, I’m not trying to discourage you—that’s
Beth hadn’t wanted a drink: her lips touched neither liquor nor tobacco, she informed me rather proudly. She felt both activities were unladylike and “could make a girl look hard before her time.”
She had no such reservations about banana splits, however, and admitted to being “addicted to ice cream,” though her slender if busty figure didn’t betray that.
Already I was mildly smitten with this girl who so resembled Peggy. Dipping my spoon into her dish, sharing the sundae with her, was at once innocent and sensual.
“Am I the only one here impressed by all these famous people?” she asked, as she sipped tea and I stirred cream and sugar into my coffee, our empty sundae dish cleared away. “Nobody’s asking them for autographs, or even looking at them. . . .”
I shrugged. “That would be gauche. You can see celebrities and would-be celebrities in here any time of day and night, show-biz types and newspapermen and big-time politicians . . . Joint never closes.”
She made a cute face. Those luscious full red lips in the Kabuki mask of her face were startling—would even have been clownish, if she weren’t so beautiful. “I guess I don’t know much about Chicago.”
“Your first time here?”
“I stopped over, a few times before. This is the first I’ve stayedfor any real length of time. I came because I had an opportunity to do some modeling.”
“Not surprising, with your looks and grace. What kind?”
“For newspaper ads—hats, gloves, coats.”
I sipped my coffee. “With what agency?”
“Sawyer Agency.”
“ Duffy Sawyer?”
She nodded, seeming vaguely embarrassed.
“Let me guess why you quit—Duffy expected you to entertain his male clients.”
With a tiny humorless smirk, she said, “He put me up in a hotel—the Croyden—and had me go to dinner with him and various . . . business prospects. He said he wanted me to ‘lay the charm’ on these businessmen.”
Emphasis on “lay,” I thought.
She was saying, “It wasn’t so bad, at first; we went to a lot of hep jazz clubs. But, uh . . . Duffy got mad at me, because—”
“You weren’t charming enough.”
“Something like that. So I quit, and moved out of the Croyden—I’m bunking in with some girls at the St. Clair Hotel . . . know where that is?”
“Sure.” It was over on East Ohio; both hotels she’d mentioned were home to a good share of showgirls and models. “You still interested in modeling?”
“Oh yes—legitimate modeling, and acting. I sing, too.”
“Well, honey, Chicago isn’t what it used to be. Vaudeville’s dead, most of the radio shows have moved east or west, and not much national advertising’s done here, anymore.”
“I can also dance.”
I smiled, shook my head. “Afraid there’s only one chorus line in town, and that’s the Chez Paree—measly six girls, and those positions are golden. Oh, sometimes the Palmer House and the Sherman put on productions, but . . . pretty slim pickings, unless you’re willing to work burlesque.”
“Stripteasing.”
“Yeah. Lots of that in this burg . . . but I don’t think you’d like that any better than dispensing ‘charm’ to businessmen.”
The aquamarines widened. “You are so right . . . though I do have the figure for it, don’t you think?”
“No argument there, and I’m not judgmental about the profession. Some of my best friends are strippers.”
That news didn’t seem to put her off. “Well, anyway, I’d never stoop to . . . stripping.”
“Good. It’s a hard life—and if you aren’t Sally Rand or Gypsy Rose Lee or Ann Corio, you’re lucky to make fifty bucks a week.”
“I’m better off waiting tables.”
“Yeah, and it’s warmer.”
She lifted her chin as if offended—but maybe kidding on the square. “Is that what you think I should stick to? Waiting tables?”
“Hey, I’m not trying to discourage you—that’s
Similar Books
