Read Online Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 by Angel in Black (v5.0) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Angel in Black (v5.0)
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just the reality of it. Tough as that town is, Hollywood’s a better bet for you.”
She nodded, saying, “I’ve been there—several times.”
“Any luck?”
“I’ve done some extra work, and a little radio.”
“It’s a start.” I waved a waitress over for more tea and coffee. “Look, there is some modeling to be had in Chicago—I know people at the agencies. Plenty of local advertising, and the big mail-order companies do their catalogue work here. . . .”
“I might take you up on that. But I probably will head back to Southern Cal. I only came to Chicago for the modeling job, and . . .”
“And what?”
She shrugged. “A serviceman I know had a stopover scheduled here. An Army Air Corps lieutenant.”
“Boy friend?”
“Nothing serious. I met him last year, at the Hollywood Canteen. I was a junior hostess, there. Met a lot of stars—Franchot Tone, Arthur Lake, all kinds of celebrities.”
“What about that Air Corps lieutenant?”
“What about him?”
“If you and he weren’t serious, why did you come to Chicago to see him?”
Another shrug. “Like I said, I came for the modeling job, and just took the opportunity to connect with Gordon again. I’d been writing him letters . . . I have a lot of servicemen friends. I write to several, I like to build their morale. . . .”
“Sure. Guys you met at the Hollywood Canteen.”
Was that her story? I wondered. Was she one of those “Victory Girls,” who had a thing for servicemen?
“Yes,” she said, as if answering my unspoken question. “I’ve kind of bounced around back and forth from Florida to California, and I met quite a few nice boys both places.”
“California to Florida is quite a commute. Where are you from?”
She sipped her tea, looking out at the Lindy’s clientele, probably seeking celebrity faces. “I’m not really from anywhere.”
“Everybody’s from somewhere. I’d almost swear I heard a little New England in your voice. . . . Or maybe I’m imagining that, ’cause we met at the Boston Oyster House.”
She laughed lightly; I had her attention again. “You are a detective. . . . I grew up in Medford, Massachusetts. But I never really felt like I lived there.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, exactly. For a long time, even in high school days, I wintered someplace warm, because of my health—asthma . . .”
That explained the cough.
“. . . and maybe that’s why I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, except maybe—don’t laugh—Hollywood.”
“I’m not laughing, Beth. You look like a movie star.”
Beaming, she said, “Everybody says I look like—”
“Deanna Durbin.”
“That’s right.” She was obviously proud of that. “And I sing like her, too, only my voice is lower.”
I didn’t suppose it had ever occurred to her that Hollywood already had a Deanna Durbin, name of Deanna Durbin.
Beth was saying, dreamily, “I’ve always known, deep down inside of me, that I was different . . . special . . . that I was going to be famous someday.”
How many pretty, ambitious, restless girls had thought that same thing? Every day of every month of every year, buxom babes like Beth left farms and small towns, forsaking family and friends and sweethearts for the lure of bright lights, boarding a bus or hitching, diamonds in their eyes and cardboard suitcases in their hands. It was one of the most standard, enduring, and little-realized American dreams.
And yet I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did become famous, Beth. You’re a lovely young woman, with a nice speaking voice, and a refined demeanor.”
“You really think so?”
“I really think so.”
She spent the night with me in my suite at the Morrison. We sat on my couch and talked and talked into the night, and I heard all about her hopes and dreams and enthusiasms. She went on and on about how much she loved music—Benny Goodman, the Andrews Sisters, Kate Smith, Glenn Miller,
She nodded, saying, “I’ve been there—several times.”
“Any luck?”
“I’ve done some extra work, and a little radio.”
“It’s a start.” I waved a waitress over for more tea and coffee. “Look, there is some modeling to be had in Chicago—I know people at the agencies. Plenty of local advertising, and the big mail-order companies do their catalogue work here. . . .”
“I might take you up on that. But I probably will head back to Southern Cal. I only came to Chicago for the modeling job, and . . .”
“And what?”
She shrugged. “A serviceman I know had a stopover scheduled here. An Army Air Corps lieutenant.”
“Boy friend?”
“Nothing serious. I met him last year, at the Hollywood Canteen. I was a junior hostess, there. Met a lot of stars—Franchot Tone, Arthur Lake, all kinds of celebrities.”
“What about that Air Corps lieutenant?”
“What about him?”
“If you and he weren’t serious, why did you come to Chicago to see him?”
Another shrug. “Like I said, I came for the modeling job, and just took the opportunity to connect with Gordon again. I’d been writing him letters . . . I have a lot of servicemen friends. I write to several, I like to build their morale. . . .”
“Sure. Guys you met at the Hollywood Canteen.”
Was that her story? I wondered. Was she one of those “Victory Girls,” who had a thing for servicemen?
“Yes,” she said, as if answering my unspoken question. “I’ve kind of bounced around back and forth from Florida to California, and I met quite a few nice boys both places.”
“California to Florida is quite a commute. Where are you from?”
She sipped her tea, looking out at the Lindy’s clientele, probably seeking celebrity faces. “I’m not really from anywhere.”
“Everybody’s from somewhere. I’d almost swear I heard a little New England in your voice. . . . Or maybe I’m imagining that, ’cause we met at the Boston Oyster House.”
She laughed lightly; I had her attention again. “You are a detective. . . . I grew up in Medford, Massachusetts. But I never really felt like I lived there.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, exactly. For a long time, even in high school days, I wintered someplace warm, because of my health—asthma . . .”
That explained the cough.
“. . . and maybe that’s why I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, except maybe—don’t laugh—Hollywood.”
“I’m not laughing, Beth. You look like a movie star.”
Beaming, she said, “Everybody says I look like—”
“Deanna Durbin.”
“That’s right.” She was obviously proud of that. “And I sing like her, too, only my voice is lower.”
I didn’t suppose it had ever occurred to her that Hollywood already had a Deanna Durbin, name of Deanna Durbin.
Beth was saying, dreamily, “I’ve always known, deep down inside of me, that I was different . . . special . . . that I was going to be famous someday.”
How many pretty, ambitious, restless girls had thought that same thing? Every day of every month of every year, buxom babes like Beth left farms and small towns, forsaking family and friends and sweethearts for the lure of bright lights, boarding a bus or hitching, diamonds in their eyes and cardboard suitcases in their hands. It was one of the most standard, enduring, and little-realized American dreams.
And yet I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did become famous, Beth. You’re a lovely young woman, with a nice speaking voice, and a refined demeanor.”
“You really think so?”
“I really think so.”
She spent the night with me in my suite at the Morrison. We sat on my couch and talked and talked into the night, and I heard all about her hopes and dreams and enthusiasms. She went on and on about how much she loved music—Benny Goodman, the Andrews Sisters, Kate Smith, Glenn Miller,
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