sucked in her breath in simulated passion. “Come on. Be a sport. Let’s both have a good time, big boy.”
It was a funny sensation. Instead of exciting me, the feel of her disgusted me. Possibly it was because, at least so the State of Illinois claimed, the little doll in the death house had made the same pitch to a jewelry salesman named Stein.
She slumped lower in the booth. “Come on. Be a sport,” she repeated.
The smoke, the cheap whiskey and the blare of the four-piece combo were making my head ache. I started to ask how much she figured her company was worth. I froze with my left hand trapped and my right hand on the butt of the gun in my coat pocket. Hymie and Norm had walked in the door of The Furnace. They began to talk to a lad in a white dinner jacket who looked like he might be the manager.
The lad in the white dinner jacket looked around the club, then came directly to the booth in which we were sitting.
Maggie released my left hand and sat up. “Now what?”
“Gloria’s drunk,” he told her, “too drunk to work the ten o’clock show. Norm and Hymie just came from Mr. LaFanti’s apartment.”
“So?”
The lad paid no attention to me. To him I was just another free-spending chump. “So you’ll have to take over her spot,” he told her.
Maggie patted my cheek, then stood up and smoothed her rumpled skirt. “You wait, honey,” she insisted. “Mamma will be right back. Just as soon as she takes off her clothes for the cheap Johns at the bar.”
She and the manager left. I sat watching Hymie and Norm. What had happened was obvious. To celebrate making a fool out of me, LaFanti and the little blonde who had replaced the girl I’d heard crying had taken a few too many drinks. Hymie and Norm seemed amused. They had a drink at the bar, laughing with one of the barmen. Then they turned and walked out again.
To look for me?
I leaned against the back of the booth. It was an effort for me to breathe. My whole body was slimy with sweat. “What time does the show go on?” I asked the waiter, as he replaced my empty glass and set down a fresh bottle of beer.
He said, “Right away, mister. There’s the emcee out now.”
I sipped my drink as I watched the show. The acts and the emcee’s gags were as raw as the whiskey. A dame sang some dirty songs. Two tired strippers who were beginning to sag where they shouldn’t and bulge in the wrong places peeled down to their ten o’clock shadow.
Then Maggie came out on the runway, carrying a flowered parasol and wearing a big picture hat and a full-skirted dress with a bustle. At a distance she looked almost virginal. The thought disturbed me. For my own sake. For Johnny’s.
How does a whore look?
I thought.
The little doll in the death house looked like she wouldn’t say spit, but then so did Maggie. I sat breathing hard, watching her discard first her parasol and next her hat and gloves. Now she was shrugging out of her dress and the crowd in the club whooped as she paraded the runway wearing a pair of long white stiffly starched pantaloons with an old-fashioned camisole to match.
The camisole fluttered to the runway. Still keeping time to the music, she stepped out of the pants. Now all she had on was a net brassiere and a rhinestone bauble that bobbled enticingly, as she did a series of bumps.
The net brassiere followed the camisole to the runway. She had a pretty little body. She’d told me to wait. She was mine if I wanted her. It could be she could tell me something. What was more, if I took off with her, I would be safe from both LaFanti and the police for at least one night.
It was a funny sensation. I wasn’t a male virgin. I had played house with dames of all sizes and shapes and color, from Rabat to Yokohama. Now, all of a sudden, the idea was repugnant to me.
I laid a bill on the table and picked up my suit case. The waiter was concerned. “What’s the idea?” he asked. “I thought you were going to wait for
It was a funny sensation. Instead of exciting me, the feel of her disgusted me. Possibly it was because, at least so the State of Illinois claimed, the little doll in the death house had made the same pitch to a jewelry salesman named Stein.
She slumped lower in the booth. “Come on. Be a sport,” she repeated.
The smoke, the cheap whiskey and the blare of the four-piece combo were making my head ache. I started to ask how much she figured her company was worth. I froze with my left hand trapped and my right hand on the butt of the gun in my coat pocket. Hymie and Norm had walked in the door of The Furnace. They began to talk to a lad in a white dinner jacket who looked like he might be the manager.
The lad in the white dinner jacket looked around the club, then came directly to the booth in which we were sitting.
Maggie released my left hand and sat up. “Now what?”
“Gloria’s drunk,” he told her, “too drunk to work the ten o’clock show. Norm and Hymie just came from Mr. LaFanti’s apartment.”
“So?”
The lad paid no attention to me. To him I was just another free-spending chump. “So you’ll have to take over her spot,” he told her.
Maggie patted my cheek, then stood up and smoothed her rumpled skirt. “You wait, honey,” she insisted. “Mamma will be right back. Just as soon as she takes off her clothes for the cheap Johns at the bar.”
She and the manager left. I sat watching Hymie and Norm. What had happened was obvious. To celebrate making a fool out of me, LaFanti and the little blonde who had replaced the girl I’d heard crying had taken a few too many drinks. Hymie and Norm seemed amused. They had a drink at the bar, laughing with one of the barmen. Then they turned and walked out again.
To look for me?
I leaned against the back of the booth. It was an effort for me to breathe. My whole body was slimy with sweat. “What time does the show go on?” I asked the waiter, as he replaced my empty glass and set down a fresh bottle of beer.
He said, “Right away, mister. There’s the emcee out now.”
I sipped my drink as I watched the show. The acts and the emcee’s gags were as raw as the whiskey. A dame sang some dirty songs. Two tired strippers who were beginning to sag where they shouldn’t and bulge in the wrong places peeled down to their ten o’clock shadow.
Then Maggie came out on the runway, carrying a flowered parasol and wearing a big picture hat and a full-skirted dress with a bustle. At a distance she looked almost virginal. The thought disturbed me. For my own sake. For Johnny’s.
How does a whore look?
I thought.
The little doll in the death house looked like she wouldn’t say spit, but then so did Maggie. I sat breathing hard, watching her discard first her parasol and next her hat and gloves. Now she was shrugging out of her dress and the crowd in the club whooped as she paraded the runway wearing a pair of long white stiffly starched pantaloons with an old-fashioned camisole to match.
The camisole fluttered to the runway. Still keeping time to the music, she stepped out of the pants. Now all she had on was a net brassiere and a rhinestone bauble that bobbled enticingly, as she did a series of bumps.
The net brassiere followed the camisole to the runway. She had a pretty little body. She’d told me to wait. She was mine if I wanted her. It could be she could tell me something. What was more, if I took off with her, I would be safe from both LaFanti and the police for at least one night.
It was a funny sensation. I wasn’t a male virgin. I had played house with dames of all sizes and shapes and color, from Rabat to Yokohama. Now, all of a sudden, the idea was repugnant to me.
I laid a bill on the table and picked up my suit case. The waiter was concerned. “What’s the idea?” he asked. “I thought you were going to wait for
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