make a handsome pair, but she sounded like a bleating goat. The audience roared with laughter. They finished the song, and immediately launched into a joke routine. All the words were exaggerated and overemphasized in order to be heard throughout the theater. It was strange to hear Eddie’s voice that way when he’d heard it in more intimate settings, when he’d had whole conversations, when he’d heard Eddie moaning in bed as he . . .
The audience laughed, so Lane refocused his attention on the stage.
“My brother killed over a hundred men in the war!” Eddie said.
“Oh?” said Marian. “Was he a gunner?”
“No, he was a cook!”
Rimshot.
It was an old joke, and plenty of people in the audience groaned, but it was hard not to laugh at Eddie’s enthusiasm.
They finished the act with Eddie offering his hand to Marian. “Marian, my dear, may I have this dance?”
It occurred to Lane that their talents might have been wasted on a comedy act, that they both could probably act better than they did, that Marian could probably sing without sounding like a dying animal, but then they were twirling around the stage and Lane again couldn’t look away.
When they danced off the stage, Clarence whistled through his teeth. “That was great!” he whisper-shouted. “And, golly, Eddie Cotton is amazing. So handsome.”
To put it mildly , Lane thought.
He sat back in his chair and contemplated the stage that Eddie Cotton had just vacated. There was no denying it, he really wanted to be with Eddie again. He wanted to watch Eddie’s body move, he wanted to be held in those arms, he wanted to dance with him. Not that Lane could even really do more than shuffle his feet around the dance floor, but something about that man, from the moment he’d first walked into the Marigold, had snared Lane’s attention.
“Lane?” Clarence whispered.
The next act, a line of chorines in sparkly costumes, came out and started some kind of kicky dance routine. They existed more to tempt the men—well, most of the men—in the audience. These were the girls who got bouquets of roses sent to their dressing rooms, lines of admirers after the show, chocolates and jewelry. Lane wondered if Eddie ever garnered that kind of attention. If he wanted to.
“Lane, are you all right?”
Lane turned and looked at Clarence. “Yes, I’m swell. Why?”
“You sort of disappeared there.”
“Sorry.” He glanced at Clarence and then at the stage. He suspected his poker face had deserted him.
Clarence laughed under his breath. “That Mr. Cotton sure did a number on you. Can’t say I don’t understand. He is pretty easy on the eyes. Of course, I have George at home, and I would never want to be one of those fligs waiting around near the dressing rooms of the performers.”
Lane crossed his arms over his chest.
“Unless . . .” Then Clarence, who knew his old friend well, gasped. He coughed to cover it, and there was some grumbling from the audience members around them. Clarence leaned close to Lane and hissed in his ear, “You know something about our Mr. Cotton that I don’t! Isn’t that true? Has he been to your club?”
Lane shrugged him off. He didn’t want to admit as much. “I’ve seen him around. And that’s all I will say.”
Clarence nodded. “Sure, doll.”
They watched the rest of the show, which included some kind of minstrel act with a couple of white actors in blackface that Lane thought was completely devoid of humor; a ventriloquist act that was mildly entertaining; several singers who belted out songs or soft-shoed across the stage.
Finally, the house lights came back on. Lane stood up with a sigh, glancing at Clarence. “Did you like the show?”
“Yes, I found it highly entertaining. Thank you for bringing me.”
“I’m glad.”
Lane realized then that one of his reasons for bringing Clarence along was so that Lane wouldn’t do what he was very tempted to do, which was go to the stage door to try
The audience laughed, so Lane refocused his attention on the stage.
“My brother killed over a hundred men in the war!” Eddie said.
“Oh?” said Marian. “Was he a gunner?”
“No, he was a cook!”
Rimshot.
It was an old joke, and plenty of people in the audience groaned, but it was hard not to laugh at Eddie’s enthusiasm.
They finished the act with Eddie offering his hand to Marian. “Marian, my dear, may I have this dance?”
It occurred to Lane that their talents might have been wasted on a comedy act, that they both could probably act better than they did, that Marian could probably sing without sounding like a dying animal, but then they were twirling around the stage and Lane again couldn’t look away.
When they danced off the stage, Clarence whistled through his teeth. “That was great!” he whisper-shouted. “And, golly, Eddie Cotton is amazing. So handsome.”
To put it mildly , Lane thought.
He sat back in his chair and contemplated the stage that Eddie Cotton had just vacated. There was no denying it, he really wanted to be with Eddie again. He wanted to watch Eddie’s body move, he wanted to be held in those arms, he wanted to dance with him. Not that Lane could even really do more than shuffle his feet around the dance floor, but something about that man, from the moment he’d first walked into the Marigold, had snared Lane’s attention.
“Lane?” Clarence whispered.
The next act, a line of chorines in sparkly costumes, came out and started some kind of kicky dance routine. They existed more to tempt the men—well, most of the men—in the audience. These were the girls who got bouquets of roses sent to their dressing rooms, lines of admirers after the show, chocolates and jewelry. Lane wondered if Eddie ever garnered that kind of attention. If he wanted to.
“Lane, are you all right?”
Lane turned and looked at Clarence. “Yes, I’m swell. Why?”
“You sort of disappeared there.”
“Sorry.” He glanced at Clarence and then at the stage. He suspected his poker face had deserted him.
Clarence laughed under his breath. “That Mr. Cotton sure did a number on you. Can’t say I don’t understand. He is pretty easy on the eyes. Of course, I have George at home, and I would never want to be one of those fligs waiting around near the dressing rooms of the performers.”
Lane crossed his arms over his chest.
“Unless . . .” Then Clarence, who knew his old friend well, gasped. He coughed to cover it, and there was some grumbling from the audience members around them. Clarence leaned close to Lane and hissed in his ear, “You know something about our Mr. Cotton that I don’t! Isn’t that true? Has he been to your club?”
Lane shrugged him off. He didn’t want to admit as much. “I’ve seen him around. And that’s all I will say.”
Clarence nodded. “Sure, doll.”
They watched the rest of the show, which included some kind of minstrel act with a couple of white actors in blackface that Lane thought was completely devoid of humor; a ventriloquist act that was mildly entertaining; several singers who belted out songs or soft-shoed across the stage.
Finally, the house lights came back on. Lane stood up with a sigh, glancing at Clarence. “Did you like the show?”
“Yes, I found it highly entertaining. Thank you for bringing me.”
“I’m glad.”
Lane realized then that one of his reasons for bringing Clarence along was so that Lane wouldn’t do what he was very tempted to do, which was go to the stage door to try
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