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Authors: Jonny Porkpie
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a bar across the street. Coming next month , it says, the return of Victoria Vice’s ‘Coquette La Grand! ’ Coquette La Grand, Porky! Aside from everything else, it’s illiterate in two different languages.”
“No one ever said she was smart,” I observed.
“I confronted her about it. You know what she said? ‘I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s not the same name at all.’ Now I had two choices: Either wallow in the mud and fight at her level, or let it go and keep my self-respect. So I let it go. Good riddance. I have better things to do. But then —
“Then the article comes out. Written by someone that I know for a fact Victoria is banging. It claims to be an article about burlesque in Philadelphia but really it’s just a puff piece about her. And it includes a history of ‘Coquette La Grand’ in which Victoria takes complete credit for the months we produced the show together, claims she decided to move the show across the street because the first bar wasn’t up to her standards, and refers to me as her ‘stage manager’ who’s ‘angry because I had to let the poor girl go.’ ”
“Wow,” I said.
“My friend who owned the first bar offered to write a letter to the editor, but I said to hell with it.” Eva had her hands on my shoulders and was grinding angrily, taking out her frustration and resentment on my lap. With each thrust, my head banged into the vinyl behind me. “I told him, let the bitch have the name,” Eva said. “Let the bitch have the show. Let the bitch have the entire city of brotherly love, for all I care. I got the hell out of town. Had to go into debt to make the move—why else would I be working the Thursday afternoon shift at this craphole? But I get to New York, score some bookings, start rebuilding my rep, and everything’s going pretty well...and then...” Eva’s voice trailed off. She took a deep breath, and when she looked at me again there was a fire in her eyes that made me a little bit nervous. “Then she walks into that goddamn bar last night. I got out of her life, she could at least have the decency to stay out of mine. But no. She can’t just let it go. She has to keep shoving it—In! My! Face!”
Eva, I had to assume, had some classical theater training—Shakespearean, most likely—that was informing her current performance. How else could one explain that she was (as Hamlet had suggested) suiting the action to her words, the words to her action?
“So you didn’t know she was going to be in the show last night?” I asked, when I was able to.
Eva raised an eyebrow. “Please,” she said.
“And when you saw her walk in, you were ready to kill her?”
Eva dropped to the bench, straddling my lap. She pressed her chest against mine, and leaned in close. Her lips brushed my cheek, and I could feel her breath in my ear.
“Porky, honey, baby, sweetheart, be careful what you accuse me of, especially in here,” she whispered. “You could be on the sidewalk and bleeding in five seconds. All I have to do is nod at that security guy. Get me?”
“Gotcha.”
“And anyway,” she said as she slid back to resume the dance. “I’m the type of gal who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The word ‘fly,’ of course, has several meanings. As a noun, in the context of the idiomatic expression she had just used, the insect was indicated. Her hands, however, were embracing another interpretation. Was she just doing it for appearances, in case the boss was watching, or was Eva deliberately trying to distract me?
“I wasn’t accusing you,” I said. “It’s just that you’re the only one who saw Victoria before she walked into the dressing room. If something happened in the bar before she came backstage, you’re the only one who might have seen it.”
“Sorry, Porky. I came out of the bathroom, saw Victoria walking in, grabbed my bag from the alcove and ran backstage to let everyone know she was there. It was less than a second.”
“Why did
“No one ever said she was smart,” I observed.
“I confronted her about it. You know what she said? ‘I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s not the same name at all.’ Now I had two choices: Either wallow in the mud and fight at her level, or let it go and keep my self-respect. So I let it go. Good riddance. I have better things to do. But then —
“Then the article comes out. Written by someone that I know for a fact Victoria is banging. It claims to be an article about burlesque in Philadelphia but really it’s just a puff piece about her. And it includes a history of ‘Coquette La Grand’ in which Victoria takes complete credit for the months we produced the show together, claims she decided to move the show across the street because the first bar wasn’t up to her standards, and refers to me as her ‘stage manager’ who’s ‘angry because I had to let the poor girl go.’ ”
“Wow,” I said.
“My friend who owned the first bar offered to write a letter to the editor, but I said to hell with it.” Eva had her hands on my shoulders and was grinding angrily, taking out her frustration and resentment on my lap. With each thrust, my head banged into the vinyl behind me. “I told him, let the bitch have the name,” Eva said. “Let the bitch have the show. Let the bitch have the entire city of brotherly love, for all I care. I got the hell out of town. Had to go into debt to make the move—why else would I be working the Thursday afternoon shift at this craphole? But I get to New York, score some bookings, start rebuilding my rep, and everything’s going pretty well...and then...” Eva’s voice trailed off. She took a deep breath, and when she looked at me again there was a fire in her eyes that made me a little bit nervous. “Then she walks into that goddamn bar last night. I got out of her life, she could at least have the decency to stay out of mine. But no. She can’t just let it go. She has to keep shoving it—In! My! Face!”
Eva, I had to assume, had some classical theater training—Shakespearean, most likely—that was informing her current performance. How else could one explain that she was (as Hamlet had suggested) suiting the action to her words, the words to her action?
“So you didn’t know she was going to be in the show last night?” I asked, when I was able to.
Eva raised an eyebrow. “Please,” she said.
“And when you saw her walk in, you were ready to kill her?”
Eva dropped to the bench, straddling my lap. She pressed her chest against mine, and leaned in close. Her lips brushed my cheek, and I could feel her breath in my ear.
“Porky, honey, baby, sweetheart, be careful what you accuse me of, especially in here,” she whispered. “You could be on the sidewalk and bleeding in five seconds. All I have to do is nod at that security guy. Get me?”
“Gotcha.”
“And anyway,” she said as she slid back to resume the dance. “I’m the type of gal who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The word ‘fly,’ of course, has several meanings. As a noun, in the context of the idiomatic expression she had just used, the insect was indicated. Her hands, however, were embracing another interpretation. Was she just doing it for appearances, in case the boss was watching, or was Eva deliberately trying to distract me?
“I wasn’t accusing you,” I said. “It’s just that you’re the only one who saw Victoria before she walked into the dressing room. If something happened in the bar before she came backstage, you’re the only one who might have seen it.”
“Sorry, Porky. I came out of the bathroom, saw Victoria walking in, grabbed my bag from the alcove and ran backstage to let everyone know she was there. It was less than a second.”
“Why did
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