“Yeah, it sure has.”
“Well—don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks.”
So that is how I come not to get no DSC in the late war. If I had of done what I was sent to do, maybe they would of give me one, because Shep, he got cited, and they sure needed me bad. But I never done it, and it ain’t no use blubbering over how things might be if only they was a little different.
Cigarette Girl
Bullets weren’t in Cameron’s line, but he couldn’t back out. He couldn’t leave the girl alone again.
I’d never so much as laid eyes on her before going in this place, the Here’s How, a night-club on Route 1, a few miles north of Washington, on business that was 99% silly, but that I had to keep to myself. It was around 8 at night, with hardly anyone there, and I’d just taken a table, ordered a drink, and started to unwrap a cigar, when a whiff of perfume hit me, and she swept by with cigarettes. As to what she looked like, I had only a rear view, but the taffeta skirt, crepe blouse, and silver earrings were quiet, and the chassis was choice, call it fancy, a little smaller than medium. So far, a cigarette girl, nothing to rate any cheers, but not bad either, for a guy unattached who’d like an excuse to linger.
But then she made a pitch, or what I took for a pitch. Her middle-aged customer was trying to tell her some joke, and taking so long about it the proprietor got in the act. He was a big, blond, blocky guy, with kind of a decent face, but he went and whispered to her as though to hustle her up, for some reason apparently, I couldn’t quite figure it out. She didn’t much seem to like it, until her eye caught mine. She gave a little pout, a little shrug, a little wink, and then just stood there, smiling.
Now I know this pitch and it’s nice, because of course I smiled back, and with that I was on the hook. A smile is nature’s freeway: it has lanes, and you can go any speed you like, except you can’t go back. Not that I wanted to, as I suddenly changed my mind about the cigar I had in my hand, stuck it back in my pocket, and wigwagged for cigarettes. She nodded, and when she came over said: “You stop laughing at me.”
“Who’s laughing? Looking.”
“Oh, of course. That’s different.”
I picked out a pack, put down my buck, and got the surprise of my life: she gave me change. As she started to leave, I said: “You forgot something, maybe?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“For all this I get, I should pay.”
“All what, sir, for instance?”
“I told you: the beauty that fills my eye.”
“The best things in life are free.”
“On that basis, fair lady, some of them, here, are tops. Would you care to sit down?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Not allowed. We got rules.”
With that she went out toward the read somewhere, and I noticed the proprietor again, just a short distance away, and realized he’d been edging in. I called him over and said: “What’s the big idea? I was talking to her.”
“Mister, she’s paid to work.”
“Yeah, she mentioned about rules, but now they got other things too. Four Freedoms, all kinds of stuff. Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”
“I heard of it, yes.”
“You’re Mr. Here’s How?”
“Jack Connor, to my friends.”
I took a V from my wallet, folded it, creased it, pushed it toward him. I said: “Jack, little note of introduction I generally carry around. I’d like you to ease these rules. She’s cute, and I crave to buy her a drink.”
He didn’t see any money, and stood for a minute thinking. Then: “Mister, you’re off on the wrong foot. In the first place, she’s not a cigarette girl. Tonight, yes, when the other girl is off. But not regular, no. in the second place, she’s not any chiselly-wink, that orders rye, drinks tea, takes the four bits you slip her, the four I charge for the drink—and is open to propositions. She’s class. she’s used to class—out West, with people that have it, and that brought her East when they came. In the third place she’s a friend, and before I eased any rules I’d have to know more about you, a whole lot more, than this note tells me.”
“My name’s Cameron.”
“Pleased to meet you and all that, but as to who you are, Mr. Cameron, and what you are, I still don’t know—”
“I’m a musician.”
“Yeah? What instrument?”
“Any of them. Guitar, mainly.”
Which brings me to what I was doing there. I do play the guitar, play it all day long, for the help I get from it, as it gives me certain chords, the big ones that people go for, and heads me off from some others, the fancy ones on the piano, that other musicians go for. I’m an arranger, based in Baltimore, and had driven down on a little tune detecting. The guy who takes most of my work, Art Lomak, the band leader, writes a few tunes himself, and had gone clean off his rocker about one he said had been stolen, or thefted as they call it. It was one he’d been playing a little, to try it and work out bugs, with lyric and title to come, soon as the idea hit him. And then he rang me, with screams. It had already gone on the air, as 20 people had told him, from this same little honky-tonk, as part of a 10 o’clock spot on the Washington FM pick-up. He begged me to be here tonight, when the trio started their broadcast, pick up such dope as I could, and tomorrow give him the low-down.
That much was right on the beam, stuff that goes on every day, a routine I knew by heart. But his tune had angles, all of them slightly peculiar. One was, it had already been written, though it was never a hit and was almost forgotten, in the days when states were hot, under the title Nevada. Another was, it had been written even before that, by a gent named Giuseppe Verdi, as part of the Sicilian Vespers, under the title O Tu Palermo. Still another was, Art was really burned, and seemed to have no idea where the thing had come from. They just can’t get it, those big schmalzburgers like him, that what leaks out of their head might, just once, have leaked in. But the twist, the reason I had to come, and couldn’t just play it for laughs, was: Art could have been right. Maybe the lift was from him, not from the original opera, or from the first theft, Nevada. It’s a natural for a ¾ beat, and that’s how Art had been playing it. So if that’s how they were doing it here, instead of with Nevada’s 4/4, which followed the Verdi signature, there might still be plenty of work for the lawyers Art had put on it, with screams, same like to me.
Silly, almost.
Spooky.
But maybe, just possibly, moola.
So Jack, this boss character, by now had smelled something fishy, and suddenly took a powder, to the stand where the fiddles were parked, as of course the boys weren’t there yet, and came back with a Spanish guitar. I took it, thanked him, and tuned. To kind of work it around, in the direction of Art’s little problem, and at the same time make like there was nothing at all to conceal, I said I’d come on account of his band, to catch it during the broadcast, as I’d heard it was pretty good. He didn’t react, which left me nowhere, but I thought it well to get going.
I played him Night and Day, no Segovia job, but plenty good, for free. On “Day and Night,” where it really opens up, I knew things to do, and talk suddenly stopped among the scattering of people that were in there. When I finished there was some little clapping, but still he didn’t react, and I gave thought to mayhem. But then a buzzer sounded, and he took another powder, out toward the rear this time, where she had disappeared. I began a little beguine, but he was back. He bowed, picked up his V, bowed again: “Mr. Cameron, the guitar did it. She heard you, and you’re in.”
“Will you set me up for two?”
“Hold on, there’s a catch.”
He said until midnight, when one of his men would take over, she was checking his orders. “That means she handles the money, and if she’s not there, I could just as well close down. You’re invited
back with her, but she can’t come out with you.”
“Oh. Fine.”
“Sir, you asked for it.”
I wasn’t quite the way I’d have picked to do it, but the main thing was the girl, and I followed him through the OUT door, the one his waiters were using, still with my Spanish guitar. But then, all of a sudden, I loved it, and felt even nearer to her.
This was the works of the joint, with a little office at one side, service bar on the other, range rear and center, the crew in white all around, getting the late stuff ready. But high on a stool, off by herself, on a little railed-in platform where waiters would have to pass, she was waving at me, treating it all as a joke. She called down: “Isn’t this a balcony scene for you? You have to play me some music!”
I whapped into it quick, and when I told her it was Romeo and Juliet, she said it was just what she’d wanted. By then Jack had a stool he put next to hers, so I could sit beside her, back of her little desk. He introduced us, and it turned out her name was Stark. I climbed up and there we were, out in the middle of the air, and yet in a way private, as the crew played it funny, to the extent they played it at all, but mostly were too busy even to look. I put the guitar on the desk and kept on with the music. By the time I’d done some Showboat she was calling me Bill and to me she was Lydia. I remarked on her eyes, which were green, and showed up bright against her creamy skin and ashy blond hair. She remarked on mine, which are light, watery blue, and I wished I was something besides tall, thin, and red-haired. But it was kind of cute when she gave a little pinch and nipped one of my freckles, on my hand back of the thumb.
Then Jack was back, with champagne iced in a bucket, which I hadn’t ordered. When I remembered my drink, the one I had ordered, he said Scotch was no good, and this would be on him. I thanked him, but after he’d opened and poured, and I’d leaned the guitar in a corner and raised my glass to her, I said: “What’s made him so friendly?”
“Oh, Jack’s always friendly.”
“Not to me. Oh, no.”
“He may have thought I had it coming. Some little thing to cheer me. My last night in the place.”
“You going away?”
“M’m-h’m.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“That why you’re off at 12?”
“Jack tell you that?”
“He told me quite a lot.”
“Plane leaves at 1. Bag’s gone already. It’s at the airport, all check and ready to be weighed.”
She clinked her glass to mine, took a little sip, and drew a deep, trembly breath. As for me, I felt downright sick, just why I couldn’t say, as it had to all be strictly allegro, with nobody taking it serious. It struck in my throat a little when I said: “Well—happy landings. It is permitted to ask which way that plane is taking you?”
“Home.”
“And where’s that?”
“It’s—not important.”
“The West, I know that much.”
“What else did Jack tell you?”
I took it, improvised, and made up a little stuff, about her high-toned friends, her being a society brat, spoiled as all get-out, and the heavy dough she was used to—a light rib, as I thought. But it hadn’t gone very far when I saw it was missing bad. When I cut it off, she took it. She said: “Some of that’s true, in a way. I was—fortunate, we’ll call it. But—you still have no idea, have you, Bill, what I really am?”
“I’ve been playing by ear.”
“I wonder if you want to know?”
“If you don’t want to, I’d rather you didn’t say.”
None of it was turning out quite as I wanted, and I guess maybe I showed it. She studied me a little and asked: “The silver I wear, that didn’t tell you anything? Or my giving you change for your dollars? It didn’t mean anything to you, that a girl would run a straight game?”
“She’s not human.”
“It means she’s a gambler.”
And then: “Bill does that shock you?”
“No, not at all.”
“I’m not ashamed of it. Out home, it’s legal. You know where that is now?”
“Oh! Oh!”
“Why oh? And oh?”
“Nothing. It’s—Nevada, isn’t it?”
“Something wrong with Nevada?”
“No! I just woke up, that’s all.”
I guess that’s what I said, but whatever it was, she could hardly miss the upbeat in my voice. Because, of course, that wrapped it all up pretty, not only the tunes, which the band would naturally play for her, but her too, and who she was. Society dame, to tell the truth, hadn’t pleased me much, and maybe that was one reason my rib was slightly off key. But gambler I could go for, a little cold, a little dangerous, a little brave. When she was sure I had really brought it, we were close again, and after a nip on the freckle her fingers slid over my hand. She said play her Smoke—the smoke she had in her eyes. But I didn’t, and we just sat there some little time.
And then, a little bit at a time, she began to spill it: “Bill, it was just plain cock-eyed. I worked in a club, the Paddock, in Reno, a regular institution. Tony Rocco—Rock—owned it, and was the squarest bookie ever—why he was a Senator, and civic, and everything. And I worked from him, running his wires practically being his manager, with a beautiful salary, a bonus Christmas, and everything. And then wham, it struck. This federal thing. This 10% tax on gross. And we were out of business. It just didn’t make sense. Everything else was exempted. Wheels and boards and slots, whatever you could think of, but us. Us and the numbers racket, in Harlem and Florida and Washington.”
“Take it easy.”
“That’s right, Bill. Thanks.”
“Have some wine.”
“… Rock, of course, was fixed. He had property, and for the building, where the Paddock was, he got $250,000—or so I heard. But then came the tip on Maryland.”
That crossed me up, and instead of switching her off, I asked her what she meant. She said: “That Maryland would legalize wheels.”
“What do you smoke in Nevada?”
“Oh, I didn’t believe it. And Rock didn’t. But Mrs. Rock went nuts about it. Oh well, she had reason.”
“Dark, handsome reason?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, but that reason took the Rocks for a ride, for every cent they got for the place, and tried to take me too, for other things beside money. When they went off to Italy, they thought they had it fixed, he was to keep me at my salary, in case Maryland would legalize, and if not, to send me home, with severance pay, as it’s called. And instead of that—”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve said too much.”
“What’s this guy to you?”
“Nothing! I never even saw him until the three of us stepped off the plane—with our hopes. In a way it seemed reasonable. Maryland had tracks, and they help with the taxes. Why not wheels?
“And who is this guy?”
“I’d be ashamed to say, but I’ll say this much: I won’t e a kept floozy. I don’t care who he thinks he is, or—”
She bit her lip, started to cry, and really shut up then. To switch off, I asked why she was working for Jack, and she said: “Why not? You can’t go home in a barrel. But he’s been swell to me.”
Saying people were swell seemed to be what she like, and she calmed down, letting her hand stay when I pressed it in both of mine. Then we were really close, close enough that I’d be warranted in laying it on the line, she should let that plane fly away, and not go to Nevada at all. But while I was working on that, business was picking up, with waiters stopping by to let her look at their trays, and I hadn’t much chance to say it, whatever I wanted to say. Then, through the IN door, a waiter came through with a tray that had a wine bottle on it. A guy followed him in, a little noisy guy,
who said the bottle was full and grabbed it off the tray. He had hardly gone out, when Jack was in the door, watching him as he staggered back to the table. The waiter swore the bottle was empty, but all Jack did was nod.
Then Jack came over to her, took another little peep through the window in the OUT door, which was just under her balcony, and said: “Lydiay, what did you make of him?”
“Why—he’s drunk, that’s all.”
“You notice him, Mr. Cameron?”
“No—except it crossed my mind he wasn’t as tight as the act he was putting on.”
“Just what crossed my mind! How could he get that drunk on a split of Napa red? What did he want back here?”
by now, the waiter had gone out on the floor and come back, saying the guy wanted his check. But as he started to shuffle it out of the bunch he had tucked in his best, Jack stopped him and said: “He don’t get any check—not till I give the word. Tell Joe I said stand by and see he don’t get out. Move!”
The waiter had looked kind of blank, but hustled out as told, and then Jack looked at her. He said: “Lady, I’ll be back. I’m taking a look around.”
He went, and she drew another of her long, trembly breaths. I cut my eye around, but no one had noticed a thing, and yet it seemed kind of funny they’d all be slicing bread, wiping glass, of fixing cocktails set-ups, with Jack mumbling it low out of the side of his mouth. I had a creepy feeling of things going on, and my mind took it a little, fitting it together, what she had said about the bag checked at the airport, the guy trying to make her, and most of all, the way Jack had acted, the second she showed with her cigarettes, shooing her off the floor, getting her out of sight. She kept staring through the window, at the drunk where he sat with his bottle, and seemed to ease when a captain I took to be Joe planted himself pretty solid in a spot that would block off a run-out.
Then Jack was back, marching around, snapping his fingers, giving orders for the night. But as he passed the back door, I noticed his hand touched the lock, as though putting the catch on. He started back to the floor, but stopped as he passed her desk, and shot it quick in a whisper: “He’s out there, Lydia, parked in back. This drunk, like I thought, is a finger he sent in to spot you, but he won’t be getting out till you’re gone. You’re leaving for the airport, right now.”