Frails Can Be So Tough

by Hank Janson

  CHAPTER THREE

  I dropped off the bus at town centre, called a cab and directed him to the Sugar Loaf.

  I hadn’t been in town for years. But I’d studied the facts that concerned me so thoroughly, there wasn’t a thing I didn’t know about the Sugar Loaf.

  It was a swell joint, frequented by swanky folk who had the kinda dough it needs to visit a joint like that.

  I deposited my coat with the peroxided, fluffy-haired blonde who looked after the cloakroom, and flashed her a big tip. It earned me a broad smile, an engaging twinkle of blue eyes and the smarmy attention of the hovering and watching head waiter.

  I crossed his palm with crackling paper money, like I’d been doing it all my life, before even asking him for a good table. He figured he was on a good thing, showed plenty of deference, clapped his hands smartly so that waiters were fluttering around me like vultures around a freshly-killed animal.

  It was a classy joint. Only me and two other guys were not wearing tails. All the dames were in evening dress, backless and strapless evening gowns that cost plenty and were plenty attractive. I’d never before in one place and at one time seen so much bosom. And these were real high-class bosoms, ornamented with gleaming, flashing sapphires and glistening pearls.

  Any gunman with a fancy for a little excitement could have made a haul merely by flashing a gun and circulating around the guests with a large sack to collect the spoils.

  I ordered carefully, choosing the best and the most expensive. A coupla tables away, a young guy was acting host to two dames. He paid plenty of attention to one of them, left the other in the cold. When he escorted his choice to the dance floor, the lonely dame glanced around soulfully, caught my eye, looked away quickly and embarrassedly. A few moments later, just a little too casually, she

  moved around so I could get full focus on her plunging neckline. If she’d leaned forward just a little more, I’d have seen down to the soles of her shoes. It was a great

  temptation. It needed only a hastily scribbled note passed to her by the waiter to get her curves pressed up tight against me on the dance-floor.

  But I wasn’t here on pleasure. I was here on business. I paid attention to what I was eating, wondered just how information I’d be getting later, and what use I could make of it. Next time I glanced at the dame, she’d lost all restraint, was gazing at me soulfully. She smiled sadly when my eyes met hers.

  They were nice eyes, brown and pouting, and I wasn’t in all that hurry. I’d waited years. I could wait just a little longer. I scribbled on the back of a menu, caught a waiter’s eye.

  She didn’t even read it. She knew what it was. She nodded to me as the waiter put the menu in her hand. I got up, crossed to her. ‘Would you care to dance?’

  She flashed me a dazzling smile as she led the way to the dance-floor. The band was playing a slow, sentimental foxtrot. As soon as I put my arms around her, she went right into a clinch, kinda went to sleep on me while she was standing up, her body moulding into mine from chest to knee. She was clinging, smouldering dynamite, every line and curve of her body moulding into mine so faithfully it felt she was naked. She almost was at that! The silkiness of her skin imparted an electric tingle to my fingers that was disconcerting. I dropped my hand lower to escape the disturbing effect of it. That dress sure was backless. I stopped lowering my hand when it had reached a point where it would be improper to place it any lower. And my fingers were still being electrified. I swallowed, began to sweat slightly, and slid my fingers upwards again. She gave a pleased little sigh, wriggled herself deliciously and did some more body-moulding. Her cheek was resting on my chest, her eyes were closed and her body only moved with mine. If I’d have stopped dancing, she’d have stayed right the way she was. She spoke for the first time. ‘That was nice,’ she whispered contentedly.

  Maybe it was. But I had a busy evening before me. All I’d planned on doing was dancing with her. She acted like she had certain other plans.

  I was relieved yet disappointed when the dance finished and the lights came on. She clung to my arm, squeezed it meaningfully, looked up at me with frankly inviting eyes. Somehow her chest nudged me a coupla times.

  Then we were back at her table, and she was introducing me. ‘This is my brother, Captain Foster, and his fiancée, Emily Dean.’

  ‘My name’s Shelton,’ I told them. ‘Lee Shelton.’ I looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘Diane,’ she said. ‘Diane Foster.’

  ‘Miss?’

  Her eyes smiled roguishly. ‘Miss,’ she said, with a slight emphasis.

  The brother and his fiancée were so wrapped up in each other that they’d already forgotten about us. I gave a polite little bow, returned to my table. Diane sat back in her chair, stared at me with frankly approving eyes. She was eager and expectant, all ready for the next dance.

  But she had to control her impatience. The lights went out all over the restaurant, spotlights played on the dance-floor for the cabaret troupe. And what those high-class guests with their diamond necklaces and low-cut dresses put on show was as nothing in comparison with the tastefully revealed charms of the cabaret girls. They enacted a South Sea Island folk dance, which the programme described as being hundreds of years old. The name of it was unpronounceable, but the programme thoughtfully gave the translation - The dance that makes you think about it.

  The six dancers were certainly not Polynesian. But they had shining black hair and eyes, and what passed for South Sea Island costumes. In a night club, that is – certainly not in the South Sea Islands. The costumes were brief but spectacular. Long necklaces of small sea shells drooped across their breasts, and strips of brightly-coloured satin were strained tautly around their loins, like embryo bikini bathing shorts. The band played slowly at first, mostly guitars and drums. With their first, easy, graceful movements, the dancers made those shell necklaces sway revealingly. Then, as the dance got into its pace, you could see those girls musta worked at learning it. It wasn’t only their feet that danced, it was their entire bodies. They used their eyes and faces expressively, their arms were graceful and meaningful, their bodies supple and rippling. It wasn’t just a dance. It was primitive human emotion expressed in vitalised rhythm and movement. And it wasn’t movement that could be learned, It was movement that could be acquired only by years of study and requiring deep feeling and understanding.

  The guitars became louder, the drummers beat more passionately, and I couldn’t move my eyes from those dames as they swayed their hips, rolled their bellies sensuously, each full circular movement completed with a sharp, urgent forward thrust. There was a mad, magnetic ecstasy in the dancing, which heated my blood, made me lean forward watching intently, even panting slightly myself. The dance became faster and faster, wilder and wilder. The dame nearest me danced like she was possessed, every sharp, forward thrust of her body flicking the slender sea-shell necklace high off her breasts. All the time, her hips and her belly were rolling at an ever-increasing speed, the muscles of her sides, back and thighs were jerking unceasingly. They danced madly, faster and faster, continuing so long I became anxious for them, afraid they would crack beneath the strain of it. Yet still they continued perfect with precision and amazing stamina. The girl nearest me was twirling madly, her body jerking seductively with the rhythm of the drums. She was overcome by the rhythmic frenzy of the dance. I was beginning to feel that way myself.

  Then, very gradually, the music began to slow and die away. As it slowed, the dancers lost their frenzy, eased down until, with legs parted and half-bent and arms gracefully extended above their heads, the only movement they made was the slow, sensuous rolling of their bellies.

  Even that movement died in perfect harmony with the music.

  For a moment there was awed silence. Then came the applause. Overwhelming applause. The dancer nearest me was smiling, keeping her lips parted as she panted and tried not to show it. I could tell she was breathless by the way her breasts heaved. It wasn’t surprising
. She sure had worked at it. Her body glistened, the red satin strip around her loins wore a dark sweat-patch, and beads of perspiration trickled down her smooth thighs.

  That dance was a remarkable exhibition of controlled movement, precision and rhythm. But it was more than that. It lived up to its name. It certainly made me think about it.

  It wasn’t only me it affected that way. When the lights went on, Diane was looking at me again. And there was no doubt as to what was in her mind!

  I danced with her twice more. The second time, she suggested we might go some place quiet and have a drink. There was conflict waging inside me. My plan won. I told her we’d make it some other time, escorted her back to her table and called the waiter over to me.

  I spoke in his ear, confidentially. ‘I wanna little excitement.’

  ‘Would you like me to recommend a theatre or a show, sir?’

  I looked at him meaningfully. ‘Don’t give me that!’

  He went away, came back with the head waiter – the guy I’d tipped lavishly. ‘What is it you want, sir?’

  I stared at him levelly, half-lowered one eyelid. ‘Just a little excitement.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’

  I’d carefully slipped another lavish tip into his palm. ‘Do I look like a cop?’ I demanded. ‘There isn’t a table in Chicago or New York I haven’t played. Have I gotta die of boredom on account I’m a newcomer in town.’

  He stared at me thoughtfully. I grinned back. He asked, cautiously: ‘Is there anybody you know? Somebody who would recommend you?’

  ‘I hit town today,’ I told him. ‘I made a few enquiries around. Got this name every time. Seems like the whole town knows about it.’

  ‘We have to be careful,’ he pointed out.

  I leaned forward, said in a low voice: ‘Listen, bud. I have to be careful, too. I’d hate to have my name tied in on a raid.’

  He thought about it for maybe another five seconds. Then he said, with decision: ‘I guess it’s okay.’

  ‘Where do I go?’

  He nodded cautiously across the restaurant towards a corridor labelled ‘Smoking Room.’ ‘About five minutes’ time,’ he said. ‘Go straight through and I’ll meet you the other end.’

  I got my cheque, settled the bill with a flourish and another large tip. When I got up, Diane was watching me with pained eyes, brow furrowed with disappointment. It was almost as though she was saying, ‘You can’t go. Not now!’

  I hated breaking it up between us. But I had my I business to attend to. I nodded to her sharply, turned on my heel quickly, because she looked like she was gonna get up and speak to me, and threaded my way through the tables.

  A little later, I made my way to the ‘Smoking Room,’ loitered for a moment, and then passed on along the corridor. It was a long corridor with two right-angle turnings. At the far end, the head waiter was waiting for me. He stood in front of a plain, unvarnished door. He gave a quick succession of knocks that were obviously a code. A flap in the door opened and two eyes peered through. ‘Let this guy in,’ said the head waiter. ‘He’s okay.’

  As the door opened, I slipped another large bill in his hand. It was policy to keep him sweet. I didn’t know when I’d be needing him again.

  It was a large room, well-lighted and very, very full. I elbowed my way over to the roulette table, took up a position behind a dame with a stack of chips in front of her. She was a young dame, not more than twenty, who looked like she’d been over-dieting. Her shoulder-blades stood out like the ribs of a starved horse, and her arms were long and thin. So thin it was incredible. The bodice of her dress was supported by a diamond collar, which would have kept a working man and his family for a life-time. I stood close, looked over her shoulder to watch her play. She had a plunging neckline. It extended to her waist, where a slender girdle was fastened with a diamond-studded clip. I don’t know what she thought fashion did for her. All that plunging neckline advertised was her prominent, fleshless chest bones. Apart from that, she was as flat as a board – maybe a little flatter.

  But the really interesting thing about that dame was her attitude. I could feel her all tightened up inside, taut like a drum. I could feel the eager desperateness inside her when she counted chips onto a square. Then it was like I could feel her going around and around with the roulette wheel, the sharp click of the ball an echo inside her, plucking at her nerve-strings, so she was hovering between life and death during the long seconds it took for the wheel to slow and the ball to fall in a numbered slot.

  The croupier called: ‘Thirty-six. Red.’

  I felt the heavy sag inside her. The weight that drew her down, sucked at her life’s blood. It lasted while the croupier’s rake reached out, scooped in the chips on the table. Then there was eager desperateness inside her once more as she reached out her bony arm, pushed more chips onto the same square.

  I glanced around. Most of the folks there had that same eager, reckless glint in their eyes. They were dope addicts, transported from the depths to the heights on the twist of a wheel, their hopes plunging as fortune slipped between their fingers, then soaring to the heavens as chips piled up in front of them. Never did they have the gumption to quit when the going was good.

  I went to the cashier, exchanged all the dough I had for gambling chips. I went back to the roulette table, squeezed in alongside the bony dame.

  Luck was running dead against her. The pile of chips in front of her was steadily diminishing. Her face was white, except for two red spots high up on her cheeks. But each time she pushed more chips onto a square, that same eager, desperate light gleamed in her eyes.

  Maybe in Monte Carlo and other resorts where gambling is permitted, the wheel is operated honestly. After all, the odds are always in favour of the bank, although it may be only for a small percentage. But it was a dime to a grand that in an illegal gambling joint like this, the wheel wad fixed so the house couldn’t lose, whatever happened.

  I had a theory about fixed wheels. A very simple theory, which I reckoned to try out at some time. You’ve got to understand the point of view of the guy who’s running the wheel to understand my theory. Once you put yourself in his shoes, realize what pays him best, you can’t go wrong.

  Figure yourself as a croupier seated at the head of table, with the suckers carefully placing their chips and hoping they’re gonna win a fortune. They’ve finished laying their stakes now, and you’re getting ready to twirl the wheel. You give one last look around. Everybody’s placed their stake on the board. You shout, in a loud voice, ‘No more bets,’ and start that wheel revolving.

  Now comes your testing point. You’ve got to be an expert mathematician, and you’ve got to be able to size up the table in a flash. All kinds of bets are placed, some folks betting red will win, others betting black will win. These bets only pay off evens. There are some folk who like a real gamble. They’re the guys who bet on just one number. If that one number turns up, they get paid thirty-six times their original stake. There are other folks who like a gamble but are more cautious. They bet on a group of four numbers, which pays off nine to one. Other folks bet on groups of twelve, six or two numbers. They take their choice of bet, select the odds they want.

  But back to the croupier. He’s got it all weighed up. He’s studied these tables for years. And as the wheel turns, he’s calculating ferociously. Not everybody can win. Only some people can win. And the croupier doesn’t care who the winners are. All he’s concerned is that the bank shall receive more in stake money than it pays out in odds. So his quick eye notices that, all told, there’s a thousand dollars on the table betting that red will turn up, another five hundred saying the number will be over eighteen. A further five hundred bucks is betting the number will be an odd number.

  That’s two thousand bucks betting the number will be red, odd and over eighteen.

  Almost at the same moment, he calculates that if the number is under eighteen, black and an even number, he’ll have to pay to t
he winners only a matter of fifteen hundred bucks.

  It doesn’t matter when and how he operates the mechanism of that crooked wheel. That’s a factual detail. All I know is, that if the game is crooked, without a doubt the number is going to be under eighteen, black and even.

  So that’s the croupier’s set-up. He plays the table for the house, making sure that whoever wins, the house doesn’t lose.

  As for me, the player, what do I do? Well, it’s simple. I wait till the last moment before laying my bet. I play a corpse hand. I bet the opposite way to the folks who are making the high stakes. The only drawback is, I have to bet small. If I betted big, the wheel would be turned against me instead of against them.

  I could have done it with the bony dame. She was backing heavily, losing heavily. I could have corpsed every move she made, bet dead opposite to her and won every time she lost.

  But I hadn’t come to make a fortune. I’d come to lose dough. So I backed the thin dame’s hunches, paralleled her bets to a smaller extent.

  I didn’t lose all the time. That would have been too obvious. Once in a while, the croupier played it straight, so the bank didn’t always win.

  But giving the suckers an occasional win was good psychology. To see a pile of chips pushed over to you renewed hope, gave an indication losses could be recovered, induced folks to plunge even more deeply.

  A coupla hours steady playing saw the end. I lost my last chip the same time as the thin dame lost the last of her dough. When her last chip was scooped in by the croupier’s rake, she sat staring at the board like she couldn’t believe her eyes. There were plenty of other folk anxious to play, and the croupier’s eyes were on her. With a white face, and an unquenched thirst to recover her losses still gleaming in her eyes, she quit her chair, fingered her collar and glanced around.

  I was right behind her when she went to the cashier. She didn’t say anything. She just took off the diamond necklace, placed it on the desk in front of him.