He gave her one and lighted it for her. From the direction of the stage he could hear the voices and from somewhere came the sound of hammering.
Norah took a deep puff and inhaled it slowly. She looked up to find his eyes on her. She smiled. “Sharon’s affected you already, has she?”
He shrugged. “That’s a lot of woman.”
“Uh-huh. Joe, just for kicks, don’t let her know you inherited any money. And don’t let her see that house of yours.”
Joe laughed. “Easy, blondie. I don’t even know the girl, and I’ll probably never meet her. I’m no high school punk, you understand. I’ve seen a lot of girls. I was a cop for twelve years. I worked out of Hollywood for six of ‘em.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Norah nodded matter-of-factly. “Well, no man is going to understand Sharon completely because his ego won’t let him. Just you listen to old Aunt Norah and you’ll save yourself a carload of bitterness.”
He grinned at her. “Okay. I’ll watch myself. What could I do around here to make myself useful?”
“Don’t worry about that; there are plenty of jobs for the untalented in this organization. You’ll find your little niche.”
“I see. What’s yours?”
“I act at times and paint at times and sell tickets and make coffee and try to get us publicity and set up chairs and run out for more doughnuts and act as information bureau for great big, dumb but handsome ex-cops.”
“I’m handsome?” Joe asked.
“In your naïve and virile way.”
Joe chuckled. “Naïve — ? I wish you’d seen some of the things I’ve seen.”
“I do, too. That’s got nothing to do with it. I can tell naïveté when I see it, and I’m looking at it. You want a cup of coffee?”
“Here?”
“Any place you want it, lover. But the rest of them usually drink it in the kitchen.”
There was no one in the kitchen when they entered it. On the cast steel top of the restaurant-size range, a huge enameled coffeepot was simmering over a low flame.
From a stack of dirty cups on the drainboard of the sink, Norah selected a pair and rinsed them out. “You’d better handle that pot; it’s too heavy for me.”
Joe went over to pour, and then they sat at the big table in the center of the room.
Norah nodded at the bank of waist-high windows that covered one wall of the kitchen above a counter. “That’s where we serve the coffee and doughnuts between acts. At ten cents an item. Extra dimes for the kitty.”
“And what do you do with the kitty? Nobody gets paid, do they?”
“Nobody gets paid. But we share the universal dream of all amateur groups — our own theater.” She chuckled. “We found a place we could get, too, for twelve thousand. That’s awfully cheap for this neighborhood. All we need, now, is eleven thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two dollars. We have forty-eight dollars in the bank.”
From the doorway, somebody said, “After four years. That’s twelve dollars a year.”
The man standing in the doorway was the elderly man Joe had seen on the stage. He asked, “Is there more of that coffee?”
Norah nodded toward the stove. “Walter, this is Joe — what was that last name?”
“Joe Burke.” Joe rose to grip the man’s hand.
“Walter Hamilton,” Norah said. “Walter’s our current president. Joe is looking for work.”
Hamilton asked, “Local resident, Mr. Burke?”
Joe nodded. “But I — ah — don’t want to act, or anything. I mean — ” What did he mean, that he was lonely?
Hamilton smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. There are so many jobs nobody wants in this organization I’m sure you’ll fit in very well.” He went over to bring a cup of coffee back to the big table.
Norah said, “Walter’s a bleeder. If he’d given as much time to the investment business as he has to amateur theater in his life, he’d be a richer man.”
Hamilton looked at his coffee cup. “That last line I’ll buy. But what about my being a ‘bleeder’? What did you mean by that?”
Norah said, “Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell you.”
Hamilton shook his head. “As long as you seem to have quit buying cigarettes, why don’t you quit smoking?” He threw a pack over to her.
She ignored the last question. “What I meant about your being a bleeder, you worry as much about these productions at a seventy-five cent top as some perfectionist would about a Broadway smash. How good do we have to be at the price?”
“That,” Hamilton said, “was a very stupid remark, and you know it, Norah. Don’t you think Max Reinhardt worked just as hard on little theater work in Salzburg as he did when he became internationally famous?”
Norah chuckled. “Oh, Walter — There is a Reinhardt in the house?”
“Oh, shut up,” he said. He took a deep breath and expelled it. “The painful part is, you’re not really cynical. For three years you’ve been acting like a small caliber Eve Arden. God knows why.”
She said softly, “God and Norah.” She looked up. “What was the fuss about on the stage?”
“Larry and Sharon. They don’t see eye to eye, those two. And now, of course, Sharon has that thirteen weeks at a hundred a week behind her. She’s been a professional.”
“Actress,” Norah added cattily. “Why can’t I get to like her?”
Walter was facing the doorway, and he said, “Come in, Sharon, and have some coffee. Relax.”
Norah gulped. Joe turned to see the redhead looking wonderingly at Norah.
Walter said quickly, “We were talking about relatives, about Norah’s aunt. Is it one of your peeves, too, Sharon?”
Sharon didn’t answer. She came in and went over to rinse out a cup. “Some day I’m going to cut Larry Puma’s throat. Lord, what that man doesn’t know about his profession — ”
Walter said mildly, “Well, you were rather — dominating the scene, Sharon. Oh, this is Joe Burke, Sharon Cassidy.”
Joe rose. Sharon gave him a nod and went over to the big range. “There’s an assistant director at MGM we can get for the next one, Walter. I’ve been talking to him about us.”
Norah winked at Walter.
Joe went over to help Sharon with the big pot. Her perfume smelled expensive. And her complexion was as flawless at close range as it had seemed on the stage. She smiled up at him and Joe’s hand trembled as he poured the coffee. This was one of those for whom talent would be lagniappe; she projected all she’d ever need without saying a word or making a gesture.
Norah said, “Joe’s one of our local residents, Sharon. He’s a cop.”
“Oh.” No interest in the voice.
Joe looked at Norah and found her grinning at him. He said, “I was a cop. But I had a rich aunt. So, I retired.” He made a face at Norah.
Sharon said, “Oh, oh. Norah’s been trying to mislead me, again. Like she did with Dick Metzger.”
Walter laughed. Norah turned pale and glared at the redheaded girl. “That was in bad taste.”
Sharon nodded and came over to the table with her coffee. “But a fact. I’ll drop it if you will.” She sat down. “What a turkey we have. Who was responsible for picking this one?”
Walter Hamilton said mildly, “The Board of Directors. Of which I happen to be president. Why did you try out for it, Sharon?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
There was the sound of footsteps coming down from the stage into the room beyond. “Here comes his lordship, now,” Sharon said. “He’d better stay out of my hair.”
Larry Puma was a big man, as big as Joe, and he seemed genial enough now as he came in from the next room. “Did you make the coffee, Norah?”
“Yes, boss,” she said in mock humility.
“Then it should be good.” He stopped to smile at Sharon. “Are we friends?”
She looked at him coolly. “Temporarily. Perhaps it just isn’t the proper vehicle for my doubtful talents.”
He p
ut the tip of his index finger on her nose. “I never doubted your talent.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Well, thank you.”
He went over to get a cup. “Or lack of it. Let’s face it, Sharon; you’ve never been interested in really learning your trade. And you’ll probably never have to, the way you project that — that appeal of yours.”
Hamilton coughed. Norah looked at her nails. Joe studied a thumb. A silence grew in the room.
Sharon said, “You — you big, dumb, egotistical — ”
Puma turned from the sink to face her. “Look, I wasn’t trying to be nasty. You’ve got what a thousand better actresses would sell out for. And you don’t want to learn anything more.”
Sharon sipped her coffee. “In your opinion. Larry, I’ve learned a thing or two since the last time I worked with this gang.”
Larry raised a hand. “I know. I’ve heard it before. You were at MGM, weren’t you, Miss Cassidy?”
“Mmm-hmm. Ever work there, Larry?” Her voice honey.
“No. I still get my checks at Sam’s Shoe Salon. I will probably die trying to fit a 4-A on a 6-B foot. And you will be the Clara Bow of the frightened ‘fifties. I. will brag about knowing you to my few, impoverished friends. You win, Sharon.”
Norah said, “Maybe Sam will leave you the place, Larry. He can’t live forever.”
They all laughed, including Larry. But Sharon’s laugh wasn’t a pleasant thing to hear.
This redhead, Joe thought, is all bitch. But it doesn’t make a damned bit of difference to me and it won’t to any other male she wants to put out for.
Some others came in after that and Joe was lost in the welter of names and new faces. They went back in to rehearse, after a while, and Joe and Norah were alone in the kitchen.
Norah rose and stretched. “I think I’ll paddle home. I’ll be damned if I’ll wash those cups again.”
“I’ll wash ‘em if you’ll dry,” Joe said. “That Sharon is really nasty, isn’t she?”
“I’m glad you noticed it. You kept your eyes on her enough.”
“Naturally. With a girl like that in the room, all men become — ” He shrugged. “Beasts?” Norah offered.
He rose. “Well, beastly, anyway. Like when you stretched, before. Same effect. And you knew it.”
She stared at him. “I stretched because I needed to stretch. Just what kind of a girl do you think I am?”
“I haven’t found out yet,” Joe said. “I like you, though, Norah.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Let’s get to the cups.”
He washed; she dried. From the room beyond came the sound of the hammer again, and from the stage came the sound of voices. The windows to the right of them looked out on a flood-lighted concrete patio that held three table tennis tables, all of them being used by teen-agers at the moment.
Norah said, “We use those tables for the cream and sugar when we sell doughnuts. Nice setup, isn’t it? Keeps the counter from getting jammed up.”
He nodded. “Who was Dick Metzger?”
Silence, while Norah studied a cup. Then she immersed it in the soapy water. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just nosy, I suppose. When Sharon mentioned that name, I happened to be looking at you. God, you looked — bleak.”
“You still have to play detective, do you?” Her voice was low. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a — a dilettante. He dabbled in art and music and literature — and gullible blondes. He was a very charming, very wealthy, very useless tall and handsome gentleman who drove his Jaguar over the cliff on Chautauqua three years ago.”
“Accident?”
“I suppose.”
“He died?”
“Immediately.”
Joe put a hand on Norah’s forearm. “Serious, huh?”
She was motionless. “I guess it was, Joe.” She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t until he died that we learned he had a wife.”
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Copyright © 1961 by William Campbell Gault, Registration Renewed 1989
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The Hundred Dollar Girl Page 16
