“Is it true you can see Louis Prima in a lounge? For free?”
They have another drink together and take a leisurely stroll back through the casino. Every so often Johnny stops to say hello to a cocktail girl, a high roller, someone in silk and diamonds, and Celia marvels at their reverence, the way he manages to make each one feel like she or he is utterly fascinating.
It is coming on midnight when they pull up to the Sahara. Johnny reaches in for Celia’s hand as she climbs out of the car. “Prima should be on in a few minutes. We’re moving him over to a showroom at the Desert Inn soon,” he adds as they head past the camel statues. “He’s so damn wild, nobody gambles whiles he’s on.” They pass the Arabs lounging outside and he hands her through the front doors toward the lounge.
“We’re moving him? What do you do, anyway?”
He flips his card: John Rosselli, STRATEGIST. “I handle delicate business negotiations.”
“Like an agent?”
“I put people together when a deft hand is needed. We’reearly still. You want to play a hand of blackjack?” In a flash he is by a cage, glad-handing the teller, who passes him a stack of chips.
“You didn’t pay for those.”
“When you’re with me you don’t pay for little things like that.”
He picks a table, grins to the croupier. “Deal my niece in.”
The dealer smirks. “You gotta lotta nieces, Johnny.”
“Oh yes. My brothers are prolific men …” Cards snap the felt. Celia has a couple tens. “Okay, honey, I’m going to advise you to split,” Johnny tells the crown of her head.
Celia tilts her chin up. “Huh?”
He pops another few chips on the table and next thing she knows she has two hands of blackjack going. “Hold on this one,” he tells her. “Give him one of these.” Rosselli waves his hand across her cards for the dealer. “A little gimme with your finger for this one. Good girl.”
The dealer flips her another and she waves a palm over the second hand. The dealer flips his own card. “Winner here and winner there!”
She lets loose a money-squeal. “We won! we won!”
“Jesus, we got a card sharp,” Rosselli laughs. An announcer’s voice cuts in. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Casbah Lounge proudly presents the wildest act in Las Vegas: Louis Prima and Keely Smith with Sammy Butera and the Witnesses!”
Celia’s head swings. “Oh no, they’re coming!”
Rosselli helps her stuff the chips into her purse. “Oh—” he snaps two back in her fingers “—never forget to look after your friends.”
She tips the dealer and smiles before looping her arm through her escort’s and clipping toward Prima’s raspy bear-voice.
“Hey, you cats out there, you getcherselves ready cuz we’re gonna wail you right outta your skins.” The band races and thumps behind him. “That’s right, keep on smilin’ cuz—” Prima’s voice revs “‘—when you’re smilin’” (Keely and the band echo him), “‘the whole world smiles with you …’”
Rosselli didn’t lie. By the time they get to the lounge, there are no seats left. Gamblers head straight for the relentless driving music that beats its way through the smoke and chitchat.
Every pair of hips swivels, every pair of feet tries to keep up. Crowd or no, a cocktail girl makes it to Rosselli in a flash. Smirnoff over ice for him and something fruity for her.
Celia sips. “Mmm, what’s this?”
“Let’s see, I believe it’s vodka, brandy, sherry and a little champagne.”
“Has it got a name?”
“An Atomic.”
“Because it blows your mind?” she giggles.
“That and for the A-bombs they’ve been testing out in the desert the last few years.”
Celia coughs. “My stepdad says you can get all kinds of diseases from that.”
“Nonsense. Government wouldn’t do it if it could hurt you.” Rosselli nods to her drink, says, “I call them mousetraps. Careful how many these cats fill you up with.”
She titters. Her eyes bug at the lyrics coming from stage. “He’s dirty!” she cries.
Rosselli laughs. “You get a licence to be bad in the desert.”
She sucks the glass empty and sets it down. “Come dance with me.” Pulling him into the crowd, she spins and leaps into motion for “Jump, Jive and Wail” as Prima buffoons across stage and the audience stomps and claps.
Prima hoarses from one song into the next. Twenty years younger and half his width, Keely Smith follows her husband’s antics with the perfect poker face. The crowd howls as Prima does all he can to crack her deadpan facade till he suddenly picks up his trumpet and blasts the room alongside Sam Butera’s blaring sax.
When the music slows, Celia and Rosselli waltz to Keely’s “I Got it Bad and That Ain’t Good.” Louis thrusts his hips to his wife, looks at the audience and brays, “I got it good and that ain’t bad!” He scats background vocals, dances and clowns and Celia laughs so hard her face hurts again. As the song nears the end, a bartender shoves his way through to Johnny and holds a telephone-shaped hand to his ear.
“I have a feeling I’m needed,” Rosselli tells her. “You wanna stick around?”
“Okay,” she sighs. “Promise to come back?”
“Count on it.” He kisses her knuckles. “Jesus, you can move. You’re why I can’t date young girls anymore.”
Rosselli is hardly out of the lounge before a young slickster in a skinny tie moves in on Celia with a sweet drink. “Hey, beautiful. Thirsty?”
“Thanks … pally!” She is slick her own self.
Twenty minutes later, she’s dancing ringside and Prima is down on all fours howling like a rusty wolf at the blonde with the lightning legs. Keely looks askance and, bored-as-you-please, says, “Sure, but can she type?”
Prima launches into “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” directing every word to Celia. Keely grabs him by the scruff, “Come on, old man. You’ve only got so much life left in those knees and I might need you down on them later.” The room shrieks as Prima bounces to his feet and lets Keely drag him back.
Celia sponges up every word and gesture and wills their attention back to her. Soon as the tune turns to “That Old Black Magic,” she gets her wish. The Vegas version swings with Latin rhythms and, a few bars in, Prima is back downstage singing to Celia, “That old black magic has me in its spell,” bending forward to put the mike to her lips for what should’ve have been Keely’s part.
Celia comes close to swallowing her tongue but, looking to Prima’s wife, she takes a slow breath and matches her tone for tone. “That old black magic that you weave so well.”
“Mamma mia, she can sing too,” Prima hollers. Keely looks a little nonplussed.
“Those icy fingers up and down my spine,” he goes on.
“The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine,” Celia and Keely call in stereo.
Prima falls back on his butt, shoes to the ceiling, legs rattling the air as if he’s fallen on a live wire. “The same old tingle that I feel inside (’cept for blonde),” he yells.
“When that elevator starts its ride.” Keely answers alone now that Celia has no mike.
“Down and down I go, round and round I go, like a leaf that’s caught in the tide.”
The words take on a whiff of danger as she walks to her husband and, placing a high-heeled foot between his splayed thighs, wails, “I should stay away, but what can I do-o-o? I hear your name and I’m aflame.”
To Celia, it’s as if she’d crawled through a screen and onto Ed Sullivan’s sound stage.
Annie West sees it all. Her eyebrows have been stuck in a permanent arch since she passed John Rosselli on her way in. Annie met him once in New York last year. Micky D introduced her and you’d think the messiah himself had come to town the way everyone kissed his chic tailored ass.
Annie looks around for somewhere to sit or lean. A fella standing near the entrance offers a boost so she can sit on the railing. A drink in her
hand now and two others lined up beside her, she perches above the crowd with her legs crossed, tapping a toe in the air as suitors press near, jockeying for position. Annie’s busy watching Celia though, feeling crummy.
Annie had lain in her bed in a ball of self-loathing and regret, drifting in and out of sleep. The day was done by the time she woke to a drinks invitation that Sinatra had slipped under her door. “Bring your friend,” it said. And, for a while, she felt good again—she and Frank would make up, she and Celia would make up … but now she watches and knows she’s no friend of Celia’s. She heard about the singing, but the dancing—all willowy grace with those long limbs. A ballerina. Like Lili St. Cyr.
When Louis and Keely slow down, Celia’s slick admirer takes the cue to move in close. She staggers just a little and Annie can’t tell if it’s the booze or if she’s tired.
Annie glances around then jerks her head back. She catches sight of him against the bar, looking scruffier than he deserves to be in this expensive company. Okie Joe? She talked to him when she went rifling through carnies looking for Celia. She squints to see if it’s the same shady bastard. Carnies winter in Florida, not Vegas, she thinks, and stops a cocktail girl, asks her if she knows that fella. Never seem him before. Annie looks back and he’s gone. A guilt mirage. She turns her attention back to Celia and the guy wiping himself all over her.
Before long, the band finishes up with their usual: “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.” The crowd stomps for more and Prima says he’ll see them in an hour. He has to go. But not before he comes to the edge of the stage, kneels and puts his lips to Celia’s hand. His wife walks off with the band.
Once the performers have departed and the crowd dissipated a bit, Annie hops off the railing. She can hear Celia exclaim over the din, “That was so great! They are the wildest!” and lover boy laying it on, telling her she should be up there instead of old ferret-face Keely.
Celia grins. “Keely’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, but you’re a barn burner, baby. Come on, let’s get some quiet.” He puts his hand in the small of her back and scoots her along.
“Quit pushing.”
“Sorry, honey, I’m not pushin’. How about another drink?” He flags a waitress.
“Cecilia!” Annie walks over like a girlfriend.
Celia’s eyes cool. Annie stutters, “Ah, a few of us are gonna get a bite, you coming?”
“Celia’s booked,” the guy interjects.
Annie glares. “Nobody asked you, pal.”
He looks her over. “What’re you, butch or somethin’? She’s with me.”
The waitress returns and sticks a drink in Celia’s hand.
“I don’t think she needs another one a’these.” Annie plucks it away as the waitress trots off.
“Hey, that’s mine.” Celia grabs it back; a slight wave runs from her head to her legs. She takes a step. “Who as’ed you anyway?”
Rosselli slips in alongside Celia as though he never left. “I think it’s time for dinner. Will you be joining us, Miss West?”
“She’s with me tonight, buddy.” The young guy pushes Rosselli’s hand off Celia.
Celia takes her lips off the straw. “Would everyone quit yanking me around, for cryin’ out loud.” She sucks the straw back in and mumbles, “Pushy, pushy …”
The men fix their eyes on one another, Rosselli’s so gun-metal cool that no one speaks for several moments. Annie steps back. Celia glances from one man to the other.
The young guy sets his jaw. “You know who I am? I’m boxing in town this week, buddy. You wanna try your luck with a prizefighter?”
Rosselli doesn’t blink. The words drop one stone at a time. “Around here, we fuck fighters.”
The boxer straightens. His face reads like a debate. “Ah, forget it. I don’t need the aggravation.” Annie watches him head for a pit boss and sneer back at Rosselli. Whatever the pit boss says makes the boxer pocket his hands and beeline it out the door.
“How many of these mousetraps you been guzzling?” Rosselli takes the glass.
“Hey, give it … M-huh-house traps,” Celia laughs. “Eek! ah, this town’s a gasser, daddy!”
“One day in Vegas and listen to the vocabulary.” Rosselli sets the drink down and steers her out of the lounge. “Come on, we got a date with some friends.”
“You’re not meeting Frank and the guys by chance, are you?” Annie trots along through the casino. “Me too! Frank left me a note. You know, he’s really very sweet. He has a temper, but he means well—”
“Ah, he’s a punk!” Celia clips along between them, suddenly noticing her empty hands. “What happened to my drink? Can we get something to eat, I’m famished.”
When Rosselli escorts Annie and Celia through the restaurant to a table half-full of men, Sinatra stands. “Hey-hey!” He claps his hand to Rosselli’s. “The man with the juice! How’s your bird, Charlie?”
Rosselli shakes Frank’s hand and gives a smile to Sammy Davis as he rises. “I believe you know these lovely ladies,” Rosselli announces.
“Swingin’est chicks in Vegas! Have a seat there beside the Brother-in-Lawford,” Frank tells them. Celia takes the empty chair next to the already half-cut Lawford. Rosselli plants himself in the chair beside hers and Annie slips round to Frank’s side.
Lawford gazes at Celia and Celia gazes across at Davis, remembering him onstage, the power in his voice, the way he leapt and danced in his skin-tight slacks. “Mr. Davis,” she slurs as the waiter pours her a glass of red. Rosselli switches his empty glass for hers and asks the waiter to fill up one with juice and a little seltzer for the lady. “Mr. Davis,” she continues. “I thought you were just, just … Magnificent—magnificentsville!” she giggles.
“Well, thank you,” Davis says. “What was your name, made-moiselle?”
“Watch it, Charlie,” Frank tells him, “There’s a beautiful broad with your ring on her finger due in town any day now.”
Sammy grins, shaking his head. “Come Thursday night I’ll be Charlie Jubilant.”
“You’re getting married?” Celia exclaims. “Wow. Neat.”
“Neat?” Sinatra repeats. He drains his glass. “Waiter! Another root-beer float!”
Annie titters and leans into Frank. He doesn’t reciprocate. Celia glances at Lawford, who is now fully turned in his chair.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He kisses her hand. “Pete. Pleased to make your acquaintance. What’s your bag, baby? You a showgirl?”
He catches her off guard with his very English accent wrapped round the hipster lingo and she spits a little of her drink as she laughs. “You’re funny.”
“Am I?” He leans in. “You dig the show tonight?”
“Yup, I dug it.”
“God, you’re beautiful. Have you got a date?”
“Why do they call you the Brother-in-Lawford?”
“That’s Frank’s nickname for me. Because Senator Kennedy’s my brother-in-law. And Frank’s a friend of Jack’s and boop-boopy-doop.” He bounces his long fingers on the air. “We’re all going on the campaign trail once we’re done the picture here in Vegas. We’re going to make Jack the next president of the United States.”
Celia blinks. “So, you’re married.”
The din around the table rises up with Hey’s and Look who’s here’s. Louis Prima has just come in, trailed by Keely and a stocky man wearing a suit and fedora.
Frank stands. “Don’t you got a two o’clock?” he asks Prima.
“Ah, Keely was tired. The man with the juice here had a word and Rickles is gonna do the two. We’ll get the three.”
The man in the fedora smiles, pleased with himself. His hooded eyes peer around the table. Lawford stands and takes a few steps to shake his hand. The fedora grunts and moves past to Rosselli, shakes hands and slaps his back. Lawford moves to Keely.
Prima points, his mouth gapes. “Hey! Look who’s here. The voice. The legs!”
Celia grins and stands, lets Prima
hug her to his barrel chest. He takes Lawford’s chair. Lawford follows Keely and the fedora to the other end of the table.
“Where the hell you come from, kid? Frank! You heard this little gal sing? Sonuvabitch. Just like Keely. And she dances like she’s on fire. Whatcher name?”
“Celia Dare.” Frank speaks for her. “The broad who loves to hate me.”
“D’arel—” Celia’s tongue stalls. “I don’t even know him.”
“So, where you learn to sing like that? How old’re you?”
“Too old for you, old man,” Keely calls from the other end.
“Twenty-one,” Celia tells him.
“See that, she’s ancient in Prima years,” Keely barks. The man with the fedora pats her arm, whispers in her ear before he excuses himself to the little Italians’ room. Seconds after he passes, an explosion erupts from under Prima’s and Celia’s chairs, ripping a shriek from them both. Celia is on her feet as the fedora belches laughter and continues on to the restroom.
She looks around wild-eyed. Sinatra laughs himself stupid, doing his best to elucidate.
“Cherry bomb,” Rosselli repeats. “Sam threw a couple cherry bombs under your seats.” Celia looks confused. Rosselli clarifies. “Not Sammy Davis—Sam, the guy who just walked past.”
Prima pounds his heart. Keely’s face contorts with laughter. She bares her teeth and sticks her tongue out for good measure. “Howja like them apples, old man?”
“You watch it, girl. You could be replaced,” Prima pokes a thumb toward Celia who’s patting her own heart, laughing as she sits back down.
“Betcher sober now.” Rosselli gives her arm a squeeze.
The other Sam reappears, doffing his hat as he passes the length of the table.
Rosselli stops him. “Sam. Hang on. Meet Celia here. Celia, this is Sam Flood. An important man.”
Flood shakes her hand, the sapphire ring on his pinky glinting, and gives another meaty laugh. Looking at Celia, he jerks his head toward Keely. “Getcherself in a catfight if y’ain’t careful. And you—” he turns to Prima “—do your fuckin’ around when it don’t affect your family. Getcher balls back down there and leave the kids for that English pansy.”
Cease to Blush Page 20
