by Craig Rice
“And if she doesn’t, I will!” It was Gee Gee, tearing furiously into the room. The little balls on her Spanish hat were spinning like a windmill. I felt a breeze as she passed me.
“Gimme that.” She grabbed the bottle of gin. Then she took off the guitar hanging from a ribbon around her neck. “It’s tough enough doing La Paloma for those jerks out front without you and Dolly calling each other by your right names. Ruining my specialty because of a toilet!”
La Verne turned away to repair her tear-stained make-up, and suddenly Gee Gee started laughing.
“Gyppy, you’da died if you’d seen the Hermit crawling down from the fly gallery when the fight was on. He was in such a rush not to miss anything that he damn near broke his neck. He kept looking over his shoulder instead of looking at the rungs of that iron ladder and every now and then he’d miss.”
Gee Gee flopped into a chair and put her feet on the shelf. “Then, when the ‘Golden-Voiced Goddess’ gets called a …”
“Shh.” I nudged Gee Gee and gave her the eye. La Verne was tensing herself, and it wouldn’t have taken much for the fireworks to start all over again.
Gee Gee took the hint. “Well, anyway, when the names get called back and forth, he’s already down onstage and in a flash he’s on his way up to our dressing rooms! Him! Can you imagine? Not only that, but who do you think he runs into? Stachi! I tell you, Gyp, when the two of them got together it was a scream. Boy, did they start dishing us. They were both a little embarrassed to catch each other on our landing anyway. So real chummy like they get out to Stachi’s corner in the stage entrance. Then they opened up. What they said about us!”
The very thought of the conversation made Gee Gee roar with laughter, but I couldn’t see the funny side of it at all. I remembered Stachi’s face when he stood on the landing. There was so much disgust in it that I felt, well, sort of naked.
Stachi and the Hermit were the only two old-timers in the theater. Everyone said they went with the lease and I guess it was true. Stachi had been there since the days of the Old Opera’s grandeur. He was a singer and then something happened to his voice. He had taken smaller and smaller roles until he finally wound up as doorman.
The Hermit had been there almost as long. He had always been a stagehand but now he was too old to do any of the harder work, so he handled the flies. Some of the curtains worked automatically, but a lot of them were the old ones that operated on the sandbag principle. He handled those from the ceiling of the theater. It wasn’t a hard job, but it was a lonesome one. He usually climbed up once a day and stayed there until the end of the night show.
Neither of them wasted much love on the burlesque actors. When they got together they talked of the past glory of the theater, and I guess they thought we were interlopers. We must have sounded like a band of wild Indians when we got started, so I could hardly blame them.
“They kept shaking their heads and clucking their bridgework,” Gee Gee said. She was impersonating the Hermit and had to stand up to make the act convincing. With her knees bent and her lips drawn tightly over her teeth, she walked around the room. “Yessir,” she cackled, “it’s a good thing Lily isn’t here to see the class of people that are in her old dressing room.”
Even La Verne had to laugh.
“The two of ’em keep shaking their heads at that dame’s picture, you know. The one with a spear that Stachi’s got hanging on the wall back of his chair. Well, the Hermit is doing a La Verne and talking to it like it was a person.”
“My Gawd!” La Verne dropped her powder puff and turned to Gee Gee. First I thought she was mad again because Gee Gee said the Hermit was doing a La Verne, then I realized she was going elegant on us.
“That dame happens to be a picture of Lilli Lehmann in her Brünnehilde costume.” If La Verne had been Brünnehilde herself she couldn’t have been more indignant.
Gee Gee sniffed. “Well, she doesn’t look so hot to me. And I’d sure hate to strip that regalia she’s got on.”
“She didn’t strip. She sang.” Our wounded Prima Donna looked at Gee Gee coldly. “There’s other kinds of show business besides burlesque, you know.”
The sarcasm was wasted on Gee Gee. “Sure, I know,” she said, “there’s movies and radio and …”
“And grand opera. Lilli Lehmann was a singer.”
“Well, what was she doing in a burlesque theater, then?” Gee Gee said.
“It wasn’t a burlesque theater then, you dope. It was an opera house.”
Gee Gee was trying to figure that one out when the show girls came in, babbling as usual. They had just finished the ballet and were dressed in seaweed costumes. With the exception of Alice, the eight of them looked enough alike to be sisters. They were all blondes and all six-footers. H. I. Moss was very proud of them and they knew it, so they ran the strippers a close second for temperament.
“Did you see the old Gee that sends me the perfume?” one of them asked as she began undressing.
Alice Angel, the prettiest of the eight, pouted. When she wasn’t pouting she was crying. She was that type. It didn’t take much to make her do either, but she had a legitimate beef this time.
The perfume man had been hers for several weeks, and even though she didn’t like the Djer Kiss, she did like the attention.
“He probably realithed I wathn’t that thort of girl.” Stepping out of her pearl costume, Alice hung it carefully on the back of her chair. She was the “Spirit of the Pearl” in the ballet and it was a coveted spot in the show.
“Anyway, I’m too buthy rehearthing to bother with twifelth.” She spoke with airy unconcern. “Moth hath told me that ath thoon ath I get ready he’ll let me do a thpethialty.” She looked down her nose at Jean. “Tho there.”
Jean wasn’t interested. “What’s this about a new toilet?” she asked.
We told her of the plans.
Gee Gee was balancing a mirror in one hand and an eyebrow tweezer in the other. “Yep. Everybody chips in a buck,” she said between pulls. Then she giggled. “Hey, Gyp, can you imagine that Lilli dame in the iron suit trying to …”
The picture was too much for her. She collapsed with laughter.
“When we get the new toilet, let’s wrap the old one up like a Christmas present and give it to the Gruesome Twosome.”
“Who’th that?” Alice asked, and Gee Gee paused a moment to get her breath.
“The Hermit and old man Stachi,” she said. “They can press it in their memory book!”
Chapter Two
During the night show, when Biff and I were doing the “Pickle Persuader” bit in the second act, the stage manager waved frantically to me from the wings. He was clearly upset, so I knew there was trouble. I looked at the footlights for the red bulb to flash: that was our signal to cover up or clean up because a censor was in the lobby. If a strange cop, or anyone who even looked like a censor, came in, the ticket taker buzzed the electrician backstage, and the electrician used the red light to relay the warning to the actors.
But the light didn’t flash. So I wasn’t quite sure what was the matter.
Russell was playing straight for the scene and I saw him look out front. My eyes followed his. In the back of the theater, their buttons and badges shining in the dark, there were cops—at least twenty of them. It looked like a policemen’s convention.
Then H. I. Moss padded swiftly down the aisle. There was no question about it. This was going to be more serious than the usual reprimand from the police.
Russell’s voice shook a little, but he went on with the scene.
“Just wave this persuader under her nose and she’ll give you anything you ask for.”
“Anything?” With the police watching, Biff cut the habitual leer. “Would you sell it to me?”
“It’s a very valuable article, m’boy,” Russell said. “However, because you have an honest face, and because I like you, I will sell it. For one hundred dollars.”
Biff shoved the money into Russell’s han
ds. That was Russell’s exit cue. And not a moment too soon, I thought. When he got to the wings he managed his last line.
“Remember, m’boy. Just wave it under her nose.”
Biff held the pickle tenderly by the string that was tied around it. “Anything I ask for,” he mumbled as he approached me, “anything.” He was swinging the pickle.
“When the lights black out,” he said under his breath, “try to get away through the coal chute. This is a raid.”
I stared at him stupidly.
Biff went on in a loud voice. “Give me your money.”
I bent over to get the money out of my pocket while Biff ogled my leg. “I don’t know where the coal chute is,” I whispered.
Biff pocketed the money. “Now give me a kiss.”
I puckered up my lips. He barely breathed the words against my mouth.
“In the cellar next to the vacant room, through the hall.”
Biff went through the business of counting the money and mechanically whispering in my ear. I couldn’t put much heart into it, but I slapped his face, and that was the cue for the blackout where I made my exit. The orchestra was playing Happy Days Are Here Again, which, under the circumstances, was the end of the show and meant that the audience was leaving.
“In the cellar, next to the unused dressing room,” I whispered over and over again.
It was pitch-dark backstage. Someone, the electrician probably, had killed all the backstage lights. I thought maybe somebody did it to help the actors get out of the theater, but it made me feel panicky. I couldn’t tell where I was going at all. I lost all sense of direction.
There were scuffling noises of people moving in the dark and then someone brushed against me. I didn’t wait to find out who it was. I just kept on running. For all I knew I might be running into the arms of the nearest policeman. But it didn’t matter.
Then my hands touched something curved and cold, the water cooler. Now I was all right. The cellar steps were to the left. I groped for the iron railing.
As my foot scraped the top step of the spiral staircase I felt a hand on my shoulder, then another on my throat. Suddenly two thumbs were pressed hard against my vocal cords. I dug my nails into the hands, but they only pressed tighter.
My mind suddenly blacked out, too. The hands loosened and I came to. I didn’t even know it was I screaming.
The lights went on, all of them at once. A voice boomed in my ears.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The fingers now held my arm in a vise. I twisted around and sank my teeth into the hand. It had coarse red hair on it that caught in my teeth like shredded wheat. I tried to bite again, hair or no hair. As I lunged I looked down at a pair of thicksoled shoes, massive legs, and a skirt!
“Don’t you bite me, you hussy,” the policewoman bellowed, “or I’ll bite you back.”
“You don’t have to strangle me.”
I tried moving my neck around to see if it would still work. It worked all right, but I had to handle it carefully. I was mad clear through, so just for luck I gave those fat legs a good, swift kick.
The woman grabbed my other arm and started shaking me. I’ve been in a cyclone in Kansas, an earthquake in California, and once I was in an elevator that dropped four floors, but compared to her those things were kid stuff.
I wasn’t the only one who was being rough-hustled. There was a cop struggling with Sandra, who was half naked. Another was fighting it out with Russell in the wings. Gee Gee was pounding a copper on the head. If I hadn’t been so mad I might have felt a little sorry for him.
“No use trying to get away,” he shouted between thumps. “We have the place surrounded.”
There was a shrill whistle and more blue uniforms piled over the footlights.
“Stop it! Don’t fight!” It was Moss, climbing over the extended apron. “Don’t fight! I’ll fix everything.”
The struggle ceased. Uniforms were straightened. Girls arranged their loosened kimonos. Then they were all crowding around Moss. There were a few muttered curses from the men and scattered nervous giggles from the girls.
My captor, the hairy-handed Amazon, shoved me ahead of her. “Get in line with the rest of the scum.”
Moss was making a speech, trembling and wiping the sweat from his face with a limp handkerchief. His eyes, through the bifocal lenses, looked like Smith Brothers’ cough drops.
“H. I. Moss has never in all the years he’s been in the business let his actors down.”
There was a round of subdued applause. Phil called, “That’s right.”
The little man held up a pudgy hand for quiet. “You will be out in an hour. I give you my word.”
The applause was louder.
“And you are not riding in the wagon!” He waited a moment for the announcement to sink in. “I, H. I. Moss, out of my own pocket, have hired Cadillacs to take you to jail.”
“Three cheers for Moss, our boss,” yelled Mandy. The response was deafening.
Moss smiled, and accepted the tribute with the hint of a bow. “No artist that’s working under the Moss banner rides in a pie wagon.”
The ride to the police station began with some bravado. There were the usual stock jokes.
“I’m glad I got here early. The last time I took a ride I had to stand all the way….”
“This is the way I like to travel … for free …”
The cops in the car ahead of us had my sympathy. La Verne and Russell had already climbed in with Gee Gee when Dolly Baxter elbowed her way past those in front of her and jumped in beside them. Through the window I saw a tangle of arms. If Dolly was in form, Russell was getting the worst of it. I was a little pleased.
Biff was seated on the jump seat of our car. He had a bottle, and between gulps his voice rang out, “If I had the wings of an angel, Over these …”
Sandra Slade and Jannine, who were sharing the bottle, began harmonizing with him. “… prison walls I would fly …”
As we neared the station Biff leaned forward and poked one of the cops in the front seat on the shoulder. “You’re a public servant, aren’t you?”
The cop looked at him coldly.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
Biff gave us a broad wink and said, “Well, then, get me a glass of water.”
“What you hyenas need is a padded cell,” said our uniformed escort.
The gray walls of the station sobered me at once. The steps leading to the entrance were almost blocked by news photographers and the curious. There were several cars in our safari and word must have spread that they were filled with burlesque actors. The policeman told us to get out and follow him while another cop brought up the rear. Jannine and Sandra climbed out of the car, smiling as the cameras clicked. Sandra raised her skirt as she started up the stairs; she turned and winked at one of the cameramen.
“That’s one picture they’ll use,” she said to Jannine as they passed between the green lights.
I felt too sick to move. Everything had happened so quickly that I hadn’t realized I was actually on my way to jail. Biff held my arm. “Steady, Gypper,” he said. “This is all in a day’s work.”
I had to brace myself to make the walk through the yelling crowd. The entrance was only a few feet away but it seemed like miles. A woman rushed up to me.
“I could have a fur coat, too, if I wanted to do what you do.”
Another dragged her gaping child away. “Get away from that vile woman,” she said, almost pulling the poor kid’s arm out of joint.
A gray-haired man tossed a bunch of flowers at my feet. “She walks in beauty, like the night,” he quoted, and was roughly pushed aside.
Biff whispered, “Your public, Punkin.” I tried to smile at him but I felt too much like Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine to put much personality in it.
At the doorway Biff was told to wait and I was directed down a long hall. At the end was a huge oak door. Another policeman opened it and told me to enter
.
I faced a theater audience! Instead of a stage there was a desk, but otherwise everything was the same. I even recognized most of the customers; the sailor who used to bring his dinner with him and sit through all four performances, Alice’s perfume man, even the one that sent Dolly flowers on Mother’s Day. They smiled encouragingly as I entered, and there was a scattered round of applause.
The sound of a gavel hitting the desk made me turn. The judge was a woman! And not a pretty prospect either. She was a little like the one that had arrested me, but instead of reddish hair, hers was black. She wore it pulled tightly behind her ears and she had a mole, with a hair growing from it, on her cheek. I heard Dolly gasp when she looked at her, and I couldn’t blame her. The woman’s angry eyes looked reprovingly at the audience. When they were silenced she nodded to a policeman and he took Sandra’s arm. While he led her to the desk I felt my legs go weak. I stared at the mole while the woman barked questions at Sandra.
“What’s your name … age … American citizen? …” The woman was writing the answers on a card that looked like an application blank.
Suddenly I realized that I was standing before her. Automatically, I answered the questions. In a shallow wire basket to her right I saw a stack of the cards. Sandra’s was on top. Hardly aware of what I was doing I read it. There was a space that said “charge.” After it, in broad penstrokes, was written “prostitution.”
The full significance of that word slowly hit me. I stared at the card, not believing what was there. I watched her filling out the other spaces on my card. When she got to the charge blank I saw her write “Prost …”
“What are you putting down?” I heard myself shout.
“I’m booking you for prostitution, and don’t speak until you’re asked to.”
“Speak?” I screamed. “I’ll tear this jail down, I’ll …”
“Well, then,” she said coldly, “what are you in for?”
“I’m an actress. A strip teaser.”
