Mother Finds a Body

by Craig Rice

  “We’re trying to tell her how good she’d look as a blonde,” Mamie said. She stood, with the toothbrush in hand, ready for the first application of white henna. It was in a saucepan on the bed table.

  “I done it plenty of times,” Mamie said. “All my customers were pleased, too.”

  Gee Gee hesitated. “I’d hurt my billings, is all,” she said thoughtfully. “Of coruse, we could change ‘The Red-Haired Dynamo’ to ‘The Blonde Dynamo.’ Or what do ya think of ‘The Blonde Bombshell’?”

  Dimples, sprawled out at the back of the bed, flicked her ashes indolently on the floor. “It’s been done to death,” she said.

  Mamie listened with a happy grin on her face. She stirred the white henna and added soap flakes until it looked like a snowdrift.

  “My, how I would love to see you girls act on the stage,” she said. “When I think you’re all actors and actresses I get so excited I don’t know what I’m doing. Me, Mamie Smith, traveling with a show troupe! No one in Watova would ever believe it.”

  “Watova?” Dimples stared at her. “Where in hell is that? Europe?”

  “Watova is where I was born,” Mamie said with pride. “My dear husband, Mr. Smith, had a six-hundred-acre farm there. It’s eight miles south of Oologah.”

  Dimples relaxed. “Now I know,” she said.

  “If I ever told them in Watova that I was traveling with a show troupe they’d never believe me.”

  “You said that once.” Dimples was bored with Watova. She yawned loudly.

  Mrs. Smith beamed on her. Yawn or no yawn, Dimples was an actress, and that was enough.

  “I’ll bet you’re a big hit on the stage,” Mamie said. “You must be beautiful when you’re dressed up.”

  Dimples narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to kid somebody?” she asked.

  Mamie went on gaily. “Don’t you ever get embarrassed taking off your clothes with all those men looking at you?”

  “Say.” Dimples put her hands on her fat hips. “Where do you get that embarrassed business? Why should I get embarrassed? I got a dark-blue spot on me all the time, ain’t I?”

  Mamie realized she had touched a sore spot with the Queen of Quiver. She tried to cover it up quickly. “I only mean, what do you think about when you’re out there—taking off your dress like?”

  “I ain’t thinking anything,” Dimples replied. “I got a job to do. I let the jerks do the thinking. That’s what they paid their dough for. I’d look cute out there, thinking.” She laughed briefly. “Boy, that’s rich! Me, with a rhinestone in my navel, thinking!”

  Gee Gee had enough of Dimples on the subject of Dimples.

  “Hey,” she said. “We were talking about me. Should I dye or shouldn’t I dye?”

  I had completely forgotten the corpse and the handkerchief and the package. At that moment Gee Gee’s decision seemed more important. She had built up a reputation as “The Red-Haired Dynamo.” To change it at this late date was something that needed consideration.

  Dimples snatched the toothbrush from Mamie’s hand and in one quick motion she dipped it into the white henna and spread it on Gee Gee’s head.

  “When in doubt, act,” she said. It was the motto Dimples lived by.

  Mamie left the henna pack on a little too long. Gee Gee emerged as a platinum blonde. Platinum with touches of pink here and there to relieve the monotony.

  Mamie was delighted with her handiwork, but I was glad that Gee Gee didn’t plan on working for a few weeks. Even with her new title, “Platinum Panic,” she’d have a hard time convincing an audience. I didn’t have the heart to suggest that we dye her back to a redhead. I thought it could wait a few days. I did suggest that we needed a nip.

  The boys were only too glad to join us. Corny got the glasses. That was the one job we could depend on him for. If someone paid for the bottle, he would always get the glasses. Mandy got the water chasers. He wasn’t very cheerful. Neither was Biff. They had their my-horse-didn’t-come-in look.

  Biff, eying Gee Gee’s hair, was generous. “I could go for you myself,” he said.

  “Don’t do me no favors,” Gee Gee replied. “So far I’m the only dame in burlesque that isn’t a sister-in-law of Gyp’s. Let’s keep it clean.”

  Biff, to change the subject, offered Mamie a drink. I was surprised when she took it. She polish it off like a seasoned trouper.

  “Mmm, tasty,” she said. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Not as sweet as my rhubarb wine, but tasty.”

  Biff urged her to have another. He didn’t have to do much urging. Watova raised a breed of double-fisted drinkers, that was certain.

  Mandy had gone into his specialty; imitations of birds and beasts of the forest. Mamie choked with laughter on her third drink as he did his version of a lonesome cow. The fact that a cow is hardly a beast of the forest didn’t enter into the thing.

  By the time Gee Gee went into her guitar solo, we had a pretty fair-sized audience. The neighbor trailerites kept a safe distance, but they were all there. Biff and Corny almost stopped the show with their scene, “Fluegal Street,” and before we could stop her, Dimples went into her strip. The neighbors didn’t know whether to applaud or to call the cops. One lone voice rang out, “Take it off!”

  That was all Dimples needed. Biff had the courage to stop her. He grabbed Corny’s blanket and put an end to the show. It was a fine party. We forgot to eat dinner. That is always a good way to tell.

  Johnny’s father let us borrow his car and in high spirits we left for the village.

  “This will be one night we don’t forget for a long time,” Biff said as he helped Mother into the back seat.

  For once in his life, Biff was right.

  CHAPTER NINE

  We made the Happy Hour our first stop. Biff was driving, so that may have accounted for it. While he parked the car, Mother and I looked up and down the street.

  It was very gay and colorful. The neon signs and the blinking lights reminded me of Mulberry Street festival. Most of the saloons had entrances that were more inviting than Francisco Cullucio’s, but, from the crowds hanging around the entrance, it was evident that he did the biggest business. The faded awning was half raised. On it hung pennants with NOGALES printed on them and pillowcases with poetry addressed to MY SWEETHEART stamped on the rayon satin.

  I was surprised to see the number of wine parties in the saloon. The Happy Hour didn’t have a beer crowd, even if they did look it. Most of the men were in their shirt sleeves. Many of them wore souvenir hats, Mexican sombreros with little balls hanging from the brims. All the women wore evening gowns.

  Joyce Janice sat with four men at a table near the door. She still wore her sweat-stained blue satin. Cullucio stood within five feet of her. When we came in he nodded to us over his unlit cigar. He seemed rather surprised to see us.

  We must have looked like a wine party to the headwaiter, because he cleared a table for us immediately. The table was too close to Joyce Janice to please me, but it was near the stage and Mother liked it. Mother never wants to miss anything.

  “My Gawd!” Dimples squealed. She threw her arms around Joyce and began kissing her. “It’s just like old home week. I just seen Milly and Clarissima at the bar. Bob Reed was there, too. This is wonderful.”

  From where I stood they looked like long-lost relatives. Shows what four men buying wine in a saloon can do. I think Dimples would throw her arms around a Gila monster if she thought she could get a bottle of wine for it.

  Gee Gee was more restrained but just as anxious. With very little persuasion they both joined Joyce and her party of spenders. All four of the men were named Joe if Joyce’s introduction counts. They were all from St. Louis and they were all out to have a good time.

  “Well, so are we,” Dimples murmured.

  One of the men named Joe tied a napkin around her neck and placed a bottle in front of her.

  “I’m not a baby, you know,” she said with a look in her eye that made the announc
ement unnecessary.

  I followed Mamie and Mother to the table. We had lost Corny and Mandy at the bar. They knew Milly and Clarissima, too. Bob Reed was a juvenile tenor from the Republic Theater in New York, and I had played the Gaiety with the two girls. They were bending an elbow and talking over old times.

  If I had ever wondered what happened to burlesque when the license commissioner banned it, one look at The Happy Hour would have given me my answer. All the place needed was a couple of comics and a runway. I’m glad the orchestra didn’t play Gypsy Sweetheart, or I would have gone into my number out of sheer habit.

  With all the familiar atmosphere, there was something about the place I didn’t like, something unhealthy.

  “Well, what do ya want?” A pockmarked waiter in a dirty white coat stood at my back. His voice startled me into ordering a double rye.

  I would have ordered it without being startled into it. I would have told him so, too, but he was too big for Biff to handle.

  “I’ll have a hot toddy,” Mother said, “for my asthma.”

  Mamie couldn’t make up her mind, so I ordered for her.

  “Two double ryes,” I said to the waiter’s back. He was already on his way to the bar. Something about him lingered on. Maybe it was the general odor of the place. At any rate, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way Biff leaned over Joyce’s shoulder, either.

  “What in the world is Biff doing talking to that brassy blonde?” Mother asked.

  “Probably just schmoosing,” I said.

  “Call it that if you like,” Mother sniffed. “In my day we had another name for it.”

  The five-piece orchestra hit a sustained note and Bob Reed stepped out onto the stage, dragging a microphone behind him.

  “Good evening, everybody,” he said in his nasal voice. “Good evening.”

  The lights dimmed and a flickering spot picked him out of the smoke. He had never been exactly an ad for Scott’s Emulsion, but now he was really letting himself go. His Tuxedo was shiny and unpressed. Most of the shine was around the arms. From leaning on the bar, I knew. His face, without any make-up, was pasty white and pimply. Even his patent-leather shoes were cracked and dusty. I blamed it on the climate; semitropical.

  “It’s good to see so many happy faces, so many familiar faces,” he said. “Over here we have Nat Miller. Stand up and take a bow, Nat. You know, folks, Nat is a very bashful guy. He’s in the liquor business. Come on, Nat, shake hands with one of your best customers.”

  Nat threw the master of ceremonies a cigar. It was all very chummy, I thought.

  “And over here we have a wedding-anniversary party.” Bob pointed his cane to a group of people sitting in a far corner of the saloon. It was a relief to see a woman in a street dress. When the orchestra played Many Happy Returns of the Day, she stood up and took a bow.

  “Yes sir, Mr. and Mrs. Nolung,” Bob announced. “Been married twenty-seven years and they couldn’t get a lung.”

  The woman laughed and when Bob suggested that she get up on the floor, she not only obliged, but she did a little dance. Mamie thought it was wonderful until the woman showed her bloomers.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, there will only be a short interlude before we begin the first half of our gigantic floor show. Mr. Francisco Cullucio, your host, has brought in a galaxy of stars for your amazement, I mean amusement. First, those beautiful girls, the sixteen lovelies, the Happy Hourettes. Then the dancing De Havens, straight from the Coconut Grove in Sedalia, Missouri. The French sisters. Yesindeedy. Joyce Janice, the girl who thrilled millions with her dance of the swan. Turk and Turk, the Turkish Delights. Your humble servant, Bob Reed, and, as an extra added attraction; the one and only, the queen of them all, Tessie, the Tassel Twirler! On with the show!”

  As the lights went up there was a general stir in the saloon. From each table girls in evening dresses were hastily finishing their drinks and getting to their feet. They all seemed to be saying the same thing: “As soon as the show’s over I’ll be right back.

  The orchestra returned to their stands noisily. At a cue from the tired leader they played the last eight bars of A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.

  Almost swallowing the microphone, Bob Reed sang a verse and chorus of the number. Then he announced the girls.

  A tall, thin girl with bony knees was announced as Rio Rita. She paraded around the floor in a Spanish shawl. For a finish she let one side of the shawl drop and showed her bare thigh. It had a black-and-blue-mark on it.

  They must be popular in Ysleta, I thought.

  The second girl was Miss Whoopee. She wore cowboy chaps that ended where they usually do, but, instead of wearing pants under them, she wore a row of beads. She was too busy chewing gum to smile at the audience, but it didn’t matter. No one was looking at her face, anyway.

  Milly, the chorus girl I knew, was wearing a tremendous shoulder piece of tarnished silver cloth. Paper orchids dangled from it. She worked hard to keep the thing balanced, But the effort was showing on her. Her smile was forced. She was Miss Kid Boots. I didn’t recognize the character until I noticed the oilcloth spats that she wore over her dancing shoes.

  Joyce was the last one on. I thought she was Miss America. She wore a red, white, and blue shoulder piece. Her G string was one flittered star. She wore two smaller stars as a brassière. She wasn’t Miss America; she was Miss Ziegfeld Follies.

  We got one more good look at the ensemble as they paraded to a chorus of Lovely Lady. Just before the lights blacked out the girls took off their brassières. It was a pretty dull opening.

  Then the lights flashed on, Mother was slapping Mamie’s back. The bare breasts had evidently been too much for Mrs. Smith. Her face was a dull purple.

  “Did—did you see what I saw?” she gasped.

  Biff had joined us, and Mother glowered at him as though he had staged the number.

  “Really, Biff, of all the nice places to go,” she said, “you have to bring us here.”

  Two of the girls had shed their shoulder pieces and were back on for a snappy tap dance. Bob announced them as the French sisters. The dance was more embarrassing to me than the nude finish of the opening, but Mother and Mamie applauded violently.

  Turk and Turk turned out to be roller skaters. I’ve never cared much for roller skaters, so I took time off to look around the saloon.

  Cullucio watched the show intently. He applauded first and laughed loudest when each act was finished. He was the only one who laughed at Bob Reed’s quips. From time to time he glanced at Mamie.

  She did seem out of place in our party. Her black straw hat with the one pink rose sitting defiantly on the battered brim was so incongruous. Mother’s dress hanging on her thin frame was so obviously a borrowed dress. Even her leathery, wrinkled face stamped her as a misfit in our crowd.

  Bob Reed started his act with. “On my way to the club tonight a very funny thing happened.”

  I didn’t listen. There was a hat and a pair of shoulders near the bar that were altogether too familiar to me. I recognized the sheriff even before he turned around. He was talking to Mandy and Cliff. I nudged Biff.

  “Well, that’s nice,” he said. “Think I oughta go over and maybe buy him a drink? And while I’m at it, sort of break it up?”

  “Buy him two,” I said. “And quick.”

  Bob Reed sang a parody of I Want to Be in Tennessee. It was all about a little boy who puts his geography book in the seat of his trousers when he knows the teacher is going to whip him. With an eye on Biff and one on the stage, I suffered through the first part of it.

  She started in. I began to grin.

  When she pounded Alabam, Old Virginny she did slam.

  Then she picked on Oregon.

  Biff slapped the sheriff on the shoulder. I could almost hear him saying, “How are you, Hank old boy?” He had pushed his way between Corny and the sheriff. Little by little he edged Corny halfway down the bar. With a sigh of relief I turned back to watch the show.<
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  The girls did three more numbers, and there was one more act before Tessie, the Tassel Twirler, made her appearance.

  She was worth waiting for. I have seen tassel twirlers, but until I saw Tessie I never appreciated that branch of the arts. Tessie had talent. She didn’t swing the tassels around any old way. She made them do tricks; one tassel going left, then the other tassel going right, both of them swinging right. Suddenly they began flying in opposite directions. She did tricks with her stomach, too.

  I applauded as loudly as Cullucio. It was on the tip of my tongue to say how wonderful I thought she was when I saw Mamie’s and Mother’s faces. They were livid. I kept my comments to myself.

  “Well, did you ever?” Mamie said.

  Joyce followed Tessie. She did the same routine Biff and I had caught at the rehearsal. She danced with all the gay abandon of a female wrestler. Her face was drawn and haggard-looking. She was almost grim.

  I didn’t blame her. Tessie was a tough act to follow. It reminded me of how H. I. Moss, impresario of the Old Opera burlesque, used to take the temperament out of his most violent stars. He made them follow a strong act, too. The more I thought about it, the more I thought it looked like a put-up job.

  Cullucio was standing at my side, one hand resting on our table. He chuckled softly to himself.

  “She tells me she was a big star in burlesque,” he said.

  “She was,” I replied. I knew then that I was right. Cullucio was learning show business fast. He had one of the tricks down, anyway. It didn’t occur to me to ask what Joyce had done to incur disfavor, but he didn’t wait to be asked.

  “The boys don’t think so much of her around here,” Cullucio said casually.

  The rhinestone G string made a pinging noise as it hit the tuba. I knew it was the end of the number without Mamie’s gasp.

  She jumped up from the table and with trembling fingers she tugged at her hat. The rose couldn’t stand much more of the abuse she was giving it. She clutched the limp organdy ruffles around her neck and walked toward the door with the word LADIES over it.