by Craig Rice
“First night she’s here,” he said, “she comes up to me and offers me a proposition. The boss don’t allow no downs here, you know …”
“Downs?” Gee Gee asked.
The bartender gave her a sharp look.
“Are you kidding?” heasked. “Downs is when you give the girls water with just enough liquor in it to fool the guys that’s paying. Cullucio don’t like that; he thinks it’s cheating. I don’t know what’s better, cheating a little or having the dames fall down drunk in the last show, but he’s the boss. Anyway, this first night, Joyce comes up to me and this is what she sets up. For every guy I toss her way she’ll give me a fifty-fifty cut. Me? Well, I like to pick up an honest buck here and there, so I say sure. I let her chisel her way into plenty, even stick up for her when she gets into a jam with Tanker Mary. Well, sir, at the end of the week I look for my cut. Nothing happens. I ask her about it, and she slips me two bucks. Two bucks! I sent her more than that in one night alone. So I just shut down on the little lady. I don’t send her one customer, and what do you think she does?”
The bartender waited for Biff to say, “What?”
“Well, sir, she goes to Cullucio and tell him I’m watering the stock. Mel The respect I got for liquor I should go watering it!”
Biff nodded sympathetically. He could understand that kind of respect.
“Maybe she was trying to get in good with the boss,” Biff suggested.
The bartender poured another round.
“This is on me,” he said. “If she was, she sure played it wrong. The boss don’t like liars and from the way he watches us guys back of this bar, he knows damn well she’s lying. Nope, he’s a hot-and-cold guy, that Cullucio. Got funny ideas about honor and honesty. He can change in five minutes from the sweetest guy in town to the toughest. Just let him catch you in one lie or one fast deal and, believe me, you’re out.”
Well, I thought, that accounts for Tessie having the good spot in the show. Cullucio had gone into his little hot-and-cold act with Joyce Janice and there was the reason. I tried to dig up a sympathetic feeling for Joyce, but my mind wasn’t on it. I decided to tell Dimples to play straight, at least until she learned her way around.
Two tired-looking women stood in the doorway. They both wore enough make-up to face an audience. One of them swung a red patent-leather purse, the other sauntered up to the bar. Before she could seat herself, the bartender hurried toward them.
“Gowan, beat it, you bums!” he said loudly.
The woman with the red purse swore. The words weren’t new to me, but she did put a twist on her swearing. If the bartender could do what she suggested, he would have a good vaudeville act.
“And button yer lip,” he shouted, “or I’ll kick ya out on yer ear.”
He waited menacingly until the two women left. Then he came back to where we were sitting.
“If I wasn’t firm,” he said, “this place would be so full of whores the customers couldn’t get in.”
Biff coughed noisily, and the bartender got the hint.
“I mean it’d be so full of streetwalkers that it’d be awful.”
Any feeling of homesickness for the theater I might have had was slowly disappearing. There was something unhealthy about The Happy Hour. It wasn’t only the cook’s apron and the surly waiter. It was more than the hot-and-cold Cullucio. Even the friendliness of the bartender make me uneasy. It wasn’t the sordidness. After all, I’ve been in show business all my life; I know sordidness. Trouping with tab shows, carnivals, and vaudeville, a girl learns to appreciate the full meaning of that word. Then, too, burlesque is no revival meeting.
But this was different. This was something that made me feel like hitching the trailer to the car and getting as far away from Ysleta as the eight wheels would carry us.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When the show started, Biff bribed one of the waiters to get us a table. They all knew us by then, and bribery was the only thing that would get us out of the barroom.
The show was routined the same as the night before. Dimples followed Turk and Turk, the roller skaters. Bob Reed introduced her as “Stageland’s Loveliest.” The orchestra played the introduction to her music, the lights dimmed, and Dimples made her entrance.
She didn’t try to sing her number; she talked it. Her voice is thin and weak, but the customers usually hear enough. I couldn’t hear one word of the verse that night. It didn’t matter; she looked well. She wore her red chiffon trimmed with ostrich feathers. With it she wore an ostrich feather cape and a red satin picture hat.
Cullucio had given her a good spot in the show, following two men and doing the first strip number. He was watching her intently. When he saw me looking at him, he made a circle with this thumb and first finger. He held them up for me to see.
I nodded back. Then I nudged Biff.
“Dimples is in,” I said. “The boss just gave me the high sign. All we have to do now is keep our fingers crossed for Mandy and your friend.”
Dimples finished the verse of her number and went into the chorus:
Have a smoke on me,
Everyone is free.
She took a package of cigarettes from the bodice of her dress and tossed one to a man in the audience. The cigarette fell on the table and the man let it lay there.
Cigarettes for you to try,
Chesterfields, they satisfy.
Or would you walk a mile for a Camel,
It’s worth while.
Dimples paraded around the stage, handing cigarettes to the men at the tables. They were beginning to catch on now, and as she came near them the more venturesome ones would reach out for her.
Here’s an Old Gold to cure your cold.
There’s not a cough in a whole carload.
And down from old Virginia,
Piedmonts are sure to win ya.
Dimples stopped in front of a bald-headed man. She let out a little squeal of delight.
“Isn’t he beautiful?”
She placed a cigarette in the man’s mouth and lit it for him. He had a few hairs growing along the sides of his head.
These few hairs she curled with her finger. She took a red ribbon from her wrist and tied it in a bow around one of the locks.
… With a Turkish blend we have Fatimas, too.
Dimples leaned over and kissed the man on his bald head. With a quick little run she was at the stage exit. She unloosed the feather cape and removed her hat.
“Now don’t forget the name of the cigarette that I gave you.”
Just before she exited, Dimples flashed one bare breast. The audience was not trained to applaud for strip numbers. There was only a scattered round until Biff began. He cupped his hands to make the clapping sound louder. He shouted, “Take it off!” and suddenly the audience picked it up.
The orchestra played Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and Dimples was back on for her first encore. By then the din and shouting in the saloon reminded me of the balcony boys at the Gaiety.
Dimples went into her bumps and grinds. She had slowed down a little in the past few years, but she was still the fastest bumper Ysleta had seen. Toward the end of the chorus she turned her back to the audience, removed her skirt, and did her quiver. The beads on her net pants sparkled like diamonds as she shook them. Dimples had originated the quiver and she still did it better than any other woman in burlesque. The beads began to fly madly as the orchestra played faster and faster.
“Tessie is going to find this tough to follow,” I said to Biff. I was a little pleased. Tessie wasn’t my friend, Dimples was.
With a quick movement, she pulled off the beaded pants. She stood in the blue spotlight just long enough to let the cusstomers know she didn’t get the name Dimples for nothing. Then she darted offstage. She had to do encore after encore before they would let her leave. It was a solid show stop.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said to Biff when the number was over. “I want to go backstage and tell her how swell it went over.
”
I hurried through the alley until I came to the familiar garbage cans. Dimples was standing in the doorway cooling off. Little drops of perspiration clung to her upper lip. Her yellow hair was damp around her forehead.
“It was great,” I said. Then I saw the busboys.
There were three of them staring at Dimples in open-mouthed admiration. I threw the skirt of her costume around her shoulders.
“You’re not in a theater now,” I said. “These guys aren’t like stagehands.”
Dimples clutched the skirt tightly as we walked through the kitchen. The chef still hadn’t looked up. I began to wonder if he had made someone a rash promise. The chorus girls were dressed for their next number. They stood near the huge sinks that were piled high with dirty dishes. They still looked tired.
“What’s with the cold reception committee?” I asked when we were in the dressing room.
Dimples shrugged her naked white shoulders.
“Search me,” she said.
There was nothing to search unless you pulled off the adhesive plaster to see who won the turkey, but I let it pass.
Tessie said hello as coolly as the others. Then she turned to Dimples.
“Cover it up, dearie,” she said. “This place is just about as private as Grand Central Station.’‘’
The words weren’t out of her mouth before the door was thrown open and Cullucio had walked in. Dimples grabbed a make-up towel and held it up in front of herself.
“Why in hell don’t you knock?” Dimples exclaimed irritably. Then she recognized him. “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know it was you. Well, how’d it go?”
“Good, good,” Cullucio said. “Only why don’t you let ‘em see a little more? You leave too soon.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Tessie said. “She’ll be out there all night. That is, until the cops raid the place.”
Dimples looked at her languidly. “I don’t know about that,” she said with a superior smile. “If you haven’t got the place pinched yet, it’s a chinch that I won’t.”
The dialogue had become altogether too familiar. Before I got in the discussion myself, I decided to leave. Unfortunately, Cullucio had the same idea. I was in no mood to walk arm in arm with him through that dark alley. He looked too much like the type who knows all about alleys. He might have been the one they had in mind when they wrote the signs, COMMIT NO NUISANCE.
“I think I’ll go through the front of the house,” I said. “May I?”
“Sure,” Cullucio said. “I’ll go with you.” At the door he turned to Dimples. “When you get dressed, come out. I want you to meet some nice people. Lots of money, and they like to give it away to pretty girls.”
“Well,” Tessie said, smiling up at Dimples, “that leaves you out, dear.”
Bob Reed was on as Cullucio and I passed through the small door behind the bandstand. Mandy and Corny were standing by ready to go on.
Mandy wore a sponge nose. It rather surprised me. He always worked clean in burlesque and here he was on his nightclub debut in baggy pants and a spongy nose. The suit was really a street suit, but when Mandy bought his clothes he always liked to get his money’s worth. Instead of buying a suit that fit him, he’d get one several sizes too large. Then he had the extra material. In case of fire, flood, or riot, as he would say. His red tie was six feet long and he wore a very small brown derby. His bushy hair held the derby straight on his head.
Cullucio took one look at him and howled.
“That’s the kind of comedian I like,” he said. “A classy comedian.”
Mandy winked at me. I winked back. Mandy knew what he was doing all right. If that was Cullucio’s idea of class, Mandy was just the boy to deliver the groceries.
I couldn’t say as much for Corny. It might have been his surly expression that made him look more like a straight man than a comic. His eye was all right, though; a little dark, but Corny had covered it pretty well with grease paint. Corny was quite adept at covering black eyes. Of course, he’d had a lot of practice.
“Say, we don’t have to follow that, do we?” Corny indicated Bob Reed’s figure on the dance floor. “After all, he’s out there doing our best gags already. Aren’t we going to get any consideration around—”
Cullucio interrupted him. “A girl number goes first. Don’t worry, I’m not so new in this show business that I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Cullucio held my arm and led me through the saloon. As we passed Mother’s table Cullucio greeted her warmly. He might have said hello to Mamie, but her attitude discouraged it.
She was toying with a beer and, from the stiffness of her back, I had an idea this was her last trip to The Happy Hour. She had disapproved so strongly of Tessie and her tassel twirling, and Tessie was an ice-cream-social entertainer in comparison to Dimples.
Biff waved to me from the bar, so I dropped Cullucio at his office.
Biff was sitting alone. I was glad of that. It was the first chance I’d had to talk with him in hours.
“Mandy is wearing a nose,” I said, pulling out a stool and making myself comfortable.
“I told him to,” Biff said. “Cullucio’s idea of humor is having a dame take the seltzer water in the pants. None of the women would sit still for it, so I figured we’d settle for a putty nose.”
“It’s sponge,” I said.
“Couldn’t get any nose putty here in Ysleta,” Biff replied. He said it as though that made Ysleta a very backward city. Almost as though he’d said there was no post office.
“You know, honey, I was just thinking,” I said.
Biff glanced at me sharply.
“Did I sound like Mother?” I said laughingly. “Seriously, Biff, I was thinking. I’m glad everyone knows everything now. It’s a load off my mind. All but one thing: did Gee Gee mention anything to you about Gus? About him being a fence, I mean, and a dope peddler?”
“Yeah,” Biff said, “and I figure it’s a good idea to let the sheriff in on it. He’s liable to hear about it and he won’t trust us if we don’t spring it on him first. I got him pegged as a pretty solid citizen. I think he’s our best bet. Tell him everything and we can’t go wrong.”
I was agreeing with Biff heartily when the swinging doors were thrown open and I saw Hank enter the saloon. He stood for an instant looking around the room, then his eyes settled on us.
“I was looking for you,” he said. He didn’t take off his hat. His manner seemed less cordial than usual.
“And where else would you expect to find me?” Biff said affably. “Where there’s a bar you can always find me at it. Pull up a rock and make yourself comfortable.” Biff yelled to the bartender. “One double rye for my friend!”
Reflected in the mirror behind the bar was a white suit with padded shoulders. Cullucio’s back was to us, but I knew he was listening.
The sheriff stared at the line of bottles on the bar shelves, or was he staring at the white shoulders, too?
Biff opened his mouth to speak. Then suddenly he stopped.
“We’re on the Erie, eh?”
When Biff spoke, the white suit moved toward the office, but two men moved into the space Cullucio left. I’m not good at recognizing faces after my third rye, but I could have sworn they were the two men I had seen go into Cullucio’s office.
Biff tossed a couple of bills on the bar. He pushed back his stool and helped me to my feet.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
“We’ll walk over to my office,” the sheriff said casually. Not casually enough to please me, though. It was almost midnight, and midnight is no time to get friendly with the police.
Not that Hank was being very friendly. The walk to the office was a silent one. It wasn’t far, though, and the air smelled good after the staleness of the crowded saloon.
We walked past the entertainment district. Gradually the signs became smaller and farther apart. Then there were no more bars. The street had taken on the appearance of any small Weste
rn town. Neat little houses with white picket fences were side by side. They each had a patch of dry yellow lawn in front of them. Most of the houses were alike and they all needed paint.
At the corner was one house larger than the others. A battered car was parked in front of it. Next to the license plate was a green enamel plaque with a white cross on it.
“That’s Doc Gonzales’ house,” the sheriff said.
As we walked by, I saw a strip of light shining through the worn window shade.
“He keeps late hours,” I said, trying to make conversation.
The sheriff wasn’t having any. He didn’t answer me.
We walked on for another block. Then he turned into a walkway. I recognized the frame building before me. The sheriff’s office was on the ground floor. A balcony ran around the second floor. The type of balcony they show in Western movies; just high enough from the ground for the hero to jump from it onto his horse’s back.
The sheriff opened the door, and we entered his office. When he snapped on the light I was surprised at how different the place looked from the time Biff and I had been there before. The glare of the white overhead light made the room take on a businesslike appearance. When I had seen it before it had been flooded with sunlight. It hadn’t looked like a sheriff’s office. Now it did.
The sheriff seemed more like the law, too. He arranged two chairs for Biff and me. Then he seated himself behind his roll-top desk. He opened a drawer at his right and placed a cardboard box on the desk. It looked like a shoe-box. He didn’t open it right away. Instead he leaned forward on the desk and rested his weight on his elbows.
“I guess you know what’s in that box,” the sheriff said slowly.
Biff laughed. “Well, I know it isn’t a bottle or you’d have had it opened before this.”
The sheriff didn’t laugh with him. But he did open the box. He placed the tiny pearl-handled gun in front of Biff.
“That gun was purchased eight days ago in San Diego,” he said slowly. His eyes were cold, his mouth firm. “Not yesterday or the day before, as Mrs. Lee said, but eight days ago.”
