by Henry, Kane,
“Adam,” she said, “I’d like a bit more brandy, please.”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Please sit down, Mr. Chambers,” Barbara Phelps said.
She was on the pale side of forty, top-heavy with slim hips and breasts that stuck out like cannons from a bastion. She had good legs, age-revealing lines on her neck, and dark-brown, eager, passionate eyes. The way she looked at Adam Frick, that young man was earning his pay as private pilot.
“I’m worried about my husband,” she said.
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
Adam brought her the drink. She sipped before she spoke. “We’ve been at Palm Beach,” she said.
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“Returned two days ago,” she said.
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“Gordon was not about, but that’s not unusual. Frankly, I hardly thought about it.” She sipped. “Have you seen the papers, Mr. Chambers?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“I called Gordon’s office. They haven’t heard from him in two days. I don’t generally worry about Gordon but I am worried now.”
“I understand, ma’am,” I said.
“Gordon has great confidence in you, Mr. Chambers.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.
“I want you to find him for me.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
She put her glass aside. She touched a hand to her blue-gray hair. Blue-gray hair gave distinguished frosting to the passionate eyes. She frowned, observing me sidelong. The “yes ma’ams” were getting to her. She arose, strode briskly to a desk, drew a checkbook and wrote a check. “Here,” she said imperiously.
The check was for a thousand bucks.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
“Find him for me. Just tell him to call me so that I know he’s all right.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“The papers are crazy,” she said. “Gordon might play around with a tramp like that. But he wouldn’t take her seriously enough to kill her.” But now she was not looking at me, she was looking at Adam Frick.
I did not ask her how she knew the lady was a tramp.
She looked back to me. “Thank you very much,” she said. I was dismissed. Her Majesty had dismissed me.
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
Adam Frick took me to the door.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Talk,” I said.
“Not here. Not now.”
“How come she called me?” I said. “How come she didn’t call her own boy?”
“Her own boy?”
“Si Murray.”
“How do you know?” he said. “I know everything,” I said.
He looked at me almost admiringly. “She figures you’re close to Phelps, figures you might have a line on him.”
“I might,” I said. “I want to talk to you. Please.”
“About this?”
“Yes.”
“All right. When?”
He glanced over his shoulder. There was no one behind him. “I’ll be stuck in this damned prison for a while. Call me late tonight. You know where I live. You still have the phone number?”
“Yes.”
“If I’m not there, I’ll be there. But call me. Please.”
“I’ll call you, kid.”
“Thanks,” he said.
He opened the door for me. I stepped out into the carbon monoxide of Fifth Avenue. I breathed deeply of the foul city air. It was resuscitating.
EIGHT
I went to a restaurant and ordered a leisurely dinner which I consumed with a bright appetite and a blank mind. I went home, shook free from my clothes, and napped, the alarm clock in my head set for nine o’clock. I did not dream. At nine o’clock I sat myself into a warm tub and turned on the thinking, such as it was. I thought about Gordon Phelps (having his own kind of fun as George Phillips), and Barbara Phelps (having her own kind of fun as Barbara Phelps), and Vivian Frayne (whose fun had stopped suddenly), and Sophia Sierra (and Phelps’ admonishment that she was as mercenary as an ancient Hessian), and Adam Frick (whose voice had been tinged with fright when he had pleaded to talk to me), and Steve Pedi (who owned a dance hall), and the Nirvana Ballroom (which was the dance hall Steve Pedi owned).
Nirvana Ballroom. I was back to free-association.
Nirvana, an expression contained in Buddhism. Buddhism, a philosophy and religion in strong existence in the sixth and fifth centuries before Christ. Buddhism, which taught that pain and suffering were an integral part of life, and that release could only be obtained through self-denial, guiltlessness, rejection of the passions, and concentration upon the exclusion of all things of the senses. Utter release, at final, is Nirvana: the epitome of selflessness, the actuality of blissful nonexistence. In Buddhist theology, the extinction of individual existence, the extinction of pain and suffering, the extinction of all desire and passion — is the entrance into Nirvana: the attainment of perfect beatitude. I thought, as I climbed out of my warm tub, that to some of us Nirvana can signify the beginning to true life, but to others, Nirvana can also mean death.
NINE
At ten o’clock in the evening — fresh, clean, unsullied, and unphilosophical — I presented myself at the Nirvana Ballroom. It was on Broadway at Fifty-fifth beneath a neat marquee which declared simply: NIRVANA. I paid an admission fee of one dollar and fifty cents, trudged up a flight of stairs, passed through an archway, and entered upon a crowded blue dimness. The large parallelogram of smooth-floored dance hall held more suckers than a spiritualists’ convention competing for séances at cut-rate prices. There were at last a hundred couples on the floor swaying in various embraces to swoosh-soft music wafted from an excellent orchestra on a podium to the right. Each close-pressed couple seemed oblivious of any of the other close-pressed couples, and oblivious they well might be in the almost-dark of slowly revolving chandeliers spraying pin-point beams of pale blue light. I had to squint to get accustomed to the gloom of the manufactured lovers’ twilight. To my left, there was a carpeted stairway, going up. In front of me was a wooden barrier with swinging-gate entrances to the dance-floor proper. Shapely young ladies in enticing attitudes lounged against the inner section of the barrier. They smiled invitingly at each new customer as he entered and the customer either smiled in return or gaped in embarrassment: the ladies were encased in shimmering evening gowns that sheathed their bodies more clingingly than Bikinis. I moved along the barrier seeking Sophia and could not find her. I found a velvet roped-off section, in an area even dimmer than the rest of the place, which contained chairs and tables and huddled couples. I also found a bar.
I went to the bar.
“Scotch and water,” I said.
“Sorry, no hard stuff,” the bartender said.
“A bottle of beer,” I said.
“Sorry, no beer,” the bartender said. “This a bar?” I said.
“It’s a bar,” the bartender said, “but we don’t serve no beverages what’s got alcohol. It ain’t allowed by law. We got coffee, raisin cake, all kinds soft drinks, soda, and ice cubes if you need them. This the first time you been here, Mac?”
“First time,” I said. “Got a date with a young lady, kind of.”
“Gal working here?”
“Yeah, but I can’t seem to find her.”
The bartender grinned sympathetically. “It’s a little dark when you first come in, but when you’re dancing with one of them chicks, believe me you appreciate it like that — dark. If you tell me what chick you’re looking for, maybe I can help.”
“Sophia Sierra.”
“Sophia? Man, you got taste. Man, that’s a chick what’s got everything, and got it all in the right places.” He jerked his head toward the roped-off area. “She’s sitting there with some broken-down joe. He ain’t nothing, Mac. My money’s on you.”
; “Thanks,” I said and started for the chairs and tables. “Hey,” the bartender called.
I went back to the bar. If his call was a hint for a tip, he was entitled to it. I reached for my wallet but he stopped me.
“Nah,” he said, “it ain’t that. It’s only you ain’t allowed in there without no tickets.” Now he jerked his head toward a booth that was fitted out like a box-office for a movie house. “Over there,” he said. “They’re a buck for ten tickets, each ticket a dance, but a dance is prackilly thirty seconds. Got a tip for you, Mac, seeing as you’re new here. Got two tips. Get a whole load of tickets if you want to make a hit with any of them gals, especially Sophia, she’s class. And tip two, don’t tangle with none of them bouncers. You’ll see them on the floor. They’re single-o, they cruise around, and they’re on the bruiser-type, but big, big. Not that they’ll bother you none, except you really start climbing all over a broad and maybe sticking your hand down her dress, though a classy-looking feller like you, you don’t figure….”
“Thanks again,” I said and this time I dipped into the wallet and handed over a bill and this time he did not refuse me.
“Thank you,” he said, “and remember about that load of tickets, Mac. I’m with you.”
At the booth, I offered twenty dollars.
“Tickets,” I said to a protuberant redhead who was resting on her bosom.
“How many?” she said, squirting a small smile.
“The works,” I said, with bravado.
“Yes, sir,” she said and the smile widened to a display of bad bridgework. “Yes sir, sport. Here you go.”
She peeled off an impressive batch of tickets and I held them aloft like a torch as I maneuvered through the dimness seeking Sophia.
I found her.
Off in a corner, she was seated at a table vis-à-vis to a grizzled little man whose wizened face surrounded a pair of glittering eyes that could have hypnotized a snake. I hated to break up the party, but after all, I had a date. I touched her shoulder and she looked up. He looked up too, and the beady little eyes were so suffused with elderly torment that I began shooting off my mouth like I was munching firecrackers.
“Sorry,” I said. “Just flew in from Las Vegas to see my girl. It’s kind of a one-night stand, just tonight. Got to be back on the job tomorrow. Got to make a living, you know. Hate to cut in like this. But we’re engaged, you know. Tough, when you’re in Vegas and you’ve got a girl in New York. I do hope you understand, Mr…. Mr….”
“Feninton,” he piped. “Hiram Feninton.”
“Oh, I told you he’d come,” Sophia said. “I told you I was hoping he’d make it, Mr. Feninton.”
“Yes, yes, you did,” Mr. Feninton said. He stood up, a small bow-legged man. “Youth, youth,” he said. “I envy you your youth, young man.” His hand fumbled in his pocket, brought out a sheaf of bills, and he peered intently as he selected one and handed it to me. (Subtlety, it appeared, was foreign to Nirvana.) “Here,” he said. “Please take it. Let Feninton play Cupid to young love tonight.” He looked down at Sophia. “Don’t let him spend any money tonight. Let it be on me, on me.” Then his other hand reached into another pocket and he slipped me a pint bottle that had the feel of a whiskey bottle. “On me, on me,” he said. “Let this evening be on me.” He bowed toward her, his glittering eyes consuming her. “We’ll make it another evening, Miss Sophia.” He smiled at me. “An old man, a harmless old man. Well, good-bye now.” And he turned abruptly and his bowlegs carried him away into the dimness.
I sat down, still holding the money and still holding the bottle. Almost at once my knees met her knees beneath the table, and almost at once one of mine was taken by two of hers, like a caress, and held warmly.
“I’m so darn glad you came,” she said.
On top of the table, there was a tray which held a small bucket of ice cubes, four glasses, six swizzle sticks, and a bottle of seltzer. In front of her, the amber contents of a glass was down near the bottom. In front of me, a glass was empty except for one melting ice cube.
“I’m a little bit drunkie,” she said, the pressure of her knees tightening. “Got a little drunkie, waiting for you, hoping you’d show up.”
“I thought the hard stuff wasn’t allowed here,” I said.
“It’s not. Dance halls don’t have a license for liquor in this town. But you can kind of bring it in yourself, and they supply you with set-ups.”
“And Mr. Feninton brought it in?”
“He sent out for it.” She took her glass and my glass and set them on the tray. She took two clean glasses and put one in front of me and one in front of her. “What’s left in the bottle?” she said.
There was not much. I emptied it, half in her glass, half in mine. It was Scotch, of an expensive brand. “A real sport, Mr. Feninton,” I said.
“We don’t get them too often here, believe me.”
“What do I do with the empty bottle?”
“Just put it on the floor under the table.”
I did that and her hand suddenly caught mine beneath the table. I looked across at her. Her smile was warm, soft, demure, but the expression about her eyes was peculiar. Somehow, it looked like contempt.
Her hand released mine and she took up the seltzer bottle, holding it poised over my glass. “How much do you like?” she said.
“Up to half, please.”
“Me too,” she said and squirted seltzer into my glass and into hers. She put the bottle back on the tray, stirred her drink, stirred mine, laid away the swizzle stick and lifted her glass. “To us,” she said. “To us, over and over again. I’m glad I met you. Really, I am.”
“Over and over again,” I said and we drank Mr. Feninton’s whiskey. Then I brought up the bill the man had given me. “Have a donation,” I said, “from Mr. Feninton. For young love out of Las Vegas.”
“Hold it for me,” she said, “I have no place to put it.” She sighed. “Crumb joint, isn’t it? Once in a while you get them like Feninton, but mostly they’re crumbs.”
“Sweetie,” I said, “what the hell are you doing here?”
“Working,” she said defiantly. “Let’s put it this way — I’m working while I’m marking time. Where else can a girl earn maybe three hundred dollars a week? I mean, working honest?”
“This is honest?” I said.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“The hell with that,” I said.
“Like my dress?” she said. “I wore it especially for you.”
“What dress?” I said.
I did not see a dress. I saw white round arms, full white shoulders, the swell of smooth white breasts almost entirely exposed, and the top rim of a red silk evening gown, without front, without back, without sides.
“Who can see the dress?” I said.
“Would you like to see the dress?”
“I would love to see the dress.”
“Would you like to dance? Like that you can see the dress. It’s wild.”
“I would like to do whatever you would like to do.”
“I would like to dance,” she said. “Sold,” I said. “Let’s dance.”
She stood up, and I just sat there, numbly clutching the dance tickets, as I stared up at her, feeling my mouth open as though pressure were being applied to my chin.
She was something. It was incredible.
It was nakedness: red nakedness: sheer red glistening nakedness: and yet it had a guileless magic that kept it from being obscene. It was a sheath of red silk, starting as an encirclement deep below the smooth caverns of her armpits and descending to an encirclement midpoint at the turn of her calves; it clung like a leotard, tight, bright, red silk membrane that produced the bold relief of a red silk body: red thigh, groin, loin, navel, bosom; rise and fall of red silk nakedness exploding to pinpoints of iridescence under the revolving blue of the chandeliers — it was something incredible. It set your heart to pumping in a passion like fright: thick black hair and wide black eyes, cream-
white flesh, and the red-hugging, clinging nakedness of the dress. And yet it was not obscene: it was overwhelmingly, breathtakingly beautiful. That was it: a red silk dress, no stockings, and red silk spike-heeled shoes. She wore absolutely nothing else.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
I handed up the string of tickets.
“Forget that,” she said and she flung the tickets to the table. “Let’s do it like Mr. Feninton said. Let’s make this evening on him.”
That gave me a little moment of triumph. I stood up, thinking of Gordon Phelps. This was the girl who, according to him, had a steel-trap mind cast in the mold of a cash register. Maybe. Maybe, according to him. Maybe, as it applied to him. Maybe, as it applied to some others, many others, all others. But maybe does not encompass always, and if it does, maybe this was her time for not-always. Why not? Why cannot a girl flip for a guy, bing, like that, out of left field? And why cannot that guy be I? Why not? The hell with modesty. Why cannot a girl like Sophia Sierra go overboard, for some cockeyed reason of her own, for a man like Peter Chambers? Why not? Reverse it. Peter Chambers, for some cockeyed reason of his own, had gone overboard for Sophia Sierra. Bing. Like that. Out of left field. Why not?
I took her arm and led her to the blue-streaked dimness of the dance floor. We danced, but it was like kids around a Maypole. I mean I held her, but I kept my distance. So she laid her cheek to mine.
“Why don’t you dance like everybody else?” she said at my ear. “You bashful, lover?”
I moved my head away and looked past her shoulder. Most of the swaying couples were more tightly pressed than an ancient rose in a lover’s album.
“Like that,” I said, “I’m bashful.”
“Don’t be,” she said and her body moved to mine in a practiced rhythm, and her warm body yielded to mine, and we ground together, lightly, in a primitive embrace, swaying to the music. I did not gasp because I was ashamed to gasp. And now her cheek was against mine again and her giggle was alive at my ear. “Perpendicular prostitution,” she said. “It’s part of the racket, taxi-dance racket. Who’re the customers? Wackie-boys, nutty-boys, sex-bombs, scared-guys, crazos. Mostly, they’re the customers — who else? Crazos looking for a crazy thrill. Okay, they buy enough tickets, we give them their crazy thrill. The faster we get rid of them, the faster we grab the next customer with a fistful of tickets. We get half the amount of the tickets they buy. That’s the racket. The hell with it. What have we got to lose? Nothing, except once in a while we get a gown spoiled. Lousy racket, huh? But a gal has got to make a living, hasn’t she? And at least it’s legit. Why, take these gals working in the offices, these Gal Fridays, working for a fast fifty bucks a week, and making it with the boss on the side, and picking up a little extra spending money like that — ”
