True Crime

I didn’t see that coming, so it took me a moment before I could reply.

“You’re a client,” I managed. “It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Ethical? In Chicago? I think I’ve made it plain I find you attractive. And there’s worse-looking women in town than Sally Rand.”

“So I hear.”

She blew a smoke ring. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Why, ’cause you’re a star? I met famous people before.”

“Did you ever sleep with any?”

“Just Capone. He snores.”

She laughed; it was high-pitched, very feminine. But there was a core of strength in the little dame, no question.

“So my millionaire’s a faker, huh? Easy come, easy go. I guess I didn’t want to quit show business, anyway.” She sighed and turned back to the mirror. “How old are you, Heller?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Her electric fan whirred; streamers tickled the air.

“I’m almost thirty,” she said. “How long can I take my clothes off for a living?”

“From the looks of you, a good long time.”

She had been around, though, even if it didn’t show. She’d been a cigarette girl and a chorus girl, a dancer in a Gus Edwards Revue, an extra in the silents, a Hollywood Wampus Baby Star, which led to a contract with De Mille, though when sound came in she was dropped. She was a has-been of twenty-eight when she made her overnight success after fourteen years in show business by dressing as Lady Godiva for a Fine Arts Ball at the Congress Hotel on the eve of the world’s fair.

Now she was peeking out from behind fans and bubbles, when she wasn’t in and out of court—which of course created the publicity that kept her hot.

“My real name is Helen, you know,” she said. “Helen Beck. But very few people still call me Helen.”

“Would you like me to?”

“I’m thinking about it.” She began brushing her hair. Her other hair, the blond wig on the dressmaker’s dummy, was blowing a bit in the electric fan’s breeze. “Do you know where I got my name?”

“Off a Rand McNally map?”

“You’ve read the newspaper stories, then.”

“Who hasn’t? You’re better known than the First Lady.”

“And a damn sight better looking.”

“Yeah, but so am I.”

She turned and smiled and looked at me. “Why are you still here?” She said this with no nastiness.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you thinking about making a pass at me?”

“Maybe.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You’re not a client, anymore.”

“Does that make it kosher?”

“It could.”

She stood and the robe slipped to her waist. Her breasts were very beautiful. She was powdered white, for the stage; talcum powder. She smelled good; she smelled like a great big baby.

I went over and kissed her.

It was a nice kiss, but something was missing. She looked up at me with those long lashes and sad blue eyes.

“What is it, Nate? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, moving back. “Maybe I better go.”

“It’s that actress of yours.”

“You—you know about her?”

“I know a lot of things. She left you. Went to Hollywood. You don’t owe her anything.”

“We still write.”

“Do her letters keep you warm at night?”

“Not particularly. But in this weather, who needs it?”

“Maybe you do. Come and kiss me again.”