slightly graying hair combed way back; he smelled of lilac water, smelled better than a lot of showgirls I’d dated.
He sat next to me, leaned in chummily. “We make Broadway look provincial, don’t you think? Got anything in Chicago that compares?”
“Not sober. How long you been open?”
He looked up at his glittering neon ceiling. “Year and a half. You know, I was on the verge of bankruptcy when I called every last one of my markers in, to make this place a reality. Now I’m back on top.”
“Well, congratulations. How is it you happen to know who the hell I am?”
A tiny smile drifted across his lips. “You’re sitting in my inner circle, aren’t you? Listen, I just wanted to make sure you and your lady friend have a good time this evening. I wanted you to know you’re welcome…”
And he slipped his arm around me.
“…and if this little morsel you’re with doesn’t work out,” he whispered into my dainty ear, “just let me know if you see something in the show that appeals to you…and it’s always good to have a second choice if an item is sold out.”
He rose with a sly wink, handing me his card; I slipped it in my pocket, as he continued along his glad-handing way. What was this son of a bitch, my guardian angel?
Margot, smiling like a pixie, leaned across the table and touched my hand with a gloved one. “What did that devil whisper to you?”
“He was hoping I could talk you into trying out for the chorus,” I said.
She blushed; it was legendary that Carroll’s showgirls had to audition in the nude. “No, really….”
I ducked the question with my own: “Carroll wouldn’t happen to be a member of the Foundation, would he?”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, he’s a flier, isn’t he? A pilot.”
“How do you know that?”
“Remember when he landed a plane in the middle of New York? It was in all the papers.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, as if having to recall, “he landed in Central Park, in the middle of winter.”
“That publicity hound makes G. P. look subtle.”
“Mr. Carroll
“Hey, it’s okay,” I said, and patted her hand. “I used to be a Chicago cop. I thrive on bribes.”
The show was an eye-popper. The sixty showgirls, who sang well and handled patter nicely, flitted about floating platforms and revolving stages, near nudists in feathers and sequins, sometimes to classy numbers like “The Blue Danube,” courtesy of Ray Noble’s Orchestra, and other times in more traditional burlesque fashion.
One running gag had shapely brunette headliner Beryl Wallace (Carroll’s girlfriend, Margot told me; no doubt one of the “sold out” items) fleeing from a comic, first in a negligee with the funnyman flashing scissors, later in a hula skirt with him pushing a lawnmower, finally in tin pants with her pursuer wielding a blowtorch.
But spectacle and yards of near nudity were the hallmark, as when the sixty babes displayed themselves on one hundred feet of stairs. I was terribly distracted, watching this buffet of blondes and redheads and brunettes, knowing I could call their boss and select one or two or three; it ruined the damn show for me. I like to think if I pick up a showgirl for a cheap one-night fling that my boyish charm had something to do with it. Call me old- fashioned.
Maybe that was why I turned a little morose on the walk back. Margot looped her arm in mine as we strolled through the Boulevard’s valley of bright lights, a streetcar clanging its unsophisticated way down the center, occasionally.
“What’s wrong, Nathan?”
“Aw, nothin’.”
“I think I know.”
“Yeah?”
“You think I’m trying to use you.”
That made me smile. I came to a stop and she took my cue and I faced her. The night was alive with headlights of passing cars, brand names outlined in neon, searchlights announcing the premiere of a major motion picture, or maybe the opening of a drive-in barbecue stand. I gathered the small, shapely creature in my arms, the slick material of her dress slippery under my touch, and I kissed her.
It was sweet and it was real.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” I said.
“I’ve been wanting you to,” she admitted, her eyes dancing with reflected light.
“I just had to make sure.”
“About what?”
“That you were as sweet a kid as you seem to be.”
“Am I?”
