“What’s that?”
“Whether that guy likes girls or not.”
She smiled, now, her wide, unabashed smile, and she stood slowly, smoothing her dress, shoulders back so that I could see how nice her body still was, as if there was any doubt, and she said, “Why don’t you kiss me?”
“Why don’t I?” I said.
And I took her in my arms.
She was such a sweet fit, in my arms, Sally was. She was a sweet fit elsewhere, as well.
But that had been a long time ago, and the spontaneous kiss at first reminded us how well we’d known each other once but by the time we broke our clinch we remembered how very long it had been, and then it was awkward, then we were sitting next to each other wondering what to say next.
I broke the ice. “What in hell are you doing here?”
“You’re such a sweet talker, Heller.”
“I’m known for my smooth line with the ladies. It’s great to see you again. It’s wonderful. That goes without saying.”
“No it doesn’t. Say it.”
“It’s great to see you again. It’s wonderful.”
“That’s better.” She leaned over and up and kissed me again, softly, briefly. But comfortably.
“It’s been over five years, Helen.”
Her smile turned into something sad. “It must be,” she said. “Because it’s been at least that long since anybody called me Helen.”
She’d been born Helen Beck; when I’d met her, in the summer of ’34, when she hired me to check up on a would-be suitor, I’d taken to calling her by her real name, at least some of the time. In bed, for example.
She laughed a little. Not much humor in it. “Even my mother calls me ‘Sally’ now.”
“Well, you’re a famous girl.”
“I’m not really a girl, anymore.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m a woman past thirty, Heller. Never mind how far past thirty.”
“Yeah, you’re a wreck all right.”
Now the smile went crinkly. “Stop it, you. I’m…well preserved; it’s my job to be. But I do have a few miles on me.”
“Don’t we all.”
She did look her age, though, close up at least; I was sure with makeup and lighting, on stage, from a distance, she still looked like the Sally Rand who was the hit of the Chicago World’s Fair in the summer of ’33 (with her fan dance) and ’34 as well (with her bubble dance). She was still a top box-office draw, although she hadn’t played Chicago in some time.
Anyway, she looked her age, but a beautiful woman of, say, thirty-five who looks thirty-five is hardly over the hill. In fact, one of the oddities about being in my thirties myself was that women about my age seemed more attractive to me now than the sweet young things.
“Why the gun?” she asked, a little concerned, nodding over at the automatic that was sitting on the chair.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I like long stories.”
I told her about O’Hare. Unlike my report to Stege, I told her everything. The summer I’d spent with her had been a rough one-I’d been involved in the Dillinger case up to my ass, and she’d seen some of the rough stuff go down, or anyway saw the aftermath of the rough stuff, and had taken it in stride. She was a tough cookie, Sally, without being hard; and she was a good sounding board, had helped me figure some things out. She was smarter than me, I’d discovered. Probably still was.
“Frank Nitti,” she said, shaking her head. “After all this time. You told me you intended to steer clear of him, for once and forever.”
I shrugged. “It’s his town. In my line, I’m bound to bump up against his interests from time to time.”
“He almost bumped up against
“You’re telling me. He told me he owed me one, once. Maybe he forgot the debt.” I thought back. “Or maybe he remembered I forgave it without exacting payment.”
The wide eyes narrowed. “You thought Nitti might have sent someone here, to your hotel suite, to…?”
Another shrug. “Definite possibility.”
“Why?” she said, indignantly. “What did
“I spent time alone with O’Hare just before he died. They may think he told me something damaging, something I could carry to the cops or the papers.”
“You talked to Captain Stege already, didn’t you? And told him nothing?”
“Yeah. And Tubbo Gilbert will see Stege’s report, and Tubbo will tell the Outfit that I either don’t know anything, or chose to keep my mouth shut And the morning papers will show I haven’t talked to the press. So if I can just last the night, I may be all right.”
She slipped tier arm in mine; sat very close to me. “We’ll just stay inside your cozy little place, then, just you and me. Have you had supper?”
“No.”
“I checked your Frigidaire. All you have is eggs and beer and half a loaf of bread. Is there an all-night grocery I could slip out to, and…”
“You know what I’d like. Helen? One of those breakfasts you used to make me. Nobody makes an omelet better than Sally Rand.”
“You’re right. It’s not exactly what I’m famous for, but you’re right.”
Soon she was serving me half of a big fluffy omelet, serving herself the other half-like the Kingfish says on “Amos n’ Andy,” she even gave me the “bigges’” half; she also toasted up some bread and managed to round up some butter somewhere. We drank beer out of glasses. Real elegant like.
We were midway through the meal when I finally asked her again.
“Helen, what the hell are you doing here? I saw your bags near the bedroom door as I came in.”
She ate some eggs. Between bites, blandly, she said, “I’m bankrupt.”
“What?”
“I’ve gone bankrupt. It’ll be in the papers soon enough.”
“That’s crazy. You’re one of the top nightclub draws in the country!”
She nodded. “Right after Sophie Tucker and Harry Richman. And nobody can touch me in vaudeville and the picture houses.”
“So what happened?”
She cocked her head; it was a shrug of sorts, but her expression was reflective, the big blue eyes searching. “Got too big for my britches, I guess.”
“Helen, you don’t wear any britches in your business.”
Now her smile was wistful. “You should’ve taken me up on my offer that time, and been my business partner. You’re more conservative than I am. You’d have stopped me.”
“Stopped you from what?”
“Overdoing. Maybe you heard, I put together a thing called Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch. We played the San Diego and Forth Worth fairs. Set record gates at both. Then for this San Francisco Exposition-which is trying to compete with the New York World’s Fair, you know-I went all out. Top-flight costumes, lighting, scenery, the works. Built and paid for my own buildings to house the show. Hired forty girls. Overextended myself.”
“It could happen to anyone.”
She shook her head. “Never thought it would happen to me. I have the reputation of being a savvy businesswoman, you know. Me and my shows have generated over three million bucks’ worth of business, the past six years, starting with the Century of Progress. I was making forty-five hundred a week, not so long ago.”
Her weekly wage was a yearly wage many men would’ve killed for. And here she was broke.
We’d finished eating now, but we stayed at the table. City lights winked at us through the adjacent window. She pushed the plates aside and reached out and held my hands in hers. “I had to let my girls go,” she said, as if
