expectations.”
She liked that. Apparently she was a proud little community-college student/waitress. “Yes! I don’t know of anything like it anywhere else around these parts.”
These parts? My God, this was the Midwest…
I asked, “What about downtown?”
The eyes got the goosed look again. “In Haydee’s Port? You don’t want to go down there, sir.”
“I don’t?”
“No! It’s just for lowlifes.”
So I left her a nice tip. She didn’t consider me a lowlife, and that made me feel good about myself.
I gambled a little. Lost twenty-five bucks at black-jack, got ahead fifty at roulette. Played video poker, a buck a shot, and in ninety minutes carved the fifty in half. Another waitress, who I’d asked for a Diet Coke, delivered it.
I asked her, “The music upstairs?”
She had a galaxy of permed blonde hair and dark blue eyes and light blue eyeshadow and big breasts that made heavy lifting for the push-up bra. “You mean upstairs at the Paddlewheel Lounge?”
“I’m talking about the top floor.”
“So am I.”
“How long does the music last?”
“Till two on weeknights. All night Friday and Saturday. We’re closed Sunday.”
Even Hades rested on the seventh day, it seemed, this branch office, anyway.
It was already close to one a.m., so I took the elevator up to the Paddlewheel Lounge. The big room had lots of neon pseudo-graffiti on the brick walls, glowing in black light-cheesy stuff that tried too hard, jagged lettering of assorted words and phrases: Da Bomb! Awesome! Wicked! Rad! Gnarly!
Not that the crowd seemed to mind, a mix of twentyand thirty-somethings, some of whom I’d seen dining downstairs. The dance floor was a raised acrylic platform with red-yellow-blue flashing lights inside, the band fronting big amplifiers on a wooden platform stage (the drummer up on his own smaller one) painted flat black but with more corny neon day-glo fake graffiti. The little dance platform could only accommodate maybe a third of the hundred or so in the lounge, so a lot of smoking and talking (that is, shouting over the band) was going on at the little round tables with red vinyl cloths.
A bar was at one end, as far away from the band as possible. The bartender was female, a pretty blonde with over-teased hair and a black leather vest over her white blouse; she wasn’t particularly busty, which was almost a relief after all those exploding bosoms in the casino.
Perched on a stool, I ordered another Diet Coke and asked her (actually, yelled at her), “ What’s it like on the weekends? ”
“ Zoo-a-rama, ” she shouted back with a friendly smile and an eyeball roll. “ Hangin’ off the flippin’ rafters, my friend. ”
“ Good band! ”
They were-they were doing “Under My Thumb” by the Stones. They all wore white shirts and skinny black ties and black leather trousers and short spiky hair, including the lead singer, a cute skinny girl.
“ Not bad, ” she admitted. “ Smart. Called the Nodes. They play about half classic rock and half New Wave. That’s why the demo is so broad. ”
“ The demo? ”
“ Demographic. You’ll find ’em as young as twenty-one and as old as forty, out there. ”
Forty didn’t sound as old to me as it used to. Also, I thought some of the girls-like one in a side ponytail, fingerless gloves and a petticoat, who was just swishing by-weren’t twenty-one. Not that I could imagine the Paddlewheel was a rigorous I.D. checker.
That was all the shouted speech I could take, so I got out the charming smile again and made sure the teased-hairdo behind the bar got a nice tip, figuring she was another minimum-wage slave.
I’d been on all three floors of the Paddlewheel now, over these past three hours or so, and still hadn’t seen Richard Cornell, at least not to my knowledge. I really didn’t have any idea what he looked like, just that he was a Brit and a “smoothie.” All I probably needed to do was ask somebody who appeared to be vaguely in management if I could see Mr. Cornell. But I wasn’t ready to stoop that low just yet…
On the second floor, things were winding down. The dining room had closed at midnight, though the bar was still heavily populated, serving booze and sandwiches till 4 a.m., if the menu was to be believed. I was seated at a little table whose round top was smaller than a steering wheel, having another Diet Coke, listening to the vocalist who had finally turned up on stage to keep the pianist company.
A couple of things had become clear about Richard Cornell’s management style, among them that he paid minimum wage, but chiefly that if you weren’t a good-looking young woman, you need not apply for any job that included interacting with the public. The needle on the pulchritude meter at this place was buried, or wanted to be. Till it closed in ’81, the Playboy Club at Lake Geneva had been my favorite home away from home, and the Paddlewheel rivaled their Bunnies with these cornfed cuties.
But the woman on the small stage, perched on a stool, was not cute, nor was she young. I made her for mid-forties, easy. She was a little heavy and she had some years on her, but she blew the cuties away, because she was beautiful. Truly beautiful.
She had reddish blond widow’s-peaked hair that was up off her high forehead but swept down to her bare shoulders. Her wideset eyes were green and so was her eyeshadow, her face a gentle oval nicely disrupted by prominent cheekbones; her lips were full and ripe and glistening red. She wore a bare-shouldered black dress with a full skirt, the top part putting half of an admirable full bosom on display, no push-up bra, though some would argue she could use one-I would argue she’d never lack for a man to push them up for her.
When I sat down, she was singing “What Is This Thing Called Love?” She had a soft, smoky voice that reminded me of Julie London-she reminded me physically of Julie London, too, though the nose was different, small, almost pug. Everything she did was sad but with a lilting, mid-tempo swing feel that was part her and part the deft piano player.
Some people were talking, laughing, at their tables, because for anybody not gambling, it was getting pretty drunk out. But perhaps half of the little crowd of maybe twenty-five at the tiny tables in front of the small stage were paying rapt attention.
I had a feeling she had a following. She might have made it big in another era-she was old enough that she might have tried, before she’d become a throwback, if a goddamn pure one. Anybody else would have been using a drum machine and a synthesizer. Yet somehow she was getting away with just her voice and a piano, right here in the middle of the USA, closer to the Gran’ Ole Opry in Nashville than the Rainbow Room in Manhattan.
She sang “Little White Lies” with a lot of humor and warmth, and then she slowed down “I Got Lost in His Arms” with such a rich, well-earned vibrato that I damn near remembered how to cry.
Rising, she got a nice hand as she smiled and nodded, gestured to her pianist, who was bald and bespectacled and maybe thirty and painfully skinny; then they both got some more applause and came down off the stage.
On impulse, I rose and went over to her. “Excuse me,” I said. “But that was terrific.”
She seemed embarrassed. “Oh. Well. Thank you. Haven’t seen you here before.”
“Passing through.”
She grinned and it was wide and real with plenty of white. “Nobody passes through Haydee’s Port.”
“Passing through River Bluff. Can I buy you a drink?”
The smile tightened, the teeth disappearing. “No. I have one more set in fifteen minutes. I never take a drink till after my last set. But you’re very kind.”
“Coffee, then.”
“Makes me jumpy.”
“Perrier? Not coming on to you. Just liked what I heard.”
The teeth returned. “Nice young man like you, maybe I wouldn’t mind.”
“A Perrier?”
“You coming on to me.” The smile tightened again but in a nice way, this time. “Come on.”
She took me by the arm and led me to a booth with a reserved card on it. I sat opposite her as she retrieved
