The Golden Gizmo

Toddy went in, anyway. It was too late to turn back. He moved past the half-curtains of the foyer and stood staring down the long steep aisle.

Not that he wanted one, but there didn't seem to be an empty seat in the joint. It was packed. Twin swaths of heads, terrazos of grays and blacks and bald-pinks stretched from the rear of the house to the orchestra pit. In the pit there was only a piano player, banging out his own version of the 'Sugar Roll Blues.' It must have been his own; no one else would have had it.

Toddy's nose crinkled at the stench, a compound of the aromas of puke, sweat, urine and a patented 'perfume disinfectant.' All the burly houses used that same disinfectant. It was the product of a 'company' which, by an odd coincidence, also manufactured stink bombs. It was the only thing that would cover up the odor of a stink bomb.

He went slowly down the aisle, ears strained for sounds of the danger behind him, eyes fixed on the stage. Three chorus 'girls' were on it-the show's entire line, apparently. They were stooped over, buttocks to the audience, wiggling and jerking in dreary rhythm to the jangling chords of the piano.

As Toddy advanced, the women straightened and moved off the stage, each giving her rear a final twitch as she disappeared into the wings. A man in baggy pants and a red undershirt came out. In his exaggerated anxiety to peer after the girls, he stumbled-he appeared to stumble. His derby flipped off, turned once in the air, then dropped neatly over his long putty nose.

Laughter swelled from the audience and there was a burst of hand clapping. The comic removed the derby and spat into it. He pulled the baggy pants away from his stomach and went through the motion of emptying the hat into them.

'Keep our city clean,' he explained.

More laughter, clapping, stamping feet.

'Mi, mi, mi,' chortled the comic, tapping his chest and coughing. 'With your kind indulgence, I shall now sing that touching old love song, a heart-rending melody entitled (pause) 'If a Hen Lays a Cracked Egg Will the Chicken Be Nutty?'

Laughter. A chord from the piano.

Toddy swung a foot to the pit rail and stepped across to the stage. The comic stared. He grasped Toddy's hand and wrung it warmly.

'Don't tell me, sir! Don't tell me. Mr. Addison Simms of Seattle, isn't it?'

No laughter. It was over their heads. Beneath the grease paint, the painted grin, the comic scowled. ('What you pullin', you bastard?') 'Why, Mr. Simms,' he said aloud- simpering, twisting. 'We can't do that! Not with all these people watching.'

Howling laughter; this was right up the audience's alley. The scowl disappeared. The comedian released Toddy's hand and flung both arms around him. Head cuddled against Toddy's chest, he called coyly to the audience:

'Isn't he dar-ling?'

('How do I get out of here?')

'Don't you just lah-ve big men?'

('Dammit, let go!')

'You won't hurt me, will you, Mr. Simms?'

Above the whistling roar of the crowd, Toddy heard another sound. In the back of the house a brief flash of light marked the opening of the door… A shouted, distant curse; the stifled scream of a woman. Toddy tried to jerk free and was held more tightly than ever.

'Kee-iss me, you brute! Take me in yo-ah ahms and- oof! '

Toddy gave him another one in the guts for luck, then a stiff-arm in the face. The comedian stumbled backwards. Stumbling, waving his arms, he skidded across the top of the piano and fell into the audience.

Over his shoulder, Toddy got a glimpse of people rising in their seats, milling into the aisle. He did not wait to see more. He darted into the wings, ducked a kick from a brawny man in an undershirt, and gave a blinding backhanded slap in return. A chorus girl tried to conk him with a wine bottle. He caught her upraised arm and whirled her around. He sent her sprawling into another girl-a big blonde with a pair of scissors. The third girl whizzed a jar of grease paint at him, then fled screaming onto the stage.

The exit was locked. He had to give it two spine-rattling kicks before the latch snapped. He stumbled out into the night, wedged a loaded trash barrel against the door-that wouldn't hold long-and ran on again.

He came out of the alley onto another side street. And this was more hopeless than the first one. No lights shone. Several of the buildings were in the process of being razed. The others were boarded up.

He started down it at a trot, panting, nervous sweat pouring into his eyes. He ran wearily, and then his head turned in an unbelieving stare and he staggered into a doorway. There was a double swinging door with small glass ports on either side. Through the ports drifted a dim, almost indiscernible glow. He went in.

He was looking up a long dimly lit stairway, a very long stairway. What had once been the second floor was now boarded off. Except for the former second-floor landing, the stairs rose straight to the third floor.

Gratefully, he saw that the swinging doors were bracketed for a bar; not only that, but the bar was there, a stout piece of two-by- four, leaning against the wall. He picked it up and slid it into the brackets. He put a foot on the steps. The boards gave slightly under his tread, and somewhere in the dimness above him a bell tinkled.

He hesitated, then went on. A man was standing at the head of the stairs. He had a crew haircut and a mouthful of gum and a pair of pants that rose to his armpits. He also had a sawed-off baseball bat. He twiddled it at his side as he stared at Toddy with incurious eyes.

'Yeah, Mac?'

'Uh-I want to see Mable,' said Toddy.

'Mable, huh? Sure, she's here. Agnes and Becky, too.' The man chuckled. He waited, then jerked his head impatiently. 'You can't jump 'em on the stairs, Mac. That's the only way they won't do it, but they won't do it that way.'

Toddy ascended to the landing. He reached for his wallet, and the man moved his hand in a negative gesture. 'Just pay the gal, Mac… Now, le's see…' Doors, perhaps a dozen of them, extended the length of the hallway. Doorways with half-doors-summer doors- attached to the outer casing. The man nodded, pointed to a patch of light.

'Ruthie's free. Go right on down, Mac.'

He gave Toddy's elbow a cordial push; then his arm tightened on it in a viselike grip. 'What the hell's that racket?'

'Racket?' said Toddy.

'You heard me. You bar that door down there?'

'Why the hell would I do that?… Wait a minute!' said Toddy. 'I had to boot a wino out of the doorway to get in. He must have come back again.'

The man cursed. 'Them winos! And the goddam cops won't do a thing about them!' He headed down the stairs scowling, twirling the sawed-off bat. Toddy moved away from the stairwell.

There was no window at either end of the hall. There was nothing to indicate which of the rooms opened on the fire escape. There'd be one, surely, even in a whorehouse. But he'd have to hunt for it.

Come on, gizmo, he thought. Be good to me.