It's Monday and the streetlamps are enthusiastic. The sun must be tuckered out like I am. What a lazy bastard. I'm overworked, it's seven and I'm sober as the day I was born. I need a drink so I can forget about all these invoices and accounts. The joint that Teddy whispers about is nine blocks down, just passed Frank's Barber Shop so why the heck not? The blabbermouth told me the password. I pass by my building and wave at Fred, the doorman. He tips his hat. Beyond the bakery, Johnny's Auto Repair and Sam's Meats is Betty's Café, my lunch break pit stop. At the corner of twenty-third and Nixon is a party, littered with drugstore cowboys, unemployed dames and stray cats. I ignore these owls and head across the street to the juice joint; one I'll be strolling out of a few hours from now. It's big for a shop and I can hear the horns seeping out the windows. Fine Cigars it says. Yeah right, the boss must pay the fuzz well. The door is old, iron, and pretty damn solid. I do some banging and my mitt catches a beat. It's ice cold. After what seemed like three minutes, I spark up a cigarette. The eye slide opens and squeaks something nasty. Within the opening are two eyes, followed by the riddle.
"Nice hat." the voice said. His sound is familiar and it takes a few seconds to load. I know this punk.
"Teddy, it's Bobby. I didn’t know you were the muscles here. Open up. I'm freezing over here." I said.
"Damnit Bobby…you know better than to use my name. When we're in here, I don't know you, I never met you and I never told you nothin'. Ya' dig?" he said.
I could tell that whoever owned this joint was smart and had his cold hand around Teddy's balls. I'd love to see him get pinched because of what he did to me last week. We're buddies and what not but when you pull one over on me, I'll step on your toes. At least I know never to play poker again with this guy or any other piker at that.
"Are you gonna' let me in or what? You think you're hard boiled because you got a door between you and I. Don't you dare forget what you pulled last Friday. I'll be cool, nobody's around-"
"Alright, alright, pipe down. I didn't think you'd ever come here. Don't be starting shit you hear." Teddy knew I would give him some heat. After a clink and clank, the door squeaked open.
"Clara Bow. What kind of a password is that anyway?"
"It's the kind that gets you booze, dolls, and jazz my friend." He said in a matter of fact.
"Heh, you ain't kiddin'." I get a good look at Teddy. He wore a tailcoat, a top hat, and plenty of things that a car shop kid wouldn't be wearing. It was no chestnut sacque suit like mine. He looked sharp and he had more punch than usual. The only time I'd ever seen him so jazzed was when he said he couldn't gamble one night because he was taking a Jane out into town. Teddy's a good kid. He was just born a few years too early.
I make my way inside and it is busy, semi-swank and full of aristocrats. On the left side, the black leather counter and the guy that sells booze. He's chatting with a few gold-diggers in their glad rags. They are fishing for some free whiskey and doing a poor job. His head's tipped to the left because he's over it. I guess the bartender isn't too busy. All the hustle as I can see belong to the dolls running around taking orders. They're all uniformed in little girl's clothes. It doesn't bother me. What gets me are the forty some odd tables, eighty plus chairs, lamps and ashtrays parked in the center. Each table is occupied except one and I think I'll take it. I tour along the bricked wall, dancing slightly passed a few sepia colored photographs of bearded men, old wagons, Howard Hughes, and children. Before I could sit, one of the waitresses asks if I need a drink. I tell her whiskey. The man next to me also orders whiskey. I notice that he doesn't look at the waitress or even move as he does it. He's still, calm as a cow, unlike all the toe tappers here. On his face are crevices, the kind that people get when they smile too much. These crevices lead to a long gaping frown, probably there by default. He slouches and has big fingers like Teddy's so I decide that he is a mechanic. I'm alone and curious so I ask him what he does.
"Long day at work?" I ask. He doesn't reply. I figure this much. "Sorry. Just wanted to chat." I follow. The waitress places the drink on the table and winks in a way that makes me notice her feathered eyelashes. What a Betty. The horns fade and reveal the commotion. Lights dim and hidden neon lights emerge. It crawls up and around the perimeter. At the right, a silhouette from the stage takes shape and it looks like a large bottle of pop. It must have been the main act because it shut people up some. The upright bass, the ride, and a piano sneak in, with a tease. She slows forward and moves into the light, saunters something fierce, shoulders and hips taking their turn in left right cadence. Her posture is broomstick and dress, onyx and draped, showcasing her collarbones and spine. The pink neon crawls up her shin as she caresses it with her upwardly mobile stiletto. She rolls patiently, onto the waxed ebony piano and ignores the Liberaci. The vixen parts her lips. If there was any moment in time that I wanted to live for, it would be this. She begins…
"I'm yours…" she sang. My mojo is amplified to the point of no return and I must have her. By reflex, I fall under her spell. But I'm not alone in my desire as I can sense an army of men aiming their crosshairs on the same open target. She is a poet of the body and she knows how to confess. I need to know her name.
"I need to know her name." I whisper.
After a few short numbers the lights reacquaint with the faces. I pull the handkerchief out of my pocket and pad down the sweat as she glides backstage and out of sight. I arm my style with epic openers and pretend to be a pilot for a moment. Amateurs are broken easily so this idea slips by. A woman like that knows what she wants. Who knows what she wants? The bartender would know her better than anyone else. I waste no time and make a place for myself at the bar. I slam my mitts on the table and drum until the bartender gets the drift. I'm all about business at this point, a determined detective on a serious case. He wipes down the tabletop on the way and stands in front of me, leans against the edge, straight-armed, stooped forward and brow cocked.
"What can I get ya? He asks.
"Two things. First is whiskey." I say.
"What's the second?" He says.
"Well…I need some information." I say.
"I aint' seen nothin' and I don't know nothing." He's aggressively passive. I could tell he has rehearsed this prescription verse, over and over. He misread me from the moment I sat down.
"You got it wrong. I'm talkin' about legs on the stage. What's her name? What's her story?" I ask.
"Well what you and every other shmuck wants to know is that around here we call her Lonnie and no, she aint' interested. That's all you need to know." He says as he overflows my glass. He lets the bottle drop on the counter.
"If you say so." I say. I'm not going to shove off that easily. I drink the shot and blow into his face. "What's your name?" I ask.
"The name is Arnold. Friends call me Chip. You want another?" he says.
"Well let me ask you something Chip. How much money does it take to get a joint like this up and running? A couple thousand maybe?" I ask.
"Yeah I suppose. So what?" Chip says.
"Well the man running this joint must be a pretty good business man yah? Just out of curiosity…what does he do for living?" I ask. He pauses, rolls his eyes and inhales deep. I did him good.
"She's a waitress on the other side of town, Molly's, during the day. At night she does what made your draw drop back there a minute ago. She's single but not available. If you don't believe me then go find out for yourself. Now do you want another, because I've got a job to do and-"
"Forget about it. How about that shot." I cracked his safe quick. This is the most that I could squeeze out of him and I'll quit while I'm ahead. He's giving me the eye and it's the same eye that Teddy had. I can work off of this lead. I empty the glass and retreat to my table. The old man is like I left him but a more convincing statue than before. I take a seat and my eyes roam the stage. I wonder where she went off too and with whom.
"Guys like you are a dime a dozen." Says the man. He does speak. He looks at me with ease and takes a sip of his drink. "She belongs to that man in the corner, no matter what the bartender told you. That there is Nicholas Marinelli, of the Marinellis. His father owns this joint." He says. I look at the corner and see him. He's in a dame sandwich. The one on the left places a cigar in his mouth and he casually blows a series of donuts and catches my gaze, then gives me a wink. Then his hand rides the gams of the girl on the right. He's no prize. I've seen a dozen like him.
"You don't know me. Who are you?" I ask the old man. He becomes generous with eye contact, a philanthropist in fact.
"My name's Al." He isn't done speaking but he pauses between words. "It's the same shit every time I come here. I sit, I drink, I listen and I relax. But every single time there's some kid like you losing control over Lonnie over there. You don't know what kind of girl she is." He says. "They always find out the stupid way."
He tells me that he sits in the same chair four times a week. He is a mechanic just like I thought, except he nurses planes. What he's doing in a place like this I don't know, but he tells me two stories. One about his daughter falling for some flyboy who's plane he would revive her and there. He said he told her the guy was no good but she wouldn't listen. They ran off somewhere and have been gone for years. The second one was Lonnie's story. He says that she was Nicholas' girl for a couple years, but she didn't want to be involved with what he was up to so she left him. Nicholas refuses to let her go so he keeps a good eye on her, fending off any lounge lizard that comes near.
"If that’s the case, what's she doing hanging around here for?" I ask.
"Well I got to know her one day. Eventually, I asked her the same thing. She says she needs the dough for her little brother who is ill. For a warm-hearted girl like that I would give all my money but I'm outta' work right now." He says. I reform my previous thought about Lonnie. From what Al asked me earlier, I thought she might have been a typical Moll, but I guess she is over that. I desire her more than before, but considering Nicholas, I better tell my guts to shut up because they always get me into trouble.
"I'm not like all these shmucks here. I do think she's a goddess but there's something else about her that makes me churn. She has a great voice and you know, she-" I am interrupted.
"I hope you're talking about me because words like that'll make a girl smile." She appears out of thin air. I could feel the fever overwhelm my face, into my pupils and surround my cheeks. Her scent is as stunning as her walk. I hope she didn't overhear too much.
"We were just talking about Edith Wilson, that's all." Al says. He gives Lonnie a dry look, but his joke catches up to him with a large smile. He does have emotion. I bet she could soften any tough guy. Lonnie returns the smile and gives me a look. I am twelve again.
"So you like my voice don't you? Well I'm about to do another number and I'm dedicating it to you, Mr…"
"Bobby." I say. That is all I could muster. She owns me. Damn.
"…Mr. Bobby, this one's for you honey." She says. She called me honey and it makes me dissolve. I feel alive. Her eyes are stuck on me even as she approaches the stage. By nature she is sexy, but she has plenty of grace as she walks to her spotlight. She embraces the microphone stand. The band knows the program. They outro into silence and then the pink neon follows once again. The stage is a playground and it belongs to her. She winks and points at me and I feel her poke. There is another spotlight and I am signed up for the crowd's attention. One should be so lucky. She begins with the song.
"These eyes are…for…you…" she sang. As she sings, she glides and moves in ways that would make a guy melt. I was a puddle by the first verse. I glance at Al and he sports a modest grin, as if he was sharing the fantasy of a lucky bastard like me. She makes me smile the entire time and it's unforced. I want to know her.
The crowd claps in sincere chaos. She smiles that smile and obliges them. Then she winks at me again before disappearing into the stage. I turn to Al and waste no time in asking.
"So you think she got a thing for me or what?" I say.
"She's out of your league. But I never saw her do that to nobody before. But don't forget…" That is all I needed to hear. He fingers lightly to Nicholas in the corner. I get a look at him and he's looking right at me as if he wants to rip my throat out. He stands up and walks straight towards my table at ramming speed, moving with authority and with bounce. I am honored to be a threat to him. He approaches but walks right past the table, parks at the one behind me and digs a hand into the guy's shirt. He pulls him up and intimidates with pleasure. I overhear them. He credits my serenade to the wrong guy. Two oafy henchmen accompany Nicholas and they escort the poor bastard outside. He has some hurt coming towards him. As the four of them leave, Lonnie approaches the table, sits down and crosses her legs. She bats her eyes and places her chin on the heal of her palm. I don't know whether to be afraid for my ribs or my heart. Al says nothing as he ditches the table. I guess he was trying to help me out. Maybe he was getting out of the way, of my pummeling. Whatever. I'm alone with her and this is enough. It is worth every second.
"Hey sugar. How bout we get some shots of whiskey, your treat." she says.
I hesitate. "Sure."
"So…I've never seen you before. What's your story?" she says.
I can't think of anything clever. "Long day I guess. I'm here to have a few drinks and a pal of mine told me about this place. I thought it would be different. I kind of like it here." I say.
"Well it ain't all that it's cracked up to be. I like it here too don't get me wrong. I just don't much like some people that hang around here. I wish I could just pack up and leave…maybe California or somewhere pretty." She confides in me and her desperation sucks me in. For a moment I think about the mechanic's story, about his daughter running off with the pilot. I want to take her away and form a band. I played guitar when I was younger and I would sure as hell pick it up again if it meant spending time with her. She could sing and I could strum and we could be secretly playing to each other on stage. I brush my brow and there's a handprint on the table. I watch it evaporate.
"How 'bout we form a band and travel. I play the guitar you know and I'm pretty damn good if you ask me. With your perfect voice, we'd be a hit." The boos are getting to me. This kind of desperation is dangerous. She needs someone like me and I need her. She looks into my eyes and doesn't move. Her face is blank. Her mouth opens slightly and she begins to breath heavier. Her eyes start to well up and a tear blends with her eye shadow. It leaves the lip of her eye and takes it's time down her cheek. She bites her lower lip and closes her eyes. She wants to be loved. Her eyes open and the speckles say it all.
Out of the corner of the room my eye catches Teddy rushing in. He bumps into the counter and motions to the bartender. He cups his hand and whispers in his ear. The bartender looks at Teddy and he looks upset. The bartender drops his head down and remains still. The front door bangs two times and breaks open. An army of black and whites rush in. Everyone scrambles. Teddy screwed up. He didn't know. Lonnie doesn't budge. Neither do I.
