All That Glitters by Thomas Tryon

assistant,” while Dore was my “personal assistant,” carrying a shipment of expensive Austrian glassware for—who else?—Miss Austrian. I said we were expected.
    When the guy sat down at the switchboard, we sprinted for the elevator, and the door closed on his angry orders to come back.
    Upstairs, the door was opened by a black woman in full alpaca uniform, cap, and apron, looking like one of Babe’s colored maids from her early movies. This, I knew, was the famous Sugar May, a kind of benign Louise Beavers who talked darky talk and held the door wide while we trooped in with our deliveries.
    Dore stood in the middle of the room gawking at the decor, and I inquired as to the whereabouts of Sugar May’s mistress.
    “Miss Babe, she at the track,” Sugar May informed me. I asked if I might be permitted to use the telephone. The instrument was pointed out to me, a small room off the hallway, mirrored all to hell, with its own baby chandelier, some framed prints along French lines—lots of lace, garters, fluffy beds, pink tits, and cunning crotches. Pretending to place a call, I afterward made believe I had “Mr. Adonis” on the line.
    “I’m sorry, sir, Miss Austrian is at Hollywood Park but is expected. Shall we wait, sir? Very good, sir, we’ll do that. Miss Austrian’s maid-of-all-work is with us.”
    Sugar May chortled at this, saying, “I is mo’ like the maid of no work round here. Yawl wants coffee while you’s waitin’?”
    Before long Dore and I were sitting in the kitchen, klatsching away with the hired help. Dore was in hog heaven and we were laughing so hard that no one heard the foyer door open.
    “Sugar May? What the hell are these damn boxes doin’ on my rug?”
    Sugar May grimaced at us. “Missus be home early. Yawl best come along.”
    She lumbered out of the kitchen, we following at her heels to face an indignant Missus.
    “These mens done bought you’s stuff,” said Sugar May cheerfully.
    “Stuff? What stuff? And what the hell are they doin’ sittin’ in the kitchen?” Babe demanded.
    “They was havin’ theys coffee while they wuz waitin’,” was Sugar’s truthful reply.
    Before Babe could say anything, I stepped forward. “Hello there,” I began, “remember me?”
    She eyed me closely. “What the hell are you doin’ up here? I thought you were in pictures. You a delivery boy?”
    I explained that I had brought a script from Frankie. “Dore, come say hello to Miss Austrian.” Dore moved slowly and dreamily toward her, mumbling that he was happy to make her acquaintance. Babe shot me a look as if to ask what kind of contraption this was. “Dore’s an impressionist,” I volunteered. “He was anxious to meet you.”
    “Dying,” Dore croaked.
    “Pleased ta meetcha, dear,” she said politely. “Now, get off my porch, will ya, I gotta lie down, my skull’s killin’ me. I lost a bundle.”
    As she started across the room I hurried after her.
    “Dore has a terrific act. He does you. Frank’s seen him. They’d be pleased if you’d come see the show.”
    “Freebies,” Dore added.
    She glared at him, then at me. “Look, sonny, Frank and I don’t agree on a lot of things. And I don’t go out in public, Frank knows that. Leave the script on the desk there. And thanks.”
    She disappeared into the recesses of her bedroom, where I glimpsed a large bed on a dais, upholstered in white satin, with a plumed baldaquin and lots of swagged gauze. When I returned to the living room Dore was still gazing around at the conglomeration of furniture and bibelots. Babe’s taste in furniture and decor was not for everyone; in fact it was for damn few, we had to agree. I settled for placing the envelope in a prominent position in the center of the French bureau plat.
    “What is this stuff?” I asked Dore, never sure of my periods. “Louis the Fifteenth or Louis the Sixteenth?”
    “Louis the Hotel, dear,” came Dore’s reply. He showed his teeth to Sugar May as we exited.