girls liked that.
He’d have never got stuck here, in this rut, in this glorified joint, backing up this two-bit torch singer Breathless Mahoney, if something unlikely hadn’t occurred: he’d fallen for her.
And Breathless liked him, too, or at least so it seemed; she showed him little of the arrogance or the willfulness she’d displayed to Lips Manlis. Her soft flesh was compliant under his touch, reflecting anything but the boredom she flaunted at other men in the same way she flaunted her beauty, her body.
To Lips Manlis, 88 had merely been the “funny boy” who drove Breathless around, who shopped with her, went to The Russian Tea Room with her, escorted her to the theater. It had been an easy deception, but no less dangerous for that.
He was sure part of what attracted him to her was the danger. Love was like a knife: useless if it was dull, at its best when it had a sharp edge.
88 was a natty dresser, but tonight his suitcoat was off and so was his tie. It was the middle of the night and he’d been banging at the keys since the first show at seven that evening. On the stage, just a step up off the dance floor, a troupe of chorus girls—most of whom he knew intimately, if not well—were sagging in their rehearsal clothes. Their makeup was streaking, their hairdos coming undone.
It was all because the new boss—Al “Big Boy” Caprice—had arrived around eleven, politely announced to the patrons that the Club Ritz was under new management and temporarily closed—and promptly cleared the joint out! Shortly thereafter, the new boss had begun rehearsing the girls, personally.
And whenever the club’s musical director—88 himself—made a suggestion, Big Boy snarled at him to shut up.
It had begun with Big Boy’s brilliant notion to do a “real peppy version of ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime.’ ”
88 had tried to explain that the tune would not work effectively up-tempo, and that the patrons might consider a cheerful rendering of that particular dirge in bad taste.
“ Your taste is in your mouth!” Big Boy had told him.
“Thank you very much,” he’d said.
Big Boy had then turned to the girls and, flicking ashes from his enormous cigar onto the shining dance floor, said, “You girls will come out dressed like bums, like tramps, and then you sing a little, and then strings offstage’ll yank the raggedy clothes offa you . . . they’ll be these, like what you-call-it, breakneck garments.”
“Breakaway,” 88 corrected.
“Shut-up!” Big Boy had said. “Anyway, under the rags you’ll have a lot of skin and not much else. Then it’ll rain balloons and confetti and everything. It’ll be classy as all get-out.”
Big Boy had directed 88 to play a “real peppy version” of the song, and 88 had done so . . . dozens upon dozens of times. They had alternated this exercise with rehearsing an equally peppy number called “More,” an up-tempo ode to greed, which seemed fitting to 88, considering the nature of his new employer.
Big Boy, oddly enough, had a sort of childish energy; he got in the midst of the girls and demonstrated steps and kicks, his arms around the girls, getting real chummy. At first the girls, despite the late hour, were kind of charmed by their new boss and his larger-than-life presence and quaintly cornball notions. But when any chorine failed to kick at exactly the right moment, or precisely the right height, he would shout obscenities at her. He’d slapped a couple of the girls, as the night wore on.
“You’re gonna do it till you do it right,” he told them. “When people come here, they’re gonna get something classy, something perfect. They’re gonna think they’re in a lousy palace. And they’re gonna know who’s king of this town.”
Big Boy had just stepped out momentarily, when Breathless drifted in, in white slacks and matching halter top, trimmed in gold sequins. She strode across the dance floor, jiggling the goods, but without any her of
He’d have never got stuck here, in this rut, in this glorified joint, backing up this two-bit torch singer Breathless Mahoney, if something unlikely hadn’t occurred: he’d fallen for her.
And Breathless liked him, too, or at least so it seemed; she showed him little of the arrogance or the willfulness she’d displayed to Lips Manlis. Her soft flesh was compliant under his touch, reflecting anything but the boredom she flaunted at other men in the same way she flaunted her beauty, her body.
To Lips Manlis, 88 had merely been the “funny boy” who drove Breathless around, who shopped with her, went to The Russian Tea Room with her, escorted her to the theater. It had been an easy deception, but no less dangerous for that.
He was sure part of what attracted him to her was the danger. Love was like a knife: useless if it was dull, at its best when it had a sharp edge.
88 was a natty dresser, but tonight his suitcoat was off and so was his tie. It was the middle of the night and he’d been banging at the keys since the first show at seven that evening. On the stage, just a step up off the dance floor, a troupe of chorus girls—most of whom he knew intimately, if not well—were sagging in their rehearsal clothes. Their makeup was streaking, their hairdos coming undone.
It was all because the new boss—Al “Big Boy” Caprice—had arrived around eleven, politely announced to the patrons that the Club Ritz was under new management and temporarily closed—and promptly cleared the joint out! Shortly thereafter, the new boss had begun rehearsing the girls, personally.
And whenever the club’s musical director—88 himself—made a suggestion, Big Boy snarled at him to shut up.
It had begun with Big Boy’s brilliant notion to do a “real peppy version of ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime.’ ”
88 had tried to explain that the tune would not work effectively up-tempo, and that the patrons might consider a cheerful rendering of that particular dirge in bad taste.
“ Your taste is in your mouth!” Big Boy had told him.
“Thank you very much,” he’d said.
Big Boy had then turned to the girls and, flicking ashes from his enormous cigar onto the shining dance floor, said, “You girls will come out dressed like bums, like tramps, and then you sing a little, and then strings offstage’ll yank the raggedy clothes offa you . . . they’ll be these, like what you-call-it, breakneck garments.”
“Breakaway,” 88 corrected.
“Shut-up!” Big Boy had said. “Anyway, under the rags you’ll have a lot of skin and not much else. Then it’ll rain balloons and confetti and everything. It’ll be classy as all get-out.”
Big Boy had directed 88 to play a “real peppy version” of the song, and 88 had done so . . . dozens upon dozens of times. They had alternated this exercise with rehearsing an equally peppy number called “More,” an up-tempo ode to greed, which seemed fitting to 88, considering the nature of his new employer.
Big Boy, oddly enough, had a sort of childish energy; he got in the midst of the girls and demonstrated steps and kicks, his arms around the girls, getting real chummy. At first the girls, despite the late hour, were kind of charmed by their new boss and his larger-than-life presence and quaintly cornball notions. But when any chorine failed to kick at exactly the right moment, or precisely the right height, he would shout obscenities at her. He’d slapped a couple of the girls, as the night wore on.
“You’re gonna do it till you do it right,” he told them. “When people come here, they’re gonna get something classy, something perfect. They’re gonna think they’re in a lousy palace. And they’re gonna know who’s king of this town.”
Big Boy had just stepped out momentarily, when Breathless drifted in, in white slacks and matching halter top, trimmed in gold sequins. She strode across the dance floor, jiggling the goods, but without any her of
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