usual studied seductiveness. She was irritated. As opposed to annoyed, which was her natural state.
88 began to play, “If There Is Someone Lovelier Than You,” and it softened her as she reached the piano, and leaned against it.
She glanced with ironic disgust at the exhausted chorines who were leaning against each other, or the back stage-wall, or sitting like Indians. Some were grabbing smokes. They looked as feminine as a baseball team.
He broke back into “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” and the girls made faces.
“You still floggin’ that dead horse?” Breathless said to 88. “You been on that all night!”
“Yowsah,” 88 said, and went back to noodling the ballad. “You missed the part where he had ’em lay down on the stage to make patterns, like he saw in the movies. I tried to explain it was a different medium, but His Eminence didn’t see it that way.”
“Next week, ‘On a Waterfall,’ ” she leered, and shook her head, and sighed, still leaning against the piano; she looked tired, but on her, tired looked great. What a gal, he thought. He began playing “On a Waterfall.”
“Cig me,” she said.
He kept playing the left-hand vamp, but with his right took his deck of cigarettes from off the piano and shook a smoke toward her. She plucked it out with her lips.
“Light me,” she said.
He did, using a monogrammed lighter the wife of a theater owner in Cedar Rapids gave him last year.
“It’s enough to make me long for that loser Lips,” she said, and took a deep drag on the cigarette.
“Lips was a beast,” 88 agreed, easing into ‘Cocktails for Two.’ “But this clown is the missing link.”
She laughed; it was low and sultry. “Where is slopehead about now?”
“Outside.” 88 smirked, his cigarette drooping as ever downward, and began playing “I Get a Kick Out of You.” He said, “He painted himself a ‘Reopening Soon’ sign and he took it out to the doorman. He’s encouraged he can whip this sorry bunch of showgirls into shape in a day or two.”
Her blue eyes were at once sleepy and alert. “I bet you’d like to blow this dump.”
“Baby, we could go out on the road as a duo and make some real dough.”
She shook her head no. “Without a hit platter, we’d make chickenfeed. Trust me. We can make a killing here. Big Boy may be a repellent human being, but he has an infinitely greater capacity for the acquisition of power than the late Lips. The money is going to start rolling in soon.”
“For him.”
She gave him a wicked smile that was mostly her upper lip. She blew out blue smoke. “We’ll find a way to get our share. More than our share.”
He studied her. “You sure of that, baby?”
“Sure I’m sure. Enough to go away and find that desert island, lover.”
He began to play “Blue Moon.” She sang along, softly, in a wispy voice. Then she made up a few lyrics: “Big Goon—why don’t you leave me alone, biggest creep that I’ve known . . .”
That’s as far as she got when 88’s laughter became infectious and got her laughing, too. He stopped playing, she stopped singing, and they laughed till they cried. Neither of them saw Big Boy coming.
The gangster hadn’t heard the little song Breathless was singing, but the laughter apparently rubbed him the wrong way, anyway, because with a swift move—incredibly swift for a man of his girth—Big Boy slammed the piano lid down on the fingers of 88’s right hand, which had been resting on the keys, unsuspecting.
The pain was as excruciating as it was sudden.
From above the knuckles, where the lid had come down, his fingers went white and began to throb and swell as he massaged them.
“That was stupid!” Breathless said. “He’s the top piano man in town.”
“I don’t like people laughin’ at me,” Big Boy said, factually, not defensively.
“He wasn’t laughing at you!”
Big Boy slapped her.
Not a vicious slap—just hard enough to express displeasure, and ownership.
88 began to play, “If There Is Someone Lovelier Than You,” and it softened her as she reached the piano, and leaned against it.
She glanced with ironic disgust at the exhausted chorines who were leaning against each other, or the back stage-wall, or sitting like Indians. Some were grabbing smokes. They looked as feminine as a baseball team.
He broke back into “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” and the girls made faces.
“You still floggin’ that dead horse?” Breathless said to 88. “You been on that all night!”
“Yowsah,” 88 said, and went back to noodling the ballad. “You missed the part where he had ’em lay down on the stage to make patterns, like he saw in the movies. I tried to explain it was a different medium, but His Eminence didn’t see it that way.”
“Next week, ‘On a Waterfall,’ ” she leered, and shook her head, and sighed, still leaning against the piano; she looked tired, but on her, tired looked great. What a gal, he thought. He began playing “On a Waterfall.”
“Cig me,” she said.
He kept playing the left-hand vamp, but with his right took his deck of cigarettes from off the piano and shook a smoke toward her. She plucked it out with her lips.
“Light me,” she said.
He did, using a monogrammed lighter the wife of a theater owner in Cedar Rapids gave him last year.
“It’s enough to make me long for that loser Lips,” she said, and took a deep drag on the cigarette.
“Lips was a beast,” 88 agreed, easing into ‘Cocktails for Two.’ “But this clown is the missing link.”
She laughed; it was low and sultry. “Where is slopehead about now?”
“Outside.” 88 smirked, his cigarette drooping as ever downward, and began playing “I Get a Kick Out of You.” He said, “He painted himself a ‘Reopening Soon’ sign and he took it out to the doorman. He’s encouraged he can whip this sorry bunch of showgirls into shape in a day or two.”
Her blue eyes were at once sleepy and alert. “I bet you’d like to blow this dump.”
“Baby, we could go out on the road as a duo and make some real dough.”
She shook her head no. “Without a hit platter, we’d make chickenfeed. Trust me. We can make a killing here. Big Boy may be a repellent human being, but he has an infinitely greater capacity for the acquisition of power than the late Lips. The money is going to start rolling in soon.”
“For him.”
She gave him a wicked smile that was mostly her upper lip. She blew out blue smoke. “We’ll find a way to get our share. More than our share.”
He studied her. “You sure of that, baby?”
“Sure I’m sure. Enough to go away and find that desert island, lover.”
He began to play “Blue Moon.” She sang along, softly, in a wispy voice. Then she made up a few lyrics: “Big Goon—why don’t you leave me alone, biggest creep that I’ve known . . .”
That’s as far as she got when 88’s laughter became infectious and got her laughing, too. He stopped playing, she stopped singing, and they laughed till they cried. Neither of them saw Big Boy coming.
The gangster hadn’t heard the little song Breathless was singing, but the laughter apparently rubbed him the wrong way, anyway, because with a swift move—incredibly swift for a man of his girth—Big Boy slammed the piano lid down on the fingers of 88’s right hand, which had been resting on the keys, unsuspecting.
The pain was as excruciating as it was sudden.
From above the knuckles, where the lid had come down, his fingers went white and began to throb and swell as he massaged them.
“That was stupid!” Breathless said. “He’s the top piano man in town.”
“I don’t like people laughin’ at me,” Big Boy said, factually, not defensively.
“He wasn’t laughing at you!”
Big Boy slapped her.
Not a vicious slap—just hard enough to express displeasure, and ownership.
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