“What’s your favorite dessert?”
“Oh… banana split, I guess. Maybe cheesecake.”
“They’ve got both at Lindy’s. What do you say?”
Eventually, she said yes; and when-just after eleven-she met me in the Morrison’s plush, high-ceilinged lobby, I did a double-take: this lowly waitress was wearing a smart black dress with a pattern of pink roses on the bodice and a leopard fur coat and hat, plus dark nylons and black clutch purse. This was what she’d worn to work?
Maybe her regal, refined manner hadn’t been a put-on.
I offered her my arm and she beamed at me-God, she was stunning… Jesus, she looked like Peggy-and ushered her out into the nippy fall night. She shivered, snuggled close, and covered a cough, so I decided to flag a Checker cab and spare her the walk over to Lindy’s, on West Randolph. Also, I wanted to impress this classy little dame, which I think I did.
We sat in one of the booths under the mezzanine and had a banana split-we shared it, at her insistence-and those blue-green eyes, seeming more blue than green now, were wide with the celebrities and near celebrities frequenting the theatrical restaurant. At a neighboring booth, Eddie Cantor and Georgie Jessel were deep in some noncomical conference over chop suey and cigars; Martha Raye, a frequent Chicago nightclub attraction, was having cocktails with that young singer, Dean Martin; and at a table in the bar, that genial tank of a woman, Sophie Tucker, loud and laughing, was holding court with a trio of fawning young men, eager to light her latest cigarette or fetch her a fresh drink.
Beth hadn’t wanted a drink: her lips touched neither liquor nor tobacco, she informed me rather proudly. She felt both activities were unladylike and “could make a girl look hard before her time.”
She had no such reservations about banana splits, however, and admitted to being “addicted to ice cream,” though her slender if busty figure didn’t betray that.
Already I was mildly smitten with this girl who so resembled Peggy. Dipping my spoon into her dish, sharing the sundae with her, was at once innocent and sensual.
“Am I the only one here impressed by all these famous people?” she asked, as she sipped tea and I stirred cream and sugar into my coffee, our empty sundae dish cleared away. “Nobody’s asking them for autographs, or even looking at them…”
I shrugged. “That would be gauche. You can see celebrities and would-be celebrities in here any time of day and night, show-biz types and newspapermen and big-time politicians… Joint never closes.”
She made a cute face. Those luscious full red lips in the Kabuki mask of her face were startling-would even have been clownish, if she weren’t so beautiful. “I guess I don’t know much about Chicago.”
“Your first time here?”
“I stopped over, a few times before. This is the first I’ve stayed for any real length of time. I came because I had an opportunity to do some modeling.”
“Not surprising, with your looks and grace. What kind?”
“For newspaper ads-hats, gloves, coats.”
I sipped my coffee. “With what agency?”
“Sawyer Agency.”
“ Duffy Sawyer?”
She nodded, seeming vaguely embarrassed.
“Let me guess why you quit-Duffy expected you to entertain his male clients.”
With a tiny humorless smirk, she said, “He put me up in a hotel-the Croyden-and had me go to dinner with him and various… business prospects. He said he wanted me to ‘lay the charm’ on these businessmen.”
Emphasis on “lay,” I thought.
She was saying, “It wasn’t so bad, at first; we went to a lot of hep jazz clubs. But, uh… Duffy got mad at me, because-”
“You weren’t charming enough.”
“Something like that. So I quit, and moved out of the Croyden-I’m bunking in with some girls at the St. Clair Hotel… know where that is?”
“Sure.” It was over on East Ohio; both hotels she’d mentioned were home to a good share of showgirls and models. “You still interested in modeling?”
“Oh yes-legitimate modeling, and acting. I sing, too.”
“Well, honey, Chicago isn’t what it used to be. Vaudeville’s dead, most of the radio shows have moved east or west, and not much national advertising’s done here, anymore.”
“I can also dance.”
I smiled, shook my head. “Afraid there’s only one chorus line in town, and that’s the Chez Paree-measly six girls, and those positions are golden. Oh, sometimes the Palmer House and the Sherman put on productions, but… pretty slim pickings, unless you’re willing to work burlesque.”
“Stripteasing.”
“Yeah. Lots of that in this burg… but I don’t think you’d like that any better than dispensing ‘charm’ to businessmen.”
The aquamarines widened. “You are so right… though I do have the figure for it, don’t you think?”
“No argument there, and I’m not judgmental about the profession. Some of my best friends are strippers.”
That news didn’t seem to put her off. “Well, anyway, I’d never stoop to… stripping.”
“Good. It’s a hard life-and if you aren’t Sally Rand or Gypsy Rose Lee or Ann Corio, you’re lucky to make fifty bucks a week.”
“I’m better off waiting tables.”
“Yeah, and it’s warmer.”
She lifted her chin as if offended-but maybe kidding on the square. “Is that what you think I should stick to? Waiting tables?”
“Hey, I’m not trying to discourage you-that’s just the reality of it. Tough as that town is, Hollywood’s a better bet for you.”
She nodded, saying, “I’ve been there-several times.”
“Any luck?”
“I’ve done some extra work, and a little radio.”
“It’s a start.” I waved a waitress over for more tea and coffee. “Look, there is some modeling to be had in Chicago-I know people at the agencies. Plenty of local advertising, and the big mail-order companies do their catalogue work here…”
“I might take you up on that. But I probably will head back to Southern Cal. I only came to Chicago for the modeling job, and…”
“And what?”
She shrugged. “A serviceman I know had a stopover scheduled here. An Army Air Corps lieutenant.”
“Boy friend?”
“Nothing serious. I met him last year, at the Hollywood Canteen. I was a junior hostess, there. Met a lot of stars-Franchot Tone, Arthur Lake, all kinds of celebrities.”
“What about that Air Corps lieutenant?”
“What about him?”
“If you and he weren’t serious, why did you come to Chicago to see him?”
Another shrug. “Like I said, I came for the modeling job, and just took the opportunity to connect with Gordon again. I’d been writing him letters… I have a lot of servicemen friends. I write to several, I like to build their morale…”
“Sure. Guys you met at the Hollywood Canteen.”
Was that her story? I wondered. Was she one of those “Victory Girls,” who had a thing for servicemen?
“Yes,” she said, as if answering my unspoken question. “I’ve kind of bounced around back and forth from Florida to California, and I met quite a few nice boys both places.”
“California to Florida is quite a commute. Where are you from?”
She sipped her tea, looking out at the Lindy’s clientele, probably seeking celebrity faces. “I’m not really from anywhere.”
“Everybody’s from somewhere. I’d almost swear I heard a little New England in your voice… Or maybe I’m imagining that, ’cause we met at the Boston Oyster House.”
She laughed lightly; I had her attention again. “You are a detective… I grew up in Medford, Massachusetts. But I never really felt like I lived there.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, exactly. For a long time, even in high school days, I wintered someplace warm, because of my health-asthma…”
That explained the cough.
“… and maybe that’s why I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, except maybe-don’t laugh-Hollywood.”
“I’m not laughing, Beth. You look like a movie star.”
Beaming, she said, “Everybody says I look like-”