“She’s good,” he said. “She’s good. How you say, very...romancing? Romantic. Very romantic. She make you want to kiss.”
“Don’t let your wife hear you talking like that.”
“Or her uncle, eh?” The swarthy man stood, came up to Tricia, walked in a tight circle around her. “Not much up top,” he said. “But put her in a nice dress, something satin, something bright...it could be okay, could be. Now, the hair...” He touched her hair, ran his thick fingers through it to her scalp. “This is not for Roberto Monge, this, this...plain, brown hair.”
“No,” the other man said. “Honey, you’re gonna have to go blonde, or you know, red, like Erin—”
“Not red,” Roberto said. “Blonde.”
“Alright, blonde,” he said. “You ever been blonde?”
Tricia, who’d spent the last minute mightily resisting the urge to slap Roberto’s hand away, shook her head.
“You know how?”
“I’m sure there are instructions on the bottle,” she said.
The man thumbed the intercom button on his desk. “Erin, I need you to get this girl’s hair bleached.”
Erin’s voice came back in a crackle of static. “What, she can’t do it herself?”
“We need her on stage tomorrow night. We can’t take any chances something goes wrong.”
Erin sighed. “You got it, Billy.”
“Good.” He turned back to Tricia. “Five nights a week, two shows a night, you’ll be backing up Robbie’s orchestra at the Sun. You know the Sun?”
She shook her head.
“See, Robbie? Not everyone knows who you are. Kid: It’s a big nightclub on 49th Street near the river. Lots of swells go there. Broadway stars, Hollywood stars, big shots who want a nice time. They want to see something classy, not your low-down burlesque, you understand?”
She nodded.
“There’ll be at least one or two other girls. You can work out a routine together, whatever Robbie wants. But nothing too sexy. We wouldn’t want the place raided.”
Roberto laughed.
“How much does it pay?” Tricia somehow worked up the nerve to ask.
“Pay?” the man said. “You want to get paid?” Then he chuckled at his little joke and Tricia’s heart started beating again. “Five a night, sister. And you should be glad to get it. It’s only that high because Robbie here’s a generous man.”
“I am glad to get it,” Tricia said. “Believe me. You won’t be sorry, Mister...?”
“Hoffman,” the man said. “Billy Hoffman.”
“Mr. Hoffman. Just one question, if I can, and I’m sorry if it’s a little forward, but—is there any way I can get an advance on the first week’s—”
“An advance?” Hoffman roared. “What do I look like, the Chase Manhattan bank?”
“It’s just that I’m new in the city and don’t have a place to stay...”
Hoffman rolled his eyes. He depressed the intercom button again. “Erin, is there any room at the chateau? For our newest dancer?”
“Am I going to have to cut up her food for her, too?” Erin said.
“Probably.”
“She’s little,” Erin said. “We’ll fit her in somewhere.”
“So,” Tricia asked, stepping out into the main room again, picking up her coat from where she’d left it draped over her bags, “what’s this chateau Mr. Hoffman was talking about?”
“Oh, it’s a gorgeous place,” Erin said, “it’s got fountains out front and big feather beds and a barn where we keep the animals—”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Wyoming, a big barn.” Erin lifted the typewriter case, left the heavier bags for Tricia to carry. “You’ll feel right at home.”
“Is it far?”
“Not too far.”
“Because I don’t have the money for a cab ride, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Erin said, “we’re going to walk.”
Tricia’s face fell. “I don’t know if I can make it.”
“You’ll make it.” Erin held the front door open for her and followed her out into the corridor. Tricia started trudging in the direction of the elevator.
“Wrong way, kid. Come back.”
Tricia looked around. What other way was there? But Erin was waiting, fists on her hips, tapping one foot against the threadbare carpet. So she came back.
Erin turned one of her hands palm-up and aimed it across the hall at one of the doors with no gilt lettering, just the number ‘316’ painted on it. A light was on behind the glass, though not a very bright one, and now that she listened for it Tricia could hear some voices inside and a brief, high-pitched bray of laughter.
Erin knocked on the glass and a moment later the door swung inwards. A girl stood behind it in a half-slip and stockings, her hair up in curlers. She had one arm crossed over her breasts but let it drop when she saw there were only women there. She left the door standing open and padded back toward a cot in the corner where, Tricia saw, another girl was seated, painting polish on her toenails.
“Welcome to our chateau, kid,” Erin said. “The modest one’s Annabelle. She’s a sweetheart. And Diane,” she said, pointing at the girl doing her nails, “and Irene, and Lotty, and Rita.” She pointed out the other girls as she ushered Tricia through the door. The office they stepped into was huge, obviously having been created by knocking down the walls between three or four smaller offices. There were standing floor screens here and there to divide the room up, but they didn’t do much—a dozen army cots were ranked barracks-style in two uneven rows, and from where Tricia and Erin stood you could see most of the occupants, sitting on the cots or lying down or pacing having a smoke. The girls waved as Erin introduced them.
“There’s Cristina—” a young Spanish girl looked up “—and Stella—” a brunette in men’s pajamas nodded at them from the makeup table where she was covering a bruise on the side of her face with foundation “—and Marlene—” a dour-looking teenager raised one hand to her forehead in a sort of salute “—and, um, and...” Erin snapped her fingers twice, trying to remember the last girl’s name.
“Joyce,” the girl said, coming forward. She was almost six feet tall barefoot and had golden hair that poured halfway down her back. She was smoking a Pall Mall and held the pack out to Erin, who took one. “Who’s this?”
“She calls herself Trixie,” Erin said. “She’s a dancer. She’ll be staying with us a little while, so you girls make her feel welcome.”
Joyce extended the cigarette pack in Tricia’s direction. Tricia had to crane to look her in the face. “No thank you,” she said. “I don’t smoke.” The pack hung there. “Thank you, though. Really. I appreciate it.”
“A dancer, huh? Well, Trixie, the rest of us here are just models, so you’ll be queen of the roost in no time.”
“Oh, I don’t think...”
“So, Trixie, you don’t smoke, let’s see...do you drink?”
Tricia shook her head no. “Not much. We had wine sometimes back home.”
“Wine sometimes. That’s pretty daring.” Joyce reached out and stroked one finger along Tricia’s cheek. “Is there anything else you don’t do?”
“All right,” Erin said, plucking Joyce’s hand away, “leave the kid alone. She doesn’t need you teaching her the feminine arts.”
“Why, Erin,” Joyce said, with a little drawl creeping into her voice, “I didn’t realize. If I’d known you already had your hand in the honeypot I’d never have laid a finger on the child.”
Erin took Tricia by the elbow, steered her to an empty cot. “Don’t worry about Joyce. She’s all talk. She’s just glad she’s not the new girl anymore.”
“I heard that,” Joyce called after them.
“Good,” Erin called back. “Now, drop those bags and let’s take care of your hair. You’ve really never had a dye job, a bleach job, anything?” Tricia shook her head. “That’s okay, it’s easy. You’ll see. I’ve done it lots of times. I wasn’t born this way.” She primped her copper-colored hair, let it fall. “Hey, Rita, you still got that L’Oréal stuff your sister sent you?”