About this time the lights dimmed and Margrita came on. She was a tall blonde with a full figure, and a passable voice. She wore a transparent skirt that clouded up near her waist. As she moved about, you saw two shapely legs, and if you were lucky, the solid curve of her hips and... well, I guess she wore a G-string or something.
Some ten months before, Margrita had been merely another singer, with a bit role in a TV musical, one of those heavy-costume jobs. She'd be still playing bit parts if she hadn't tripped over a power cable, landing flat on her back —exposing a pair of lovely legs in close-up to thousands of living-rooms and bars. You remember the hassle this caused, the TV program apologizing all over the screen, then the flood of letters and calls, demanding to see more, saying there was no need to apologize for legs like those. Overnight the big blonde guest-starred on several programs, packed them in at a Broadway theatre, was in every column. She had a smart publicity agent, was exploited to the hilt—I remember one front-page picture of her in a museum, raising her skirts to compare her gams with a famous statue. Within two months she had her own TV show, was said to be raking in the folding money.
Her legs were something: not the thin stems most show girls have, rather they were heavy and strong, her thighs a lush curve of real muscle. I was embarrassed, for watching her sent a warm wave of excitement crawling over me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, like a fresh kid. Considering the energy I'd spent with Louise that morning, nothing should make me get up steam for days.
When she finished her act, I gulped my drink, asked where I'd find the manager. The barkeep's eyes got a little troubled till I said, “Want to see him about some insurance business.”
Via the head waiter and a lantern-jawed bouncer who had a neck thicker than Margrita's thigh, I finally made the manager's office. Flashing my tin, I told him about the estate, that I wanted to see Margrita about locating a former roommate of hers.
He was a sharp-faced guy with tired, suspicious eyes. Calling her on the house phone he said, “Miss de Mayo, there's a private dick claims he wants to see you about an estate. Expecting any process servers?... Certainly.” He looked up at me. “She's too busy to see you and...”
“Tell her it's about Marion Lodge,” I shouted at the receiver.
He was about to hang up but we all heard her say, “Wait—I want to see him.”
A waiter took me to her dressing-room. We walked through a cramped kitchen and sweating cooks and pearl divers—all in sharp contrast to the lush atmosphere of the club.
Although she was a big-name star, Margrita's room had barely enough space for a dressing-table, a closet, and a single chair. She was seated at the table, combing her long honey-blonde hair. “Make it fast, I have to change for my next number,” she said, looking me over in the mirror.
I dislike all six-footers on sight, but she was six feet of lovely stuff that I could sure go for. The tiny room was hot and she was sweating a little, a warm sultry smell. I told her about Marion Lodge, and still talking into the mirror she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Dizzy kid, bitten by the stage bug. You know, yokel girl coming to storm Broadway. Last I heard of her she was marrying some rich old character out West.”
“Know his name, the city?”
She was brushing her hair—her hands up—and she shrugged and it was simply unbelievable she was that well stacked—that it was all real. “No. That was nearly a year ago.”
“Remember who you heard this from? Anybody else know her?”
“I just heard it—someplace. And we only shared that flat for a short time—didn't know her well. You say this uncle left her a farm?”
“Not much of a farm. Tell me, I've traced her through several cheap rooming houses, then she suddenly blossoms out in this expensive set-up. She suddenly lands a good job?”
Margrita said, “Sure, dumb country kids always land a 'good' job! She had a second-hand mink, several high-priced gowns, and no visible means of support What does that make in your book?”
“Call girl? That when she became Mary Long?”
Margrita shrugged again and all she was wearing was this thin blouse and that transparent skirt, and she was so big, had so much of everything, it was overpowering. I told her, “Please, cut it out.”
She finally turned, stared directly at me. “Cut what out?”
“Honey, I'll be the first to admit you pack a lot of high-powered sex. Now stop teasing me into making a pass so you can have me thrown out on...”
“You louse!” she snapped, jumping to her feet, standing like a monument to desire. “You little miserable bastard of a man!”
I didn't stand up—I would have looked ridiculous, not even reaching her shoulders. I said softly, “Relax, Miss de Mayo. Wouldn't mind tangling with you, but at the moment I'm only trying to locate Marion Lodge, help her get some dough. So the poor kid went all the way down the road, selling herself for...”
“Save your tears, you'd stand in line too. Oh, sure she was a sucker! Broadway seemed something clean and high, beautiful and exciting... only she found it was raw and filthy, heartless, and so... so... terribly lonely!”
I clapped my hands lightly. “When you get too old for the stage, you can always write a sob column.”
Margrita's full lips sneered at me, “Mac, when I get old I'll have this racket licked, spend all my time reading the most interesting book in the world—my bankbook!”
“Let's get back to Marion Lodge. Does she ever write you? She must have mentioned the city she was moving to? Must have...?”
“Told you I haven't heard from her in a year. Besides, she was doing okay, this two-bit farm wouldn't mean a thing to her.”
I got up. Even standing on my toes I wouldn't be level with her eyes. “Okay, Miss de Mayo, sorry to have bothered you. Have to report Marion Lodge's last-known occupation—whoring, end of the trail. Or would you say, Another innocent little moth was burnt by the Great White Way, seduced by the greatest whore of them all—ambition?”
Her lips quivered for a moment, then she said harshly, “Wise little pimp, aren't you. Say what you like. I have to change now.” She fiddled with some buttons on the back of her blouse and her “dress” suddenly dropped to her feet. I was wrong, she wasn't wearing a G-string, she was stark naked.
She turned, picked up some cold cream from the dressing-table, began to rub her face—as though I wasn't there, but watching me in the mirror. There wasn't any point in my saying a word—everything I wanted to say she could see too plainly in my eyes. One crack from me and the jar of cold cream would be bouncing off my face.
I walked out There was something screwy about her, and dangerous, that I didn't try to understand. Or maybe it was all in my mind, angry at her height, at her teasing me. I stood in the narrow hallway outside her door for a moment. I thought I heard her crying.
“What you doing, short-ass?”
The voice was deep and suave; I looked up to see “Cat” Franklin standing in the kitchen a few feet from me.
“I'm listening at the keyhole, what the hell did you think I was doing?” I snapped, walking past him, ready to knee him if he tried to stop me.
He merely stepped aside, smiling down at me.
11
The two-block walk to my car cooled me off somewhat. And driving back to the boat I tried to figure out exactly what I was angry about. I'd talked less than ten minutes to Margrita, it was the only time I'd ever spoken to her, yet I felt as steamed as if I was an old boyfriend she was handing the brush. It didn't make sense.
Pete took me out to my boat and I undressed. It was too warm for pajamas, so I climbed into my bunk, snapped the lights off. From a nearby express cruiser I heard dance music, sounds of several women and men laughing. My own boat was rocking gently and I kept thinking of Margrita and Louise, how the relationship between a man and a woman should be so simple, and always ended up so damn complex, full of knots. Maybe it was a reflection of our world, where even the relationships between nations were all screwed up.