The management was extremely careful about the list of patrons who were permitted to pass through the door marked PRIVATE in the rear of the hat-check room, climb the flight of stairs to the rooms where the whir of the roulette wheel mingled with the hum of well-modulated conversation.
On the lower floor the management encouraged laughter and drinking. On the upper floor, all this was changed. The management let it be known that it much preferred to have the patrons of the tables in formal evening attire. Everywhere the subtle suggestion of quiet refinement was impressed upon those who wooed the Goddess of Fortune. Thick carpets muffled the sound of footfalls. Heavy drapes, subdued indirect lighting, and a drawing-room atmosphere of sumptuous richness encouraged well-bred quiet.
A man who has lost more than he can afford in a place where alcoholic beverages flow freely and there is boisterous excitement, is quite apt to make what is known, in the parlance of the game, as a “beef.” A man who feels just a little out of his element, who is forced to don formal attire, who is surrounded by external evidences of wealth, will be inclined to accept his losses with dignity and make a quiet exit. Not until he has divested himself of his formal attire, and seen his environment in the pitiless glare of daylight, will remorse and self-condemnation make him realize that a loss is a loss. Then he is quite apt to realize that taking losses “like a gentleman” is a racket fostered by those who profit — but by then it is too late.
Esther Dilmeyer didn’t understand the full significance of the psychology, but she knew enough to realize that when she was called on to perform in the nightclub as a part of the floorshow or to pinch-hit for some entertainer who hadn’t shown up, she was expected to sway her body in syncopated rhythm, to make a direct personal appeal to the audience, get them out of themselves and “in the mood.”
On those occasions when she moved among the tables on the upper floor, she comported herself in the dignified manner of a lady. Here there was no loud laughter, no swaying of the shoulders, no swinging of the hips.
As a rule, women regarded Esther Dilmeyer with cool suspicion. Men could always be counted on to give her a second look, to make a play for her whenever she gave them the least encouragement. Esther understood men with the familiarity which engendered contempt. She realized that she knew women hardly at all.
Esther Dilmeyer, her thoughts carefully masked, sat at a table alone, toying with a glass which contained ginger ale and charged water, designed to make it appear to the uninitiated as a champagne cocktail. Habit twisted her lips into a mechanical half smile. At sharp variance with the implied invitation of her attractive appearance was her mood of black depression.
How many hours had she sat like this waiting for suckers? Always it was the same story. Men would drift past. Those who were with their wives would look at her enviously, make a mental resolution to come back some other night when they were alone. Men who were unescorted would try any one of the five standard brands of pick-up technique which Esther had learned to know and to classify just as a chess player can tell what opening his opponent is going to use as soon as the first pawn is advanced on the board.
Well, she thought, it served her right. She could have made something of her life. Instead, she’d dropped into this, capitalizing on her appearance, on her youth. Men fell for her. She let them buy her drinks. If they were interested only in pawing, she would casually look at her watch, mention that her husband would join her in ten or fifteen minutes; or tip a wink to one of the waiters, and be summoned to the telephone, returning after a few minutes with the same message.
If the men had money to spend, she encouraged them to spend it, and if they seemed to be just the proper type, she would make tentative references to the activities which went on upstairs. If the man still seemed interested, she arranged for a card and would escort him up to the roulette table.
The croupiers could place a man in the first few plays; the plunger, the cautious man, the tightwad, the seasoned gambler, and, occasionally, best of all, the man who hated to lose, who would figure that the game owed him money after the few losses.
There was a code system of signals between Esther Dilmeyer and the croupier. If the sheep had lots of wool to be cut, she stayed around and supervised the shearing. Otherwise, she would drift back to the nightclub, looking for more prospects.
She looked up as Mildreth Faulkner approached her table.
Mildreth met her eyes and smiled.
Esther Dilmeyer braced herself. Did this have to come now on top of everything else? Probably some woman whose husband had broken down and told about meeting the blonde at the nightclub, the visit upstairs to the gambling place, the resulting loss of money. She hated men like that, men who were eager for adventure, then ran whimpering home, who confessed with a great show of repentance, shed crocodile tears, berated themselves — and who promptly repeated the experience at the first available opportunity.
Mildreth pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hello,” she said.
One of the waiters hovered cautiously in the distance, waiting for a signal from Esther Dilmeyer. The place didn’t encourage scenes.
“Good evening,” Esther Dilmeyer said with chilling formality.
Mildreth sighed. “I saw you sitting here alone,” she said, “and I’m alone. What’s more, I’m lonely, and I’m completely, absolutely, and entirely washed up with men. I sat down and tried a cocktail, and three men smirked at me before I’d finished. How about letting me buy you a drink, and then I’ll go?”
Esther Dilmeyer felt a surge of relief. It wasn’t a beef then after all. She beckoned to the waiter.
“Another champagne cocktail?” Mildreth asked.
The blonde nodded.
“Make it two,” Mildreth said.
“Take this one away,” Esther told the waiter. “It’s stale,” and with a laugh at Mildreth, “I was brooding too much to drink, I guess.”
It was a situation which called for a little tact. Esther couldn’t make any profitable connections sitting there with Mildreth Faulkner at her table. On the other hand, there was no harm in letting Mildreth buy one drink.
Esther looked at her watch. “My boy friend,” she said, “is late.”
“Oh, you have a date. I should have known it. Well, I won’t detain you.”
“It’s all right. Sit down. We’ve loads of time for that drink. He keeps me waiting lots of times... damn him!”
Mildreth said, “Haven’t I met you somewhere before? Your face is familiar.”
Esther Dilmeyer shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember you.”
“I saw you somewhere... Oh, wait a minute. Weren’t you in an automobile accident, a Buick sedan? Yes, you were. I remember now. I remember seeing you in the car.”
“Did you see that smash?”
“Yes. I was walking along the street. If your boy friend was the one who was driving that car, he’s worth waiting for.”
“Him?” Esther Dilmeyer asked contemptuously. “He’s good looking, but he’s a sap. The other one was my boy friend. His name’s Sindler. He certainly is good looking, and he knows it, damn him. What do you do, or is it any of my business?”
“Oh, I have a little business of my own, running some stores. I have three of them.”
Esther Dilmeyer said wistfully, “God, it must be nice to be in business for yourself and be independent. If I’d started in working and got some real business experience, I might have had something to look forward to instead of this racket.”
“Racket?” Mildreth asked.
“I’m a hostess.”
“Oh, I see.”
“No, you don’t. You couldn’t unless you’d tried it. It’s a lousy business.”
“Why don’t you leave it and get into something else?”