But Miss Rand was a star, now (she’d made a movie in Hollywood with George Raft, since her success here last summer), and she had her own revue in the Café de la Paix, with dancing girls and the works. She had a matinee coming up in half an hour, so I went in and dropped her name and a tuxedoed waiter whose French extended to, “This way, mon sewer,” sat me at a postage-stamp table, near ringside.
The place was nearly full, couples mostly, the men trying to hide anticipatory smiles, the women pretending to be embarrassed, when irritated (if curious) was more like it. Meanwhile, overhead fans kept the place cool — overhead fans and beer.
The show took place on the dance floor, behind which the tuxedoed orchestra was seated in tiers on a stage; there was no seating to the right or left of the polished floor, which extended to draped areas on either side. I was halfway into a second beer when the orchestra began playing something vaguely Parisian and the lights dimmed and the dance floor filled up with blond show girls in filmy dresses, moving around trailing gauzy cloth like untalented but well-endowed Isadora Duncans.
After a while the show girls went away, the lighting went blue, and Sally came gliding on, in a clinging white gown, long blond tresses swaying, accompanied by her big bubble, which she guided, though it seemed to have a mind of its own. The orchestra, who kept their eyes on their music despite the rear view they were getting, played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, while the gown seemed to accidentally slip, and expose a breast. Then it slipped again, and pretty soon it slipped entirely. This was seen in gratefully accepted glimpses, as she moved behind and to either side of the bubble as she bounced and directed it, but as the orchestra eased into a Brahms waltz, the glimpses became more generous, and as the blue light dimmed noticeably, Sally stepped from behind the bubble, nude as a grape, smiling, Godiva-like hair almost glowing, hands arched in a combination of grace and pride.
When I entered her dressing room backstage, she was sitting before her lightbulb-surrounded mirror combing out her medium-length light brown hair; the long blond hair — a wig — was on the head of a dressmaker’s dummy nearby. She wore a silky blue robe and had a bobby pin in her teeth.
“Heller!” she said, looking at me in the mirror. “I saw you, ringside. How’d you like the show?”
“I liked it fine. I’ve always liked classical music.”
She put the hairbrush down and the bobby pin too and turned and looked at me; her wide, red pretty smile seemed sincere. She had the longest eyelashes I ever saw on a woman (or a man, for that matter) and they seemed to be real. Her eyes were the same color blue as her robe.
“Culture lover, huh?” she said. “Take off your hat, and pull up a chair. I like your white suit.”
I took off my hat, pulled up a chair. “I feel like an ice-cream man.”
“The ice-cream man cometh, huh? What did you find out for me?”
A little fan — an electric one, not the kind Sally hid behind — was whirring on a table over to the left, turning in a little half-circle, blowing streamers in the air.
“Your sugar daddy may be a gold digger.”
She looked disappointed, but only mildly. “Oh?”
“He’s in oil, all right. He owns a gas station.”
“The lying little weasel.”
“These are hard times; he used to own a dozen of ’em, all over Oklahoma. He may have been worth a little dough, once. Hell, he still is. A little dough.”
“But he doesn’t make two grand a week like yours truly.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Don’t say that to a man you’re paying ten bucks a day and expenses.”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong business.”
“I’ve been told that before. But so far nobody’s offered me two grand to prance around in my birthday suit.”
She smiled wryly and leaned forward, folded her hands; her silky blue robe fell open, just a little. One well-formed, large but not-too-large breast was half-exposed. I crossed my legs.
“You might look pretty good in your birthday suit,” she ventured.
I shook my head, grinned. “Not two grand worth.”
She lit a cigarette. “You want one of these?”
“No thanks. Not a habit I ever picked up.”
She shrugged. “They say it’s good for you. Anyway, Heller, why haven’t you made a pass at me?”
I didn’t see that coming, so it took me a moment before I could reply.
“You’re a client,” I managed. “It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“Ethical? In Chicago? I think I’ve made it plain I find you attractive. And there’s worse-looking women in town than Sally Rand.”
“So I hear.”
She blew a smoke ring. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Why, ’cause you’re a star? I met famous people before.”
“Did you ever sleep with any?”
“Just Capone. He snores.”
She laughed; it was high-pitched, very feminine. But there was a core of strength in the little dame, no question.
“So my millionaire’s a faker, huh? Easy come, easy go. I guess I didn’t want to quit show business, anyway.” She sighed and turned back to the mirror. “How old are you, Heller?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Her electric fan whirred; streamers tickled the air.
“I’m almost thirty,” she said. “How long can I take my clothes off for a living?”
“From the looks of you, a good long time.”
She had been around, though, even if it didn’t show. She’d been a cigarette girl and a chorus girl, a dancer in a Gus Edwards Revue, an extra in the silents, a Hollywood Wampus Baby Star, which led to a contract with De Mille, though when sound came in she was dropped. She was a has-been of twenty-eight when she made her overnight success after fourteen years in show business by dressing as Lady Godiva for a Fine Arts Ball at the Congress Hotel on the eve of the world’s fair.
Now she was peeking out from behind fans and bubbles, when she wasn’t in and out of court — which of course created the publicity that kept her hot.
“My real name is Helen, you know,” she said. “Helen Beck. But very few people still call me Helen.”
“Would you like me to?”
“I’m thinking about it.” She began brushing her hair. Her other hair, the blond wig on the dressmaker’s dummy, was blowing a bit in the electric fan’s breeze. “Do you know where I got my name?”
“Off a Rand McNally map?”
“You’ve read the newspaper stories, then.”
“Who hasn’t? You’re better known than the First Lady.”
“And a damn sight better looking.”
“Yeah, but so am I.”
She turned and smiled and looked at me. “Why are you still here?” She said this with no nastiness.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you thinking about making a pass at me?”
“Maybe.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You’re not a client, anymore.”
“Does that make it kosher?”
“It could.”
She stood and the robe slipped to her waist. Her breasts were very beautiful. She was powdered white, for the stage; talcum powder. She smelled good; she smelled like a great big baby.
I went over and kissed her.
It was a nice kiss, but something was missing. She looked up at me with those long lashes and sad blue eyes.
“What is it, Nate? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, moving back. “Maybe I better go.”