“Swell, eh? Glad you liked it.”
The drunk was still crying. Stevie went over and touched his shoulder.
“What goes on? A big boy like you crying about your mother!”
“Worked hard all her life,” the drunk sobbed.
“Oh, dry up, George!” said his lady. “Oh, dry up! Somebody dry him up!”
“We’ll have to cheer this gentleman,” Stevie said gravely. “It is’ our God-given duty to cheer this gentleman. Any ideas? Anyone?”
“Sweet Sue,” yelled a lady.
“Sweet Sue. Hear it, boys? Make it Sweet Sue.”
Sweet Sue didn’t cheer the drunk and he had to be removed. It was Stevie who did the job. He put his arm around the drunk’s shoulders and guided him off the floor with the lady weaving along behind, half crying herself:
“It’s a shame. That’s what. What did you have to go talking about mothers for in front of him for?”
Stevie got their hats and coats from the checkroom and helped the man with his coat. He told the doorman to get a taxi and then he stood with the couple until the taxi came. The drunk clung to him and told him he was a real gentleman, a gentleman with real feeling, a good guy, a real pal, the kind of guy there should be more of in this world.
“Sure,” Stevie said, grinning. “Sure. Happy landing.”
He opened the door of the taxi. When it was gone he stood on the sidewalk for a time, with the wind ruffling his hair.
“Troublemaker,” said the doorman. “Busy night, eh?”
“Yeah.”
When he went inside he smoothed his hair with both hands and straightened his tie. The drunk had made him think of his own mother. She lived down in the Village. She made pottery and she hadn’t been sober for ten years.
He stopped at the checkroom, grinning automatically at the girl attendant.
“Busy night,” she said.
“Yeah.” He paused. “Marcie’s gorilla shown up yet?”
She giggled and said, “Nope. Not tonight. Anyhow, that was no gorilla...”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe he’s staying home tonight because he’s only got one suit and he wouldn’t be seen dead in the same suit two nights in a row.”
“Oh, go on, Mr. Jordan!”
“Bloated plutocrat. I hate plutocrats when they’re bloated around the shoulders.”
She giggled some more and he pinched her cheek politely, because after all it was something to make somebody giggle. He never got a rise out of Marcie at all. She would stare at him coldly and say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jordan. I guess I got no sense of humor.” Or, worse still, “You sound like you’ve been drinking, Mr. Jordan.” Whenever she talked to him her voice and face were full of disapproval or reproach. He didn’t like her very much but he was pretty sure he was falling in love with her.
The chorus were on again, thumping their feet, and Mamie Rosen was braying to the moo-hoon. Stevie knew from the way she sang that her boy friend, a wop called Murillo, had walked out on her again. He threaded his way among the tables and went backstage. He found Marcie behind the entrance curtain, looking out at the girls dancing. She was keeping time to the music with one foot, and her eyes were intense because she was shortsighted.
But the whole pose was false. Stevie knew she didn’t give a damn about the music or the show, and the girls gave her a pain. She was looking for someone.
“Stood up?” Stevie said.
She jumped, as if he had poked her, then resumed the pose again, tapping her foot and humming.
“Never trust a gentleman,” Stevie said, “not from where you sit. Any time, any place, he might meet a lady and then where’d you be?”
“You’re drunk,” Marcie said, without turning around.
“Naturally. Gentlemen get funny ideas, about homes and gardens and kids and all that.”
She turned around this time and stared at him angrily. “Well, what about it? I’m crazy about kids. I could have kids as well as anyone.”
“And gardens,” Stevie said. “Sure. Hoe me for a turnip. But...”
But the chorus was stamping in through the curtain. Professional smiles faded and gum parked in tooth cavities was deftly removed.
Mamie Rosen burst into effortless tears and came over to Stevie, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.
“Stevie. That louse...”
“Yeah, sure.” He patted her shoulder. Drops of sweat had wormed their way through the pink greasepaint. Stevie’s hand was wet, so he patted her head this time to dry his hand.
“He’ll come back,” Stevie said. “Doesn’t he always?”
“But if I could be sure, Stevie! Maybe this time...”
“You’re safe. He can’t support himself.” He gave her a little push towards the dressing room.
When he turned back he saw that Marcie was looking out through the curtain again. She forgot to tap her foot and her eyes looked frantic, the way short-sighted people’s eyes look when they can’t see something they know should be there.
“What’s his name?” Stevie said.
“None of your business.”
“You think so?” He walked up and stood behind her, touching her only with his breath. “Everything’s my business. I’m Joey’s ears and eyes and feet, bouncer de luxe.”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Johnny could bounce you like a ball. And don’t breathe on me.”
“My way of making love,” Stevie said. “I breathe on ’em.”
“Mr. Jordan — Stevie.”
Stevie saw that she was going to ask a favor. She wasn’t used to asking favors and she couldn’t be gracious about it. The best she could do was call him by his first name. “Stevie, do you see him anywhere?”
“Who?”
“You know. Johnny. Everything’s sort of blurred this far away.”
He made a pretense of looking out on the floor. He frowned to make it more realistic.
“Over on the left,” Marcie said. “Over there on the left where he usually sits.”
“No.”
“Over by the band.”
“No.” Stevie let the curtain drop. “Unless he’s a drunken bum like me and slid under a table, my verdict is he’s not here. I’m here, though. I haven’t slid under a table since New Year’s Eve and you know how it is on New Year’s Eve.”
She didn’t hear him. She was hugging her bare shoulders and staring straight in front of her. Her features had sharpened and she looked almost vicious, like a small untamed animal caught in a trap.
A ferret, Stevie thought. He didn’t like her at all and he was even a little frightened of her. But he said again, “I’m here.”
She moved her head to one side and said, “Oh, you.”
He almost gave up then and told her that he’d seen Johnny Heath sitting over on the left beside the band and that he was still there waiting for her. But he didn’t tell her.
“Why that tone?” he said. “I’m clean and sweet like I just stepped out of the tub.”
“Go away.”
“You go and get dressed and I’ll drive you home to momma.”
“No. No thanks.”
“Sure you will. I got a rumbleseat full of etchings but I won’t even open it. Go and get dressed.”
She hesitated, her thin fingers pulling at the flesh of her shoulders. “I wouldn’t want you to think it means anything if I let you drive me home.”
“I won’t think a thing,” Stevie said cheerfully.
He watched her until she disappeared into the dressing room, then he went to get his coat, whistling under his breath. He felt so good that he leaned over the checking counter and gave the girl a playful whack on the rear. She let out a squeal and scurried between the rows of coats. She was easily excited so it took her some time to find Stevie’s coat. When she finally came back Stevie wasn’t feeling playful any more. He was talking to a big man with a bass voice and muscle-swollen shoulders.