“I am?”
“Yes, and a nice one. You and I and Jake and Dr. Garcia are going nightclubbing tonight.”
“Oh!”
“And when we get home just keep him here the rest of the night and I’ll see to it that Jake doesn’t twig. Or does he know who ‘Bob’ is?”
“Uh…yes, he does. I told him.”
“It may still suit dear Doctor to cover up; men are shy. Now skedaddle, dear, and phone O’Neil.”
Four minutes later Winnie announced Finchley, and left the lounge. He said, “You sent for me, Miss?”
“Tom Cat, these doors are soundproof; you can stop being formal.”
He relaxed a little. “Okay, Pussy Cat.”
“So give us a kiss and sit down. That hall door locks itself. Winnie is the only one who could walk in and she won’t.”
“Pussy Cat, sometimes you make me nervous.”
“Oh, piffle.” She moved into his arms. “I do have a question to ask you—advice that I want. You can discuss it with O’Neil and get his advice, and any of the guards. But it is your advice I want; the rest is cover-up.”
“Woman, quit talking and shove me some mouth.”
Joan did so, a long thorough kiss. Presently he said hoarsely, “You don’t have much on under this.”
“I don’t have anything on under it. But don’t get me distracted, Thomas Cattus; let me get my question in. I’m going nightclubbing tonight—Jake and me, Winnie and Dr. Garcia. They’re going to want to take us to cubes. I want to see rough places. I figure you know where they are.”
“Mmm… Eunice, the up-high places are all in bad turf.”
“Well, are they safe once we’re inside? And can one get inside safely?”
“Uh…there’s one, has its own inside parking and as good armor as the doors you have. Look, I’ll bring up a list, addresses and so forth, and everybody’s suggestions. But I’ll star my own.”
“Good. Thank you, Tom Cat.”
“God, but you feel good. Do we have time? Can I lock that other door?”
“If I’m not worried about Winnie, why should you be? Grab a pillow and put me on the floor.”
The party made rendezvous in Joan’s lounge. Jake Salomon had elected to dress with ultra old-fashioned formality: maroon tuxedo jacket and trousers, with white turtleneck. The silky knit made a splendid background for his gold ankh necklace. Dr. Garcia was just as formal in modern mode: scarlet tights boldly padded, stretch-fit white mess jacket with jabot of pearls and black lace. Little Winifred wore her new emerald dress with floor-length skirt—no body paint as Joan had advised but blushes caused her skin to change again and again from extremely fair to rosy glow. On her forehead in caste-mark position was a single emerald.
Jake looked at her. “Little one, what holds that solitaire in place? Insurance?”
She blushed again but answered saucily, “It’s on a corkscrew, sir. Shall I unscrew it and show you?”
“No, I’m afraid you might be telling the truth.”
“Never in mixed company, sir. Actually it’s the adhesive we use on bandages. Won’t come loose even with soap and water but alcohol takes it right off.”
“Then be careful not to spill your drinks that high.”
“Oh, I don’t drink, Counselor; I learned my lesson long ago. I’ll be drinking Cuba Libre without the ‘libre’ and screwdrivers with no drive to them.”
“Doctor, let’s leave her at home; she’s just a chaperon.”
“Would you make me stay home, Counselor? Just for not drinking?”
“Just for calling me ‘Counselor’ if you do it again. And for calling me ‘sir’. Winifred, men my age do not care to be reminded of it by pretty little girls. After sundown my name is Jake.”
“Yes, Counselor,” Winifred answered meekly.
Jake sighed. “Doctor, someday I hope to win an argument with a woman.”
“If you do, tell Dr. Rosenthal. Rosy is writing a book on the difference in mental processes between male and female.”
“A dreamer. Eunice, does that thing cover you any better when you stand up? And what is it?”
“It’s a hula skirt, Jake. And it does.” Joan Eunice was wearing a floor-length skirt, with her torso covered with a myriad glittering stars. They faded out gradually at neck and shoulders. The skirt was thousands of gold nylon threads overlying more thousands of deep blue threads.
As she was seated, the mass of threads fell away from her graceful legs. Now she stood up; the threads fell back into a solid curtain. “See, Jake? A plain gold skirt. But when I move”—she walked—“the blue underneath keeps flashing through.”
“Yes, and you, too. Panties?”
“A rude question. The Polynesians never heard of pants until the missionaries corrupted them.”
“That’s not a responsive answer—”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“—but as long as you are standing, let’s get rolling.”
“Yes, dear.” Joan Eunice put on a matching opaque yashmak, let Jake lay an evening cloak around her shoulders. Jake hooked on a maroon domino which covered his distinctive aquiline nose—he had been too often on video lately and felt that there was no point on concealing Miss J. S. B. Smith’s face if his own face broke her cover. The Doctor donned a small white domino—having been asked to help keep the party in character—and Winifred wore a filmy green harem veil that was only a symbol, being of the same material as her skirt.
As they entered the lift Joan Eunice said, “Where are we going, Jake?”
“Woman, you aren’t supposed to ask. The Gaslight Club, as a starter.”
“It sounds like fun,” Joan agreed. “A piano player with sleeve garters and such?”
“And derby hat and fake cigar—he can sing and play anything written a hundred years back. Or fake it.”
“I want to hear him. But, Jake, since this is to celebrate my uhuru, would you indulge me a little?”
“Probably. Show your openers.”
“There’s a club I’ve heard about…and while you were napping, I reserved a table for four for twenty-two thirty. I’d like to try it.”
“Winnie, you haven’t been coaching her enough. Eunice, you’re not supposed to be capable of making such a decision—less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels and all that. All right, where is this dive? What’s its name? We’ll try the Gaslight later—there is a waitress there alleged to have the most pinchable bottom in the state.”
“Probably foam rubber; Winnie has that distinction. It’s the Pompeii-Now, Jake—I have the address in my purse.”
Mr. Salomon’s eyebrows appeared over his domino. “We won’t need it, Eunice. That box is in an Abandoned Area.”
“Does that matter? They have inside parking and assured me that they are armored against anything short of a nuke bomb.”
“We would still have to get there and back.”
“Oh, I have confidence in Finchley and Shorty. Don’t you?” (Twin, that’s a crotch chop. Not nice.) (Big sister, do you want to go to the Gaslight and listen to bad piano and watch Jake pinch bottoms? If so, say so.) (I just said it wasn’t nice.) (So you phrase the next answer. Jake’s a tough case.)
“Joan Eunice, when I take a lady out for the evening, we go in my car. Not hers.”
“Whatever you say, Jake; I was trying to be helpful. I asked Finchley and he said there was a route in that the—what do they call it?—the Organization—keeps open. No doubt Finchley can tell Rockford.”
“I call it the Mafia. If there is an acceptably safe route, Rockford knows it; he’s the most expert driver in town—more experienced than your boys, he drives more.”
“Jake, you don’t want to go there. So let’s go to the Gaslight. I want to try sticking a pin in that rubber fanny.”
They went to the Pompeii-Now.
There was no trouble getting inside and the club had a card lounge for its patrons’ mobile guards. The maître d’hôtel led them to a ringside table across fro
m the orchestra, swept a “Reserved” sign from it. “Will this be suitable, Mr. ‘Jones’?”
“Yes, thank you,” agreed Salomon. Two silver-bucket stands with champagne appeared as they sat down; the maitre d’hôtel took a magnum from the sommelier and displayed it to Salomon, who said, “That’s a poor year for Pol Roger. No Dom Pérignon ninety-five?”
“At once, sir.” The sommelier hurried away. The maître d’hôtel asked, “Is there anything else not to your liking, sir?”
Joan Eunice leaned toward Jake. “Please tell him that I don’t like this chair. It was designed by Torquemada.”
The floor manager looked upset. “I’m sorry Madame feels that way about our chairs. They were supplied by the number-one hotel and restaurant supply company.”
“As may be,” Joan answered, “but if you think I’m going to spend an evening perched on a shooting stick and pretend that it’s fun, you are mistaken. Jake, we should have gone to the Gaslight.”
“Perhaps, but we’re here now. Just a moment, dear. Maître d’hôtel—”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have an office here, no doubt.”
“Why, yes, sir.”
“With a desk and a chair. Probably a padded swivel chair with arms and an adjustable back. A man who is on his feet as much as you are wants a comfortable chair when he does sit down.”
“I do have such a chair, sir, and—while it’s hardly suitable for a dining room—Madame is welcome to it if it pleases her. I’ll send for it.”
“One moment. In a club with so many activities—you have a gaming room, do you not, and other things?—I feel sure that it is possible to round up four such chairs.”
“Uh, I’ll try, sir. Although our other patrons might find it odd if we supply one table with special chairs.”
Mr. Salomon looked around. The place was less than half filled. “Oh, I imagine that if you explained to anyone who asked just how expensive such special service is, he might not want it. Or you might find it possible to accommodate him, too, if he is willing to pay. I think those guards pretending to be waiters standing around the edge of the room can handle anyone who is unreasonable.”
“All our staff are guards, sir—in a crunch. Very well, sir, if you will be patient a few moments your party will all have desk chairs.” Quickly he distributed wine cards and drug lists, and left.
Roberto and Winifred were already dancing. Joan leaned toward Jake again and said, “Jake, will you buy this place for me?”
“Does it attract you that much?”
“No, I want to make a bonfire out of these chairs. I had forgotten what indignities nightclubs expect their customers to put up with.”
“You’re spoiled.”
“I intend to be. Jake, much of what is wrong with this world would be righted if the customer screamed every time he feels cheated. But I’m not out to reform the world tonight; I simply want a comfortable chair. The cover charge—I checked it when I made reservations for ‘Mr. Jones’—is high enough to buy a decent chair. What are these ‘other activities’? A whorehouse upstairs, maybe?”
“Eunice, see those three tables of beautiful people over in the corner? Attractive men and women, all young, all smiles, no frowns, and each with a champagne glass that may hold ginger ale? It’s high odds that, if the Greeks had a word for it, they have a price for it.”
“Why, one of those girls doesn’t look more than twelve.”
“She may not be that old. Who’s going to check on her age, in an Abandoned Area? I thought you weren’t going to reform the world tonight, my dear?”
“I’m not. If the government can’t police these areas, I certainly cannot. But I hate to see children exploited.” (Twin, that pretty child may have an I.Q. of eighty and no other possible profession—she may think she’s lucky. Proud of her job. And seeing where she is, she’s either got an implant or cut tubes—not like that cheerleader I told you about.) (Eunice, doesn’t it bother you?) (Some, chum, but only some. People usually are what they are because it suits them—I learned that from Joe. The girl’s mother may be one of the other pretties there—two gets you seven. Want to rescue them both?) (Oh, shut up, darling; let’s have fun.) (I’m willing.)
A waitress came past, refilled their glasses. She was pretty and was dressed in sandals, cosmetics, and careful depilation. She smiled and moved on. “Jake, is she one?”
“Couldn’t say, I don’t know the house rules. Shocked, Eunice? I told you not to come here.”
“Shocked at skin? Jake dear, you forget that my generation thinks nothing of nudity.”
“Hrrrmph! One more remark like that and I’ll call you ‘Johann’ the rest of the evening.”
“I’ll be good. Mostly. Darling, our waitress suddenly reminded me of the Chesterfield Club. Kansas City in the palmiest days of the Pendergast machine. Nineteen-thirty-four.”
“In nineteen-thirty-four I was barely out of diapers, Eunice. It was something like this?”
“Not as much fake swank and lower prices even allowing for inflation. But otherwise much the same. It specialized in complete nudity even at high noon at the ‘Businessman’s Lunch.’ Just up the street from the Federal Reserve Bank. Jake, she’s headed back. Find out for me.”
“How? I don’t even have a hat to tip.”
“Simply ask her, dear, ask her if she’s available. Slip her ten dollars as you do; she won’t be insulted.”
The waitress came back, smiled, and said, “Have you looked over our drug list? All illegal drugs at the controlled international prices plus twenty-five percent. Guaranteed pure, we obtain them from government sources.”
“Not for me, thank you, dear. Eunice? Want a trip?”
“Me? I don’t even take aspirin. But I want a steady supply of champagne. And I could use a sandwich, or something. Chiquita, is there a kitchen?”
“There is always a gourmet chef on duty, Ma’am; it says so at the bottom of your wine card. Anything from snacks to Maine lobster. Would you like to see a menu?”
“No, thank you. Maybe a big platter of little sandwiches for all of us, Jake. And don’t forget that other matter.”
Joan Eunice saw Jake get out a ten-dollar bill. It disappeared and Joan decided that the girl must have folded it with one hand and palmed it. Jake spoke to her in a voice lower than the music.
She smiled and answered clearly. “No, sir, I’m not even allowed to dance with customers—and I’m not in that branch of the business; I’m married. But I can arrange it.” The waitress glanced toward the ‘beautiful people’ and looked back. “For you sir? Or for both of you?”
“No,” Jake answered. “It was just curiosity.”
“My curiosity,” Joan put in. “I’m sorry, dear; I shouldn’t have made him ask you.”
“Ma’am, a high roller can be as inquisitive as he wishes. Baby needs shoes.” She smiled. “Twins. Boys. Two years old. I was licensed for two and now I’m arguing with the Board as to whether twins use up my license. Since twins are okay under a one-baby license. I’d like to have a little girl, too.”
“Jake, be a high roller again; I want to ask”—Joan leaned forward, read the girl’s name written or tattooed above her left breast—“Marie another question.”
“He’s paid for more than one question, really, Ma’am.” But a second note disappeared as quickly as the first.
“Marie, do you live inside the turf? With kids?”
“Oh, goodness, no! My husband would never permit that. An armed bus picks me up after supper and delivers me home around breakfast time. Most of us use it. Except—” She indicated the exception by inclining her head toward the corner. “My husband is on night shift at Timken—we match up pretty well.”
“Who takes care of your twins at night? Nursery?”
“Oh, no, Mama lives with us. No huhu. Actually, Ma’am, this is a good job. I’ve been a waitress where I had to wear uniforms—and the work was hard and the tips were small. Here the work is easy and the tips are usually
high. Oh, sometimes a customer gets drunk and gropy, but I don’t bruise all that easily—and drunks are often the highest tippers. Never any trouble; the guards watch everything.” She smiled at Joan. “You could get a job here in two seconds, Ma’am. All it takes is a friendly manner and a good figure—and you’ve got both.”
“Thank you, Marie.”
“I’d better go, the maître d’ is bringing a party to another of my tables. ’Scuse, please—sandwiches will be right in.”
The girl left. Joan said, “Jake, would you say that she has found her niche?”
“Seems so. As long as she keeps her figure and saves her money. She doesn’t pile up Social Security points here; this doesn’t count as a job under the rules, it’s off the map.”
“She doesn’t pay income tax?”
“Oh, certainly! The fact that her income doesn’t exist, legally, means nothing to revenooers. Though she may hold out a good portion—I would. My dear, do you want to try this music?”
“Jake, I thought you didn’t dance?”
“I don’t dance this modern stuff. But I can try, if you want to. I wonder if that combo can play Rock? This new stuff has so little beat I don’t see why they call it dance music.”
Joan chuckled. “I’m so much older that I despised Rock instead of liking it. Swing was my era, Jake, and on back clear to the Bunny Hug—though I didn’t learn to dance until the fox-trot crowded out the rest.”
“I can fox-trot, I’m not all that young. But I doubt if that bunch of disappointed harpists can play one. Eunice, can you tango?”
“Try me, just try me! Learned it when Irene Castle was alive—and with this new body I’m eight times as good as I was then. Been teaching it to Winnie. Do you have a firm lead?”
“Firm enough for you, wench. I’m going to flag the maitre-d’—it’s possible that they can play one. It’s the only tempo that has stayed evergreen through all the passing fads.”