But that was not possible here, at the Stage Coach. It was a woman’s place. All dance places, night clubs, road houses, stores, churches, and even whorehouses—all were women’s places. And probably the worst kind of woman’s place was a place like this, where men put on monkey suits and cut their necks with stiff collars and got drunk without the simple fun of getting drunk but with the presence of women to louse things up. Wherever there was an orchestra there were women, you could always be sure of that. Women singing the first words of songs: I got rhythm, Three little words, You’re driving me crazy, Thinking of you dear, My heart is sad and lonely for you I pine for you dear only I’d gladly surrender. “Surrender my ass!” said Al Grecco, and looked across his table at Helene Holman, whom he hated now a thousand times worse than he ever had hated anyone in his whole life. All evening long he had been hating. In the early part of the evening he had hated the job Ed Charney had given him, the job of keeping tabs on Helene. She knew what he was there for all right, and she took it out on him, she took it out on him that Ed was staying home with his kid. And wife. She was the only person he could think of who had open contempt for him, and tonight it was worse than ever. “This is a swell way for you to be spending Christmas,” she said. And went on from there; why didn’t he get himself fixed up? What kind of a life did he lead? Was he nothing but a yes-man? Was he a unique? Did he know what a unique was? A unique, she told him, was a morphadite…. And he had had to take it for a couple of hours, getting no rest from her except when she would get up to sing a song. But then along about ten or eleven she began to lose her spunk. She got a little tired of panning him and she took a different attitude.
She was wearing a dress that was cut in front so he could all but see her belly-button, but the material, the satin or whatever it was, it held close to her body so that when she stood up she only showed about a third of each breast. But when she was sitting down across the table from him she leaned forward with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, and that loosened the dress so that whenever she made a move he could see the nipples of her breasts. She saw him looking—he couldn’t help looking. And she smiled.
“You wouldn’t want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, would you?” he said.
“And by who, may I ask?” she said.
“You wouldn’t want them nice molars all smashed, would you?”
“Aw-haw. Big talk. Little Allie is sore because—”
“Never mind about little Allie, baby. I’m telling you something for your own good. A word to the wise is sufficient.”
“I’m shaking all over,” she said.
He suddenly did not desire her, but he weakened in another way. “Cut it out, will you? I’m not here because I want the job. You ought to know that by now.”
Her eyes stabbed at him. “All right, then, scram. Get outa here and leave me have some fun. My God.”
“Sure. Scram. Are you off your nut? Where would I go? I’d have to go plenty far if I went outa here before I get my orders. Plenty. I wouldn’t even get outa here. Wuddia think that French bastard would be doing when I left? Dya think he’d leave me go? He would not.”
“Oh, no?” said Helene.
That was interesting. It sounded as though the Fox had been making passes at Helene, which Al had suspected for a long time. But he didn’t care about that now. All he cared about now was for Helene to behave herself so he wouldn’t get in a jam with Ed. “I got my orders,” he said, “and I’m staying here whether I like it or not or whether you like it or not.”
“So I see,” she said.
“And my orders is to see that you keep your knees together, baby.”
“Horse feathers,” she said. “Well, is it all right if I have a drink?”
“No, it ain’t all right if you have a drink. You got cockeyed once today.”
“Well, then do you want to dance with me? I gotta do something besides get up there and give these butter and egg men hot pants, don’t I?”
“No, I don’t want to dance with you,” he said. “That ain’t my orders.”
“Oh, you’re afraid.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m afraid. If you want to leave it that way, I’m afraid.”
She recognized the introduction to Body and Soul, which was one of the songs she sang. She walked slowly to the center of the orchestra platform.
“What does she call herself?” said Emily Ziegenfuss.
“Helene Holman,” said Dewey Hartenstein.
“Holman? She has a nerve,” said Emily.
“Why so?” said Vic Smith.
“Why, that’s the name of a real singer. Libby Holman. Isn’t that it? Libby? Or Liddy. No, Libby’s right. Yes. Libby Holman. She makes records,” said Emily.
“Well, she has as much right to the name as Libby Holman has,” said Irma Fliegler.
“She has not,” said Emily.
“She has so,” said Irma. “Libby Holman isn’t Libby Holman’s real name.”
“Oh,” said Emily. “Well—how do you know, Irma?”
“Because I have these friends out in Cincinnati, Ohio, or at least they’re friends of Lute’s. Lute?”
“What?” said Lute.
“What was it those friends of yours in Cincinnati, Ohio, remember, they had that meningitis that took away their two children—”
“Spinal meningitis,” said Lute, who had been talking with Willard Doane.
“I know that,” said Irma. “What was their name?”
“Oh, Schultz. Harry Schultz. Why? Shall we call him up and tell him to join the party or what?”
“No, wisecracker. I wanted to know what Libby Holman’s real name was. The singer.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you ask me that in the first place?” said Lute.
“Well, come on, tell us what it was.”
“Fred. Her right name was Fred,” said Lute.
“Oh, bushwah on you,” said Irma. “He never talks like anyone else. Anyhow these friends, these people named Schultz in Cleveland—”
“You just got through telling us it was Cincinnati,” said Emily. “I don’t think—”
“Cincinnati, then. All right, Cincinnati. Whatever city it is this Holman comes from. Anyhow, they came from the same town as her, and they told us her real name.”
“Fred, I guess,” said Emily. “Oh, I don’t believe it. I don’t think you know anything about it, if you ask me.” Emily had had her fourth highball.
“She’s good. I like her singing,” said Frannie Snyder.
“You like it?” said Emily. “You mean you actually can sit there and say you like that kind of a voice? You must be crazy, Frannie.”
“I like it all right,” said Harvey Ziegenfuss.
“Oh, who asked you?” said Emily Ziegenfuss.
“Nobody asked me. Can’t I express my opinions?”
“No. Who asked you for your opinions? Look at her. If she’s going to sing why don’t she sing, and if she’s going to do a hootchy-kootchy dance then why don’t she do it? But at least she ought to make up her mind. She’s like a burlesque show dancer.”
“How do you know what a burlesque show dancer is like?” said Harvey Ziegenfuss.
“How do I know?” said his wife. “You ask me that? You, Harvey Ziegenfuss, ask me that? All right, I’ll tell you. I know because you showed me. When we were first married you used to get me to get undressed one by one, one thing after another. That’s how I know.”