“High,” Tom Bennett said softly, watching them. “All four of them.”
“High as a kite,” Reardon agreed.
The elderly sergeant looked at him, and started to rise. “You want me to call it in?”
Reardon shook his head decisively. “No raids right now, please. And let’s not make like police tonight, or at least not right now. I want to see the show.”
“But—”
“Just remember it when we’re in the hall tomorrow; give it to Narcotics, then. Although God knows what they’ll do with it. My guess is we’d wait less time for a stick than for a drink in this place.” He swung his chair a bit for a better view of the small stage as the lights dimmed further. Their waiter came back, placing their drinks on the table.
“Show’s starting,” he said mournfully, and walked away as if he didn’t want to witness their response to the entertainment.
A spotlight cut the darkness, revealing a curtained entrance to the stage at one side. Knowing the general size of the building, Reardon had a feeling the dressing rooms were a little less than commodious. There was a drum roll, ragged, trailing into silence. The piano player pulled the microphone toward him and spoke into it with a false enthusiasm he did nothing to mask.
“Yes, sir, folks — here she is, the star, the one we’ve all been waiting for! Give the little lady a big hand, folks! Here she is — Miss Georgie Jackson!”
There was a sudden stirring of the curtains, and a girl came out to be greeted by a few clapping hands that soon edged into silence. The band started to play; it was several bars before they had the same tune, if not the same rhythm. They were attempting a striptease number. Jan stared at Reardon in perplexity. He winked at her, gestured toward the stage and leaned back to enjoy the show.
The girl was fully dressed in an evening gown that swept the floor; one of her gloved hands held a cigarette holder well over a foot long. She swirled her abundant shoulder-length hair and strutted across the small stage provocatively, her breasts pointed high, her hips turning sexily; at the far end she turned and strutted back, keeping an exaggerated swing to her lush body. The four musicians seemed to get their beat from her and managed to get together at last. Dondero leaned over the table, whispering.
“I don’t want to be curious, but what’s a dame like that doing in a dump like this? And who is she?”
“My competition, I gather,” Jan said with an archness that was meant to convey humor but failed signally.
Reardon grinned. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“She’s got a lovely body,” Gabriella said; there was a touch of envy in her voice as she watched the girl. She sipped her beer, her eyes moving to Dondero’s face in the dimness of the room.
“She’s more than pretty,” Reardon said with a grin. “She’s talented. Just watch.”
Jan frowned thoughtfully and turned to the stage. The girl had discarded the cigarette holder and was drawing off one of her elbow-length gloves; there was a sensuous look on her face. The band started bump-and-grind music and she slowly began, beating the floor with the glove. All instruments fell silent except for the drums; she dipped and shuddered, hips gyrating in and out to the rhythm, and then with one final convulsion she stopped, in time, for once, with the band. There was a smattering of applause from the sparse audience; she held on to the curtain as if in post-coital release, dipped once and disappeared. A whistle — undoubtedly from an employee of the Belly-Button under orders — brought her back. The music began once more; this time she slowly unbuttoned her dress, pulled it enticingly over one shoulder and then — as if completely abandoning herself in favor of her audience — dropped it and stepped out of it completely. Revealed was a harem dancer; the full bosom was concealed by a bandeau that stretched from the neck to just beneath the hidden, jutting breasts; below she wore filmy harem pants. The music changed to harem music. She put one long-nailed hand before her face, palm outward, and started to do a belly dance, moving slowly, sensuously at first, and slowly building rhythm and speed. The music rose in volume with her, if not in skill; she began to move across the stage and back, her shoulders quivering at increasing rate, her hips jumping, her stomach twisting violently. The music rose to a crescendo, growing more frenzied together with the dance; despite the cheap decor of the room and the obvious exhibitionism of the performance, Jan could see how such pure sexuality could appeal. The band became almost lyrical, as the shaking slowly subsided and the girl draped herself to the floor, arms extended, feet folding upon themselves like flower petals, and then she had bent her head to touch the floor as the music drifted to silence.
This time the applause was more enthusiastic. The girl came to her feet gracefully, breathing deeply, smiled in genuine pleasure at her audience’s reaction, and then touched her forehead, that deep crease between her breasts, her lips, and extended her hand to the darkness beyond the edge of the footlights. The applause grew as she disappeared, held until it became apparent the act was over and the full-bosomed girl would not return, and then died down sporadically.
“She really was good,” Jan said, as if surprised.
“She’s better than good,” Reardon said, and then fell silent as the piano player, the microphone once more in his possession, made intimate speech impossible.
“And that was Miss Georgie Jackson, folks! Wonderful, wasn’t she? Well, she’ll be back with us for our next show-she has to catch her breath, you know — and she has such wonderful catcher’s mitts — what?” He paused for a laugh and went on before it could become obvious there wouldn’t be one. “Yes, folks — that’s got to be meat, because potatoes don’t shake like that...”
Dondero groaned.
“...And now, here’s Skeets Canfield! That funny, funny man you all love! Or aren’t you supposed to love funny men? Or men? Ah! That’s just for you ladies! Here he is, Skeets Canfield, named for the game of solitaire, because with his breath, ladies and gentlemen — believe me — well, you get the idea...”
He dropped the microphone as if it suddenly had become hot, and attacked the piano in the same motion, followed at uneven intervals by the rest of his entourage. A man in a burlesque comic’s baggy pants and painted face came out, waited with tapping slapsticks for his musical introduction to end, and then started to tell dirty stories. Dondero was still staring at the curtain through which Georgie Jackson had disappeared.
“I won’t even mention this comic,” he said, “and wash my mouth with soap and water if I say anything about the piano player, but this Georgie Jackson is something else again.”
“She’s good,” Jan admitted.
“Yeah,” Dondero said, “but that’s a striptease? No offense to the feminine mammals present, but here on Broadway, where usually even the bartenders are topless?”
“Disappointed?” Reardon was smiling at him, a wicked glint in his eye.
“Not so much disappointed as surprised,” Dondero said. “Come, James; you didn’t bring us all the way down here — and feed us bad drinks — just for that exhibition, did you?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Reardon grinned. “I wanted you to meet my date for tonight.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Jan.
“Your date?”
“Just for one quick drink,” Reardon promised her faithfully. “One fast drink. At the Cranston Hotel...”
Intelligence finally came to those in the know. Tom Bennett nodded.
“You think that was the dame—”
Dondero stared. “You think she might have been the dame—?”
Reardon shook his head, his gray eyes twinkling. “I think that maybe — and please note that I said maybe — he might have been the dame.” He grinned. “They don’t explain properly on the posters outside, but Miss Georgie Jackson didn’t strip to your satisfaction, Don, for the very simple reason that — if you’ll pardon me — he’s flat-chested. He was born just plain George Jackson, and he never bothered to go to Sweden for an operation, either. He’s a female impersonator.”