The Hoods (45 page)

Cockeye said, “What a figure, what a pair of shafts.”

“She's probably a dress model,” Patsy said.

She reminded me of my date. I speculated on her measurements. I'll bet my date's a twenty waist and a forty bust, I thought to myself.

“What are you smiling at? Thought of something good?” Max asked me.

“Yeah, I'm thinking of something, something damn good,” I laughed.

“Okay, spill it,” Max said.

“I got to turn it over first,” I said smiling, “in my mind.”

“Don't sleep on it,” Max grunted.

“I hope to,” I mumbled.

“What?” Max asked.

“Nuthin,” I said.

“Oh, I thought you said something,” he said.

We lit fresh cigars. We sat saying nothing, just watching the girls pass by. I was hoping nobody would think of anything to do that would keep us out late tonight.

To forestall them I said, “The best thing to do, in my opinion, is to see if we can put this agency, this Thespus detective agency, out of action for the duration of the strike. And the best time to put them out of action is early in the morning. Sort of get them unawares. When they first open up for business. What do you think, Max? We got to keep those elevators idle. Make the pressure of the complaints of the stranded tenants count.”

Max considered it for a moment. He scratched his head.

“Well—yep—it sounds okay, I guess.”

He was uncertain.

I followed up, “Yeh, I think it's the best bet, Max. If we stop them from sending out men, we got it pretty well licked. We take a ride over to Eddie's and tell him to have a couple of hundred 'zulus' ready to break the heads of the strikebreakers we can't reach. Have the office contact the deputy commissioner to move the cops out of the area so Eddie's 'zulus' can have a clear field for action.”

“Yep, that I like, Noodles.”

Max slapped me enthusiastically on the back. “You still got the ole noodle working on all sixteen, ole kid, ole sock.”

“Yeh,” I grunted modestly.

“Smart feller that Noodles,” Cockeye laughed as he swung the Caddy away from the curb.

Eddie was sitting in the office of his hotel with his feet on the desk. He was reading one of his Gideon Bibles. We shook hands.

Maxie said, “How you douchin, Ed?”

“With cold water,” Eddie answered.

Maxie told him about the contract we received from the main office.

Eddie nodded his head. “Yeh, I heard.”

Max continued, “We need a couple of hundred 'zulus' to break heads tomorrow morning. Okay?”

“Okay, HI have them on call whenever you need them. Two hundred enough? Maybe an extra hundred?”

Max nodded. “Okay, three hundred.”

“How about the cops?” Eddie asked. “I'm going up to the office in half an hour, you want me to tell them?”

“Yep, Ed, if you're going up. You'll save us the trip.”

“Okay, then,” Max said. “We're going to relax, Ed. We're staying for the night.”

“With or without?” Eddie asked archly.

“What do you think,” Cockeye cut in, “we're vegetarians?”

Patsy said, “Cockeye's been eating plenty of oysters.”

“I'm not staying, Max,” I said.

“No party?” Max asked.

“I got a private party tonight.”

“Oh, the one with the nice—big ones?”

“Yeh,” I said.

Max smiled. “Okay—enjoy—enjoy—but early tomorrow. Six a.m. at Fat Moe's.”

“Yeh,” I said. “Six, at Fat Moe's. Hey, Max.”

“Yep?” he said.

“I was just thinking. Have Moe spike a couple of bottles of Mt. Vernon. We might need them for tomorrow.”

“With knock-out drops?”

“Yeh,” I said. “Spike them extra strong.”

“Okay, I'll call him tonight to have them ready for us in the morn-

“And a dozen glasses.”

“And a dozen glasses,” Max repeated.

“So long,” I said, “enjoy, enjoy.”

“So long, enjoy, enjoy,” they echoed after me.

I walked towards Broadway. I passed Gerhaty's Cordial Shop. That give me an idea. A good wine for supper, or maybe champagne. Yeh, a couple of magnums.

I swung down Broadway. The weather was fair. It was just edging into dusk. The street was coming to life. The thousands of signs and millions of bulbs that were dead during the day, slowly came alive. At first, they came a few at a time, as if being given artificial respiration, then as the hot current rushed like a life-giving blood through all the arteries and veins, the signs blazoned, obscuring the sky.

And as if the current had magically charged into the traffic and people, the tempo of the street accelerated.

I am part of this, I thought. This infectious, bustling, rushing joy. Pretty prostitutes, neophytes and professionals, sparkled with the artificial brightness of rouge, mascara and lipstick. Their wandering, shining eyes sought among the crowd for the one interesting, generous man to whom to give themselves. Just for one night. That's all I saw: women, millions of beautiful women—all mine.

Already the episodes of the day were a memory. They were far back in my mind. I was in a happy glow of anticipation. I was an excited, happy guy, hurrying down Broadway as if to my first lay. I laughed. Yeh, me, Noodles, excited and anxious, as if I didn't get more than any guy, yeh, more than any guy alive, or in history. I'll bet within two or three blocks I could pick up five, ten, a hundred. This was mine, my Broadway. My happy hunting grounds, my private harem.

Ah, here's something cute.

I tipped my hat and smiled and said, “Hello, cutie pie.”

She smiled and murmured a melodious, “Hello, Baby.” I passed her by. She threw a come-follow-me smile over her shoulder. I laughed like a kid at his first flirt. I was caught in the excitement of the street, m the thrill of the chase. Yeh, this was my private, well-stocked hunting domain.

Ah, here's another doll—umm—nice. Hunting's very good tonight.

I aimed my eyes at her. I tipped my hat and smiled.

“Hello, Doll,” I said.

She smiled and cooed, “Hello, Handsome.” I let that charming piece of game go by also. Goddamn.

I laughed to myself. Am I a bastard. Am I having fun. What the hell, I'm entitled. I'm single at least. Look at Patsy and Cockeye, both married and still chasing. At a party at Eddie's place with some wild chippies this very minute. At least Max is entitled. He's single like me.

Funny how neither of us ever got married. I wanted to, but Dolores didn't want me. Lucky she didn't, for both of us, because I'm a satyr. One woman doesn't satisfy me. I got to have a different one every night. Yeh, lay 'em and leave 'em. That's me, Noodles.”

This one tonight, she's got something. Jesus, she has got something —a beautiful pair of somethings. Boy, could I bury my face in her soft, full somethings right now. For an owner of a pair of beautiful somethings like hers I should get her something special.

I went by a negligee shop. I got it. I'll get her a dozen of those seductive-looking black lace brassieres, like the one hanging in that window, marked down to three eighty-five.

I walked in. The store was crowded with women. It seemed as if they were all staring at me. I felt a little nervous. I pulled myself together. I felt as if I were at my first heist.

A salesgirl came over. “Yes?” she smiled.

Bold as hell, I said, “A dozen of those black lace brassieres you have displayed in the window, size forty, please.”

A few girls near me tittered. The sales girl took boxes from under the counter. She said, “They come in A, B, C and D's. Would you care to look at them?”

“She's pretty large there,” I said. “Use your judgment.” She smiled and nodded.

I tossed a C note on the counter. She examined it carefully before making change. When she gave me the wrapped parcel and my change, she whispered, “If they don't fit the lady, she can exchange them for another size.”

I said, “Thank you, Miss.”

She said, “Thank you, sir, and call again.”

When I got up to my suite, I called the kitchen. I spoke to the chef. I told him, “I want one large thick steak for two, extra large french fries and asparagus.”

Chico said, “I'll have it as you like it, medium rare. Coffee and pie?”

I said, “Yeh, apple pie and a slab of cheese.”

Chico said, “The champagne came. I put it on ice. What time you want?”

I said, “Thanks. I'll call you when.”

I took a shave and a shower. I put on a new pair of covert slacks and a thin corduroy belted jacket to match. I twisted and turned before the mirror. I adjusted my bow tie. It didn't seem to blend with the jacket. I undid it. I chose another. I made the bow over and over. Finally it satisfied me. I put a fresh kerchief in my breast pocket. I stood a full ten minutes before the mirror, taking the kerchief out, refolding it and tucking it back in until I thought it was just right. I kept walking to and from the mirror.

I was disgusted with myself. Boy, am I getting to be a conceited shmuck, I thought. No, it wasn't conceit. I was nervous, nervous as a cat, yeh, a tomcat waiting for his alley pussy. What the hell is the matter with me? For a guy who has laid everything on Broadway that talked, walked or sneezed, this conduct is ridiculous.

I poured myself a double hooker. That helped a little. A little music would help, too. I thumbed through an album. I pulled out a record and put it on the machine without looking at the name. I threw myself in a chair and listened. It was the intermezzo from
La Traviata.
I liked the part where the violins came in. It was sweet, soft and smooth—like a woman's breast.

I laughed to myself. What a goddamn comparison. To liken soft sweet music to a woman's breast. It just goes to show where my mind travels. That's all I've been thinking of lately.

Am I getting to be some sort of sexual queer? I wonder if this quest for a beautiful breast is normal, or am I developing a fetishism of some sort? Nah, ridiculous, it's not a fetish. It's a normal desire, maybe a little strong and primal.

The music stopped. I took the disc off the spindle. I pulled out “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody,” set the needle and helped myself to another drink. Of all modern music, I loved this song best. I hummed the lyrics as I played it over and over again.

On the minute of nine there was a knock on the door. I opened it. There she was. What a vision. More alluring than I had anticipated. She was dressed to arouse and impress.

She wore a great big extra wide green lace picture hat and a startling white, bareback, bare-shouldered, sleeveless dress, form fitting and with a plunging neckline. She wore elbow-length green lace gloves and shoes and bag of the same color.

Lightly I kissed the gloved hand she extended. I closed the door and led her into the living room, still holding her hand. I turned her all around.

The hat and you and everything about you is beautiful,” I said.

“You like the hat?”

She stood before the mirror pinning it down more securely.

“Seductive,” I smiled.

“Designed by Mr. John,” she said.

“Mr. John?”

“This is a Mr. John's creation.”

“Oh, he's a milliner?”

“No, he's an artist,” she smiled.

“And the dress by Mr. John?”

“No, Tootsie, he only creates hats. The dress is a Bergdorf Goodman.”

“And the shoes and bag?”

She lifted a shapely foot. “The shoes are Palter De Liso's and the bag by Coblentz.”

She turned and smiled. She put one gloved finger under her chin, gave a mischievous grin, curtsied prettily, and said, “The rest of me is Eve McClain.”

“That's you,” I said.

“That's me. And you?” she asked.

“Tootsie, that's me. You gave that name to me. I like it.”

“I like it, and you, too, Tootsie,” she smiled.

Yeh, decidedly, I thought. She resembles Dolores.

I made a grab for her. I held her tight. I kissed her. I pressed my knee between her legs.

“Please,” she murmured. “Later.”

“A little bit now,” I pleaded.

She shrugged and smiled. She walked over to the victrola. She looked at the record on the table of the machine. She smiled and said, “This is my song, the song I dance to.”

She put the record in motion. She swayed and hummed, accompanying the song, “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.”

“You were in that show?” I asked.

She shook her head and said, “See if you can guess the show I was in.”

She waltzed slowly around the room. She unzippered the side of her dress. She danced around as she unbuttoned the top and exposed her bare shoulders. She dipped her shoulder when she came near me. I kissed the warm pink fragrant skin. She twinkled away.

“Can you guess?” she asked as she slowly continued her provocative dance.