The Hoods (46 page)

“No,” I said, lying.

“This should give you a better hint.”

She wriggled her body as she danced. Her dress fell to the floor. She wore no slip. All she had on was a white satin pair of panties, and a white satin brassiere. She still wore her large green hat and green full length gloves and green shoes.

She danced in waltz time as she kicked one shoe off then the other. She hummed, “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”

She rolled one stocking down and tossed it to me. Then the other. Her legs were shapely, slender and beautiful. It was thrilling, watching a pretty, well-formed woman undress. It's like the slow undraping of a beautiful piece of art.

She raised her eyebrows as she danced close to me again.

“Well, can't you guess, Tootsie? What show?”

“Minsky's Burlesque,” I said, smiling. “Continue. I'll play the part of the audience.”

I sat down on a chair and beat my hands slowly in time to the music and chanted, “Take it off, take it off, take it off.”

But she didn't take anything else off. She danced in her big green hat, in her long green gloves, her white satin panties and her white brassiere. She stopped; the record had come to an end.

“Some more,” I begged.

She shrugged and put the record on again. I sat watching her rhythmic tantalizing movements.

“This time take some more off,” I pleaded.

“What, this?” she smiled.

“Yes, please,” I whispered.

“Shall I?” she teased.

“Please,” I whispered.

“Only for you, darling. Only for you,” she whispered, “will I.”

She stood directly in front of me, swaying her hips. She had a smile on her face, half teasing, half expressing an inner passion.

Her rosebud lips parted. “Darling,” she gasped, “I am going to give them to you. Love them tenderly.”

She fumbled with the catch behind her back.

In a hot husky voice she whispered, “Here, darling, take them; they are yours.”

She dropped them in my lap. Dazedly I picked them up. They were a beautiful flesh color, a perfectly formed pair of rubber falsies. I was speechless. All I could do was look up at her in amazement. She was a defiant figure. There she stood, her legs spread apart, her gloved hands on her hips. She gave me back stare for stare. I looked at her chest. She was flat all right, as flat as a titless broad could ever be.

In a dumb sort of way I picked up the falsies and looked at them again. I tossed them on the table. They bounced.

“Well?” she challenged.

I shrugged. I was still chagrined and speechless.

I spied the package on the table. Sarcastically I said, “That package is for you. Open it.”

Nonchalantly she opened it. Without comment or any show of emotion, she examined the brassieres, and fitted one on the falsies. She looked at me with the smile of a minx.

“Tootsie,” she said, “thank you, they fit perfectly.”

She held them up for inspection.

“Yeh,” I grunted.

She walked over close to my chair. A smile played on her lips. Affection showed in her eyes. She rumpled my hair.

She said, “My Tootsie is disappointed?”

I looked at her standing there before me. Disappointed? I thought to myself. At what? I looked at her with a feeling of terrific admiration. She was a cute picture with her great big green hat, her long gloves and white satin panties. In spite of her ludicrous attire, she was completely poised. She looked at me speculatively with her large green eyes, trying to understand my mood.

I pulled her down on top of me. Her naked, faintly scented, warm body pressed close to me. She continued running her gloved fingers through my hair. She kissed my cheek. “You are sweet,” she murmured. She kissed me again. “You really aren't angry at your baby for being silly, are you?”

“Angry? I think you're cute and funny.”

I kissed her.

“You know,” she said, “I like you; you're so even-tempered. I'll bet you never get angry.” She continued playing with my hair. “Do you?”

“Never,” I said.

“You're the gentle type that never hurt a fly, aren't you?”

“I couldn't,” I said. “I dislike violence. I'm not the type.”

I was wondering if she mistook the knife in my pocket that she was sitting on for something else.

“You're a gentle person and I know why,” she said smiling.

“Why?” I said.

“Because you're Jewish. Jewish men are so peaceful and even-tempered.”

“Yeh,” I said, “without exception.”

“I like you,” she kissed me. She murmured, “Do you like your shicksa?”

“Yeh, I like you, you're cute and pretty.”

She purred like a kitten, and kept stroking my hair.

She covered my face with warm, moist kisses. Then we looked at each other for a moment and laughed and laughed. She chased me all over the room, bouncing the falsies over my head, until we were both breathless and hysterical.

She picked up her shoes, stockings, bag and dress and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower going. I stretched out on the couch and waited for her. A half hour later she came out smiling. She looked pretty and well groomed. Her face was freshly made up. She was completely dressed except for her hat and her gloves. Her black luxurious hair was piled up on her head in a regal coiffure.

“You look like a beautiful queen,” I murmured.

She extended a soft ungloved warm hand.

“For that, Tootsie, you may kiss my hand,” she said.

I pressed her smooth fingers to my lips.

“Amuse yourself,” I said.

I waved at the victrola, at the books on the shelf and the small bar. “I'll be out in a minute.”

I went into the bathroom. I took a hurried shower. I was dressed and out in fifteen minutes. I went to the phone and spoke to Chico, the chef. I said, “Okay, send it up as soon as it's ready.”

Twenty minutes later two waiters rolled in a table with the dinner and the champagne.

She enjoyed the meal. We made pleasant conversation, and conducted ourselves decorously for the rest of the evening.

As she went to the door, I opened her bag and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into it.

She smiled, curtsied and said, “Thank you, kind sir.”

She stood at the open door. We looked at each other fondly a moment. She came into my arms. I closed the door. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. I put the lights out. We undressed and went to bed.

I got up at four-thirty, took a shower and dressed. I was about to leave when she woke.

She smiled and called, “Tootsie.” She held up her arms. I bent over and kissed her. She held me for a moment.

She whispered, “I love you, Tootsie.”

I looked at the first woman who had ever said that to me in such a matter of fact manner. I sat down on the bed and fondled her hand.

We looked at each other for a long moment. Her hair framed her face. Her rouge, mascara and lipstick were worn and smeared.

She smiled and repeated, “Tootsie, I love you.”

“You want to be my steady girl?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“You want to move in and live here with me?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said solemnly.

I took out my key and slipped it into her hand. I said, “After you rest up, get your things and move in. I'll okay it down in the office.”

She nodded. “I'll do that; kiss me,” she said.

I did. I walked to the door.

“I don't know your name or anything about you, but I love you, Tootsie,” she said.

I had my hand on the knob.

“I know everything about you,” I said.

“You do?” she said in surprise. “What do you know about me?”

“Your name is Eve McClain, you're nice and I love you.”

I walked out.

A whisper followed me out the door. “Tootsie, I love you. I love you.

I took a walk down to the Automat, had bacon and eggs and coffee, grabbed a cab and rode down to Delancey Street. They were sitting in the Caddy outside Fat Moe's waiting for me. I noticed a package beside Max.

“The spiked stuff?” I asked.

“Yep, two bottles and a dozen glasses,” Max said.

“Okay, should I get going?” Cockeye asked.

“Okay, let's go,” Max said.

We parked the car in a garage right off Broadway. We walked over to the Thespus Detective Agency. It was a little after six. We were surprised to find the place open. There was a young blond fellow sitting at the desk reading a paper.

Maxie said politely, “We have an appointment with Mr. Thespus.”

“You fellows are kind of early, aren't you? He won't be in for quite awhile.” He looked us over. “Looking for jobs?”

Max smiled. “Yep, that's what we're here for, Blondie.”

“Don't call me Blondie,” he said irritably. “You men had any detective work experience on strike breaking? Or any kind of detective work?”

“Yep, Blondie,” Maxie said casually. “We just finished our correspondence courses on how to be detectives in one easy lesson.” Maxie walked behind the desk while talking. “And you know what we learned, Blondie?”

With the question, Maxie grabbed the startled young guy from behind, one hand over his mouth, the other around his waist. He picked him up, carried him into the inner office and dumped him on the floor.

“This is what we learned—to start from the top. We are taking the joint over. Okay, Blondie? Do you mind?” Maxie asked politely.

“What's the idea?” Blondie asked angrily. He got up from the floor and hurried to the door.

Maxie clipped him a left to the jaw.

He bounced off the wall and slumped to the floor.

He was out like a light.

We left him lying there and looked the place over. It was a three-room office suite consisting of one fairly large waiting room with a reception desk facing the entrance to the place. A few chairs and settees lined against the walls made the waiting room furnishings.

Right behind that room were two medium-sized inner offices with a connecting door. One room had a large storage closet with a broken typewriter on the floor; the other office had a small washroom.

Maxie said to Cockeye, “Tie and gag Blondie and put him out of sight somewheres.”

“What with, Max?” Cockeye asked.

“Tsk—tsk,” Maxie made reproachful noises. “Cockeye boy, you got no initiative. Use the bastard's tie for his hands. Take the bastard's shirt off. Tear the bastard's shirt in half, and gag the bastard's mouth.” Maxie looked at us and smiled. He was pleased with himself. “Simple, ain't it, Cockeye, boy?”

Cockeye went to work, laughing.

Cockeye and I picked Blondie up and put him in the closet alongside the typewriter.

Maxie sat down behind the desk of one of the inner offices. He opened Moe's package containing the spiked bottles of Mt. Vernon and the dozen glasses. He arrayed them neatly on one side of the desk. He put his feet in an open drawer, lit a cigar and leaned back in the swivel chair.

With a broad smile he said, “Let's see now, today we're private detectives. So Cockeye, you be the reception clerk. You sit in the waiting room; you're not so pretty like Blondie, though.”

“The blonde I had last night thought I was pretty.”

He started out.

“If anybody comes in, what shall I say?”

“What does any reception clerk say? Tell them to wait; the boss is in conference. Ain't that right, Noodles?”

“Yeh, that's what every reception clerk says.”

“Then what?” Cockeye asked.

“Then what?”

Max threw his hands up in mock despair. “Ad lib as you go along. Say anything.”

“Horseshit,” Cockeye grumbled.

At about seven, we heard the hall door open. Somebody came in. We heard a loud voice talking to Cockeye.

“What do you mean Luke's fired? I'm the manager of this agency. Who fired him? It couldn't be the old man. I drove Thespus home last night. He didn't say anything to me about it.”

Maxie got up out of the swivel chair. Pat and I followed him. We walked out to the waiting room. There was a large, burly guy arguing with Cockeye. He looked at us in surprise.

Maxie said, “Quiet, please. This is a business office.”

“Who are you guys?” the newcomer asked, perplexed.

“Come in. Come in. We'll explain everything.”

I held open the door to the inner office.

“Is Luke in there?” The guy was getting more befuddled by the minute.

“This guy,” he pointed at Cockeye, “said he was fired.”

Maxie smiled. He said, “He's in there.”

He gestured with his thumb.

“Where?” He peered through the open door. “I don't see him,” he said.