James Chase: Tiger by the Tail

He looked at Fay as they passed a battery of neon lights advertising a cereal food. The blue, green and red lights lit up the interior of the cab.

She looked extraordinarily attractive, he thought, in the electric blue, full-skirted frock, cut low to show to advantage her creamy white shoulders. Around her throat she wore a necklace of dark blue beads that emphasized the blueness of her eyes.

He had forgotten he had paid her twenty dollars for this night out. It was odd, but he felt as if he had gone back five years and was spending the kind of night he had so often spent before he met Ann.

“Do you like dancing, Buster?” she asked suddenly.

“Sure; do you?”

“I love it. I used to earn a living as a dancer, then things went wrong. I lost my partner, and I couldn’t find another, so I gave it up. We used to give exhibitions at the Blue Rose. It’s not a bad little club. I think you’ll like it.”

“What happened to your partner?” Ken asked, merely to carry on the conversation.

He saw her face tighten.

“Oh, he went away. He wasn’t the type to stick at anything for long.”

Ken felt instinctively that this was a sore point with her, and he changed the subject.

“Who’s the fat man who lives in the apartment below yours? The one with the Pekinese ?”

She turned her head sharply to look at him.

“Did you see him, then?”

“I met him on the stairs.”

Fay made a little grimace.

“He’s a horrible little louse. No one knows what he does for a living. His name’s Raphael Sweeting, believe it or not. He’s always stopping me on the stairs. He uses that lap dog of his as an excuse to talk.”

The cab slowed down and pulled up outside a tall, dark building.

They got out of the cab, and Ken paid off the driver.

“Is this it ?” he said, staring up at the building.

“It’s down this alley,” Fay said, slipping her arm through his. “You needn’t be scared you’ll meet anyone you know. The members are strictly limited, and they don’t come from your part of the world.”

Ken followed her down the narrow alley. At the end of it was a heavy oak door with a judas window. Over the door, fashioned cleverly from neon tubes was a big blue rose. Its blue light reflected faintly on the gleaming brass of the door’s fitments.

Fay touched a bell-push by the side of the door.

They stood, side by side, waiting.

Away in the far distance came a rumble of thunder.

“Hear that?” Ken said.

“I’ve been expecting a storm all the evening. Let’s hope it cools the air.”

The judas window slid back and a white thin face with hard expressionless eyes appeared for a brief moment, then the door opened.

“Evening, Miss Carson.”

The man who had opened the door was short and thickset with a mop of blond wavy hair. He eyed Ken over, and gave him a brief nod.

“Hello, Joe,” Fay said, smiling. “Busy tonight?”

“So, so,” Joe returned. “Your table’s free.”

She nodded and led Ken across the bare lobby, down a passage to another heavy door. As she opened the door, the sound of a dance band reached them.

They walked down red-carpeted stairs where a hat check girl took Ken’s hat. They went on into a big ornate bar.

There were a number of people in the bar, and Ken looked at them uneasily.

He saw at once he had nothing to worry about. Fay was right. These people certainly didn’t come from his part of the world. The women were hard, showy and noisy. The men looked tough and sporting. Several of the women and a number of the men were in evening dress. None of them took any notice of Ken. Three or four of the men saluted Fay and men looked away.

The barman came over, wiping the shiny counter with a cloth.

“Evening, Miss Carson.”

“Two martinis, Jack.”

She climbed up on to a stool, while Ken stood at her side.

The barman served two martinis, and then moved away to serve a tall negro who had just come in.

Ken looked at the negro curiously.

He was a massive man, standing about six foot four, with shoulders that looked as wide as a barn door. His head was closely shaved, and he had a crinkled scar that began just under his right eye and went down in small puckers to his mouth.

He wore a lavender-coloured velveteen jacket, black trousers, a white nylon shirt and a mauve bow tie. A big diamond glittered in the centre of his shirt and flashed every time he moved.

“Hello, Sam,” Fay said, lifting her hand and wriggling her fingers at the negro.

He gave a slow, expansive smile, revealing a mouthful of big, gold-capped teeth.

“Enjoy yourself, honey,” he said in a deep, rich voice.

His black eyes dwelt on Ken for a brief moment, and then he gave him a little nod. He carried his drink across the room and sat down beside a thin mulatto girl in a low-cut green evening dress who was smoking a cigarette in a foot-long holder. She caught Fay’s eye and waved.

“That’s Sam Darcy,” Fay told Ken. “He owns this joint. He gave me my first break. He’s a swell guy. That’s Claudette, his wife.”

“What a size he is!” Ken said, impressed.

“He used to be one of Joe Louis’s sparring partners. He built up this club from nothing. I wish you could have seen it when I first danced here. It was nothing but a damp cellar with a few tables and a pianist. In five years it’s grown to this.” She finished her martini and slid off the stool. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Ken paid for the drinks and followed her across the bar, and into the restaurant.

Several couples were dancing, and most of the tables were occupied.

The Captain of waiters, a dark, hawk-eyed Italian, bustled forward, greeted Fay effusively and conducted them to a table against the wall.

It was while they were finishing an excellent mushroom and prawn omelette that Ken noticed a strikingly beautiful girl come to the door of the restaurant.

She immediately attracted his attention, and he wasn’t the only man in the room to stare at her.

She was tall and willowy. Her blonde curls were piled high up on the top of her beautifully shaped head. She wore a sea-green evening gown, cut low enough to show an expanse of creamy white skin that made Ken’s eyes pop. Her enormous eyes were emerald green and her eyelashes curled upwards and seemed to be touching her eyelids.

It wasn’t so much her face that Ken stared at. Her figure would have stampeded an octogenarian. It stampeded Ken.

“Phew! Who’s that ?” he asked turning to Fay.

“Sensational, isn’t she?” Fay returned, and he was startled to see how hard her face had become. “You’re looking at the biggest bitch in town.”

“You sound prejudiced,” Ken said, and laughed. He looked again at the blonde. She glanced at him without interest, looked beyond him at Fay and then turned and went out of the restaurant. “Who is she, anyway?”

“Her name’s Gilda Dorman,” Fay said. “She and I used to share an apartment together once. She sings now. I guess if I had her shape, her morals and a voice like hers I’d be a success too.”

The angry bitterness in her voice embarrassed Ken. He pushed back his chair.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Fay made an effort and forced a smile.

“Sorry: I was just sounding off. I hate that bitch like poison. She broke up my dancing act.” She got up. “Come on then; let’s dance.”

Ken’s wrist-watch showed twenty minutes past midnight as Fay and he walked into the bar.

“One quickie and then home,” Fay said.

Ken ordered two highballs.

“I’ve had a wonderful evening,” he said. “I’ve really enjoyed myself.”

She gave him a saucy little look from under her eyelashes.