Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

The girl at the hat-check booth on the right gave them a bright smile when they entered. Rourke dragged off his soiled, disreputable Panama, handed it to Shayne, and said, “Take care of it. I’ll go in and see about the table.”

“Okay.” Shayne took off his own snap-brim Panama, smoothed his unruly hair with his palm, took the checks, then stood for a moment looking over the interior of the club.

The stage was round, centered toward the rear of the long building, with tables crowded together on either side, leaving only a narrow corridor for an aisle. Tables circled halfway around the left side of the stage, and heavy drapes marked the entrance and exit for performers on the right. The orchestra was onstage. The conductor, a violinist, held his instrument snug under his chin and waved his bow lazily. They were playing a torch tune that seemed to match the sultry mood of the occupants.

Shayne saw Rourke shaking hands with a small man with a peaked, tired face at a ringside table near the curtains. As he neared them he heard the man say, “A pleasure, Mr. Rourke. A pleasure indeed. You gentlemen of the press are always welcome at La Roma.” His upper lip was short, and his small upper teeth, fully exposed, had a rabbity, nibbly appearance.

“The press,” said Rourke, “is always looking for news.”

Shayne’s elbow bored into the reporter’s fleshless ribs. Rourke jerked his head around. The manager’s eyes flickered far up and met the detective’s gray gaze. His Adam’s apple quivered up and down. He swallowed hard and said, “It’s Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?” as though he desperately hoped the answer would be negative.

Shayne grinned down at him. “Hello, Lawry. I didn’t know you were here. In fact, I didn’t realize you were in circulation again.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Shayne,” he said earnestly. “It has been several months. I’m assistant manager here. I hope there isn’t going to be any trouble.”

“Why, what sort of trouble, Lawry?” said Shayne with pretended surprise. “If you’re clean—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean — I wasn’t referring to myself. But — if you’re looking for someone, I’m at your service. You know how it is with a place like this. We try to be very careful, but there are always certain characters—” he paused, nervously searching the detective’s face for reassurance, then continued — “who may recognize you and not wish to be recognized. It would be most unpleasant if anything like that should happen.”

Shayne’s grin widened. He gripped the assistant manager’s thin shoulder and said pleasantly, “Relax, Lawry. You must have a select clientele if you think the sight of me might start a riot. Just pass the word around that I’m here for pleasure.”

Mr. Lawry’s “Splendid” was throaty and hyphened by a deep sigh. He bristled with efficiency, consulted his reservation list, said effusively, “Number eight — Timothy Rourke. One of our choicest tables. Ringside.” He started forward, beckoning them to follow.

The table was only a few steps away. Mr. Lawry drew two chairs back for his guests, seated himself in a third, and looked at his watch. “You’re just in time for the first show, gentlemen.”

The orchestra announced the number with a rolling of drums and the clanging of cymbals. A spotlight picked up a voluptuous girl wearing a silvery form-fitting gown when the curtains parted. Her body was bare well below the swell of her breasts, and her hips writhed inside the gown when she crossed the stage to the piano to the introductory chords of a torch song. She began singing in a sultry contralto.

“That’s Billie Love,” Lawry told them in a hoarse whisper. “Not bad — not bad at all.” His rabbity teeth showed in a wide smile.

“What about the dancer — Dorinda — I’ve heard so much about?” Rourke asked in a low voice.

“Ah, yes. That’s the moment we all wait for. When Dorinda dances.” Lawry’s tone was warm and humble.

“Thought I might do a publicity piece on her,” said Rourke casually. “Human interest stuff.”

“That would be fine.” Lawry dry-washed his hands, and his round black eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “A little discreet publicity, you understand.”

“With a picture spread,” said Rourke with a crooked grin. “Something along the lines of — show him that sample, Mike.”

Shayne took the photograph from his pocket and held it out to Lawry.

The assistant manager was aghast. “Oh, no! I beg you not to publish that. We have others I’ll get for you. This one is — you certainly must understand — for only the most limited distribution.”

Shayne said, “Don’t needle him, Tim,” then suggested to Lawry, “Perhaps Dorinda could come to our table after she finishes her act and changes her costume.”

Lawry gave him a quick, suspicious look, then said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. I’ll speak to her.”

Patrons at tables near them were calling, “Sh-h-h,” and the three men discontinued their low conversation. The lush blond contralto ended her first number to enthusiastic though not demanding applause, but Billie Love caught the downbeat and went into a risqué encore with full gestures. This time, the applause was thunderous when she finished; and she began, without pause, a vulgar recitative, throatily intoning the melody at the end of each line, and maintaining a demure expression which heightened the indecency of the words.

During the number Lawry crooked a thin forefinger at a waiter who glided over, removing a clipped-on pencil from his breast pocket and an order pad from the side pocket of his white jacket. He bowed politely and said, “Are the gentlemen ready to order?”

“The best of everything, Jock,” said Lawry genially. “It’s on the house.” He stood up and added, “Take good care of them.”

The waiter looked at him with some surprise before he moved away to mingle with other patrons, then hovered over Shayne and Rourke with his pencil ready.

Without hesitation, Shayne said, “A fifth of Monnet — sealed. Two shot glasses and two glasses of water with ice.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waiter wince slightly, but he bowed politely, said, “Yes, sir,” and went away.

Again there was applause. Billie Love was bowing low and spilling her full breasts farther out of the feather-boned baskets supporting them. She was apparently just getting into her stride, but the master of ceremonies forestalled a third encore by stepping forward. The singer exited, smiling and throwing kisses.

A microphone rose up from the floor. The slender, effeminate young man caught it and clung to it. A spot highlighted his make-up as he began a risqué monologue that might have gotten laughs from a more rugged comedian. After a few titters from the women in the audience, he gave up. He introduced a boy-and-girl dance team as the next attraction. The mike slid back into the floor as he backed away, and a circle of bright lights came on above the stage when the team came on turning cartwheels.

The waiter brought the bottle of Monnet, with glasses and ice water. After Shayne examined the seal the waiter opened it, poured two drinks, set the bottle on the table, and went away.

Rourke grinned and said, “Here’s to the unmitigated nerve of a certain private eye,” lifting his drink and touching Shayne’s before downing it with one swallow.

“Let’s call it guts,” Shayne replied mildly. “I’ve got more respect for mine than to drink the stuff they empty into a Monnet bottle.”

Rourke refilled his shot glass. “Lawry seems to have hit his stride in this job,” he said musingly. “I’ve been watching him—”

“His last trip up was for peddling dope,” Shayne cut in. “He’s probably back at it and worried about his personal customers.”