It’ s cool to be a cookie with connections, I mused to myself, but being a call girl with a well-connected madam takes the cake.
AFTER BEING SEATED AT A FRONT-ROW TABLE (as Sabrina had predicted), and immediately ordering our dinner and drinks (as Sabrina had advised), I turned and swept my gaze around the glitzy interior of the club. The decor was classy and Cuban, with white tablecloths, red velvet chairs, and glistening mirrored walls. There was an elevated bandstand, a small hardwood dance floor, a lofty, wraparound mezzanine, and several enormous floor-to-ceiling columns shaped as palm trees. Their trunks were pure white and their leaves were bright gold.
The band was playing a rumba, and the tables were filling up fast. Several couples ventured onto the floor to dance. “Hey, bobba ree bop!” Abby shouted to me above the music. Torn between watching the dancers and checking out the people who were quickly filling up the tables around us, she was twisting her head in all directions at once. “This is the living end!” she cried. “The air’s so thick with excitement you could slice it like a turkey.”
“Right,” I said, feeling far more nervous than excited. I had been to the Copacabana once before-when I was working on my very first Daring Detective story-and it had been a crazy, dangerous, hair-raising experience. I hoped tonight’s expedition wouldn’t turn out the same way.
“Hey, look upstairs!” Abby squealed, gaping toward the mezzanine in sheer delight. “It’s Gordon MacRae! Yummmm. He’s so handsome, it’s shameful. And what a sexy voice he’s got! Whenever he sings, my ovaries melt. He’s probably making the rounds tonight, showing up at the hottest nightspots to promote his new movie, Oklahoma!… Oooh! Wow! Guess who’s sitting over there!” she sputtered, eyes shifting toward a different spot in the balcony. “It’s Kirk Douglas! And he’s sitting next to Lana Turner! Holy smoke! Aren’t they both married to somebody else? I wonder if they’re having an affair!” She couldn’t have been more elated if James Dean had suddenly come back to life and sat down at our table.
“Cool it, Ab-er, Gina!” I hissed. “Get a grip on yourself. You’re acting like a starstruck bobby-soxer instead of a wicked woman of the world. And you’d better calm yourself down right now, kiddo, because a lot of famous people will be here tonight. And since they’ll all be sitting in the mezzanine-which, according to the gossip columnists, is reserved for VIPs-you need to keep your starry eyes fixed on the dance floor. Especially after the show begins,” I cautioned. “We can’t afford to offend our generous and demanding host.”
“I get your drift,” Abby said, wrenching her gaze away from the upper level and happily focusing it on one of the two champagne cocktails our waiter had just placed in front of us. “Here’s to life, liberty, and the pursuit of justice!” she warbled, holding her glass up for a toast.
“Cheers,” I said, clinking her cocktail for good luck, trying to suppress my nagging fear that we were headed for a nasty night.
ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER-AFTER we’d devoured our Waldorf salads, broiled lobster tails, lyonnaise potatoes, and chocolate éclairs (well, we had to keep up our strength!)-the bandleader brought a torrid tango to a heart-throbbing climax and then signaled for a drumroll. The spotlights mounted in the golden leaves of the palm trees closest to the dance floor began to flash and spin, prompting the lingering hoofers to return to their seats.
It was showtime.
Suddenly, without any introduction or fanfare, eight gorgeous young women wearing silver dresses and silver flowers in their hair pranced onto the dance floor. These were the celebrated Copa girls-the uniformly tall, slinky, and ultrabuxom beauties often referred to in the gossip columns as “Manhattan’s choicest” (which I thought made them sound more like meat than showgirls, but maybe that was the point).
The band struck up a snappy cha-cha and the girls began to dance-four in front, four in back-swaying their hips to the music and shaking their shoulders to the beat. Their dresses were strapless, and even more revealing than Abby’s and mine, so every little shimmy caused a turbulent undulation of exposed flesh. All of the men in the audience were mesmerized. Some of the women, too.
I, on the other hand, was in agony. I had to pee so bad I thought I would pop. Knowing Corona would be making his entrance soon, and that I couldn’t possibly last through his entire performance without relieving myself, I decided I’d better make a run for the bathroom while I had the chance.
Jumping to my feet, but crouching as low as I could to avoid obstructing the audience’s view, I leaned over and announced my intentions directly into Abby’s ear:
“Gotta go to the loo, Sue. Be back in a few.”
She was having such a good time, she barely noticed my rhyme. Or, for that matter, my frantic departure.
Chapter 27
THE LADIES’ ROOM WAS EMPTY-AND IN VERY short order, so was my bladder. (Word to the wise: If you’re in a crowded nightclub and you want to pee in private, hit the john during showtime.) I wasn’t alone in the elegant lavatory for long, however. As soon as I stepped out of the stall and over to one of the pearl white porcelain sinks to wash my hands, a tiny Negro woman in a black dress and a starched white apron appeared out of nowhere with a white linen hand towel draped over her skinny arm. She smiled and handed the towel to me at the exact moment I needed it.
I thanked her profusely and gave her a dollar, an expansive gesture that-since I’d splurged on a pair of shoes that afternoon, and bought a bunch of stuff for lunch, and repaid the eight bucks Abby had loaned me over the last couple of days- left me with three singles, three quarters, one dime, one nickel, and two pennies. Not that I was counting.
As I left the lavatory and entered the plush, gray-carpeted lounge, the door to the room burst open, and a woman in a turquoise taffeta cocktail dress burst in. Her green eyes were flashing with fury, and her light brown pageboy was flying out of control. She rushed straight over to me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and stared intently at my face.
“So it really is you!” she spluttered. “I thought it was, but with the blonde wig I wasn’t so sure. What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me or something?”
I almost wet my pants (again). It was Jocelyn Fritz, otherwise known as Candy, and she was not happy to see me.
“Following you?” I rasped, keeping my voice down to a near whisper. (I didn’t want to alarm the little woman hiding in the washroom.) “Why on earth would I be following you? I didn’t even know you were here.”
“Does Sabrina know?” Now she looked frightened as well as furious.
“That you’re here?” I said. “I don’t think so. She knew I was coming, so I’m sure she would have mentioned it if she thought you were, too.”
Jocelyn heaved a harsh sigh, released her grip on my shoulders, then spun around and sat down on one of the posh pink-and-gray-striped chairs in front of the glass-topped makeup counter. She propped her elbows on the counter and dropped her head in her hands, covering her face with her fingers.
“Are you okay?” I probed, quickly sitting down next to her. “You seem really upset. What’s the matter?”
She raised her head and gave me a guarded look. “I can’t tell you,” she said. “You’d just make trouble for me, and God knows I’m in enough of that already.”
“Trouble?” I croaked. “What kind of trouble?”
“Forget about it. It’s none of your business.”
“Does it have anything to do with Melody’s murder?”
She didn’t answer.
“Because if it does, then it is my business, and I need you to tell me exactly what’s going on.” I peered deep into her anxious eyes and gave her my sternest Susan Hayward scowl.