Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

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      Chapter VII

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      HALF the audience was Mexican; the orchestra squeaked through the overture with dismal monotony of tempo and old Sam Anderson was always late on cues—he acted as grip, props and curtain man—yet it was a great opening performance. The audience warmed quickly to the routines of Rogers and Gracey, applauded loudly when Ken let his legs fly high in his specialty. They received four curtain calls after the waltz.

      "We pepped them up, the tamales, for their Bible lesson," Anita laughed as they dressed. "Boy, it sure feels good to work."

      He was naked except for his strap and he rubbed his lean body with alcohol, then powdered himself.

      "If you went on that way," Anita said, "you'd wow 'em all the way to Mexico City."

      He had lost his shyness. The stage, sparkling lights, music and applause, was stimulating dry wine. He stepped into his street clothes, bubbling over with enthusiasm.

      "Let's do something," he suggested.

      "I'm for celebrating. Let's see—we each make one fifty profit on the day. I'll chip in and buy a bottle of gin with you."

      "I'd rather not drink," he said.

      "Not even a special Anita cocktail? Here—" she tossed him a dollar bill.

      ​He found Sam Anderson at the stage door. "You can get gin at the corner drug store," said the old man.

      "Where can I buy some flowers?"

      "Right next door. The market is open until eleven."

      He made his purchases and light-heartedly hurried back to the theatre. As he opened the dressing-room door, he saw the black overcoat of a man. He entered. The bulbous-nosed ruddy-cheeked Jew who faced him was Ed Feinberg.

      "I was down to Palm Springs and dropped by to see your act. It's okay," he commented.

      "Can you get us more time?"

      "Yes … and no," he replied.

      "I get it," Anita remarked tersely.

      "I don't," said Ken.

      "This is business," Feinberg said. "I guess Miss Rogers is the business manager of the act, ain't she?"

      "Yes," Ken replied.

      "You leave it to her." He winked. "She knows how to get dates. You keep on dancing. You're all right, kid."

      Ken handed the flowers to Anita.

      "Sweet boy." She smiled. "Now don't you go talking about us two, Ed."

      "I'm on my way," Feinberg said. "Good luck, anyhow."

      "You won't stop over and have a drink with us?"

      "I can't. Gotta sleep in L.A. tonight."

      "So that's an agent," Ken said as the door closed.

      "That's an agent," she agreed. "He took his one buck fifty commission too, the bastard. And more beside."

      She tucked his hand under hers and held it tightly against her body as they walked to the hotel.

      ​"Don't you think we oughta rehearse in the morning?" Ken asked.

      "What for? Take it easy. Don't wear yourself out," she said. "Feinberg saw us, that counted for more'n I thought. Squeeze that lime into my glass. And drink."

      Ken squeezed the lime. "I can't go this stuff much," he said. "It hits the lining of my stomach."

      "You'll get use to gin and alkie again if you stay in vaudeville." She sat down on the bed. "Come here, sit beside me."

      He sat down.

      The room was steeped in the musty odor of an old hotel. Even the bedclothing was impregnated with the dry smell.

      "You're a strange boy," she said. "Here we are old friends. This is the first time in history you've sat next to me on a bed."

      She slipped a bare arm around his neck and kissed him. He smiled and returned the kiss.

      "I like you," he said. "Guess I'm a little afraid of you still."

      "You don't have to be, sweet," she said. "I wanta tell you something tonight before it's too late. You've done great things for me. It wasn't so much that I was busted when I met up with you—I still am, for that matter—but you've made me feel full of wim and wigor again. I'm ambitious again. Anyone who ever said Nita Rogers would slave the way I did with you woulda been put out of the kingdom of heaven just on general principles."

      "I don't believe you were so bad." He laughed. She smiled and they found themselves kissing. She slipped away from him, poured another drink and drank it.

      "You've had me on the wagon, imagine that … me!" ​She put the glass down. "Let's go to my room," she said. "No use bringing my things in here."

      "Let's wait a while," he said. Then he looked up at her and noticed that she was removing her dress. "You can put a newspaper over that table lamp," she was saying. She slipped down into the overstuffed chair. "Pour me another drink, too."

      "Don't drink any more," he said.

      "A little gin and ginger ale won't hurt me. Don't look so funny about me and help me outa this slip." He still sat on the bed. "Come on."

      He rose and poured some ginger ale in her glass.

      "There's only one kinda paradise on earth, boy," she said. "When I tell you I've been stuck on you since I saw you, that means a lot. When I tell you I ain't been out with a man in all that time—" The slip dropped to the floor and she tossed it on the table.

      "Except СКАЧАТЬ