Chapter 12
She never saw Teddy Phipps again. After the sordid episode in Mauri King's office she went back to the apartment. Teddy had been in and out and had left a note saying he would see her that night at the club.
Noreen stood in the shower for an hour, trying to wash the dirt off her. The actual physical ordeal had not been so bad, because King was only half a man and had been able to do little but grunt over her rigid body. Noreen had closed her eyes and endured it. Better Studsy than this, she told herself, but it had not turned out that way.
She dressed, packed, and left a note for Teddy. She wrote simply that she was going away and would probably not see him again. She thanked him for everything he had done for her. Quite sincerely. Teddy Phipps Was one of the few nice people she had known in her brief life.
King had given her a hundred dollars advance on her salary and a note of introduction to Rocco Blase who owned The Lighthouse. He had also written down directions for getting to Montauk Point.
Noreen took a last look around the little apartment, felt a pang for poor Teddy, then went out into Charles Street and hailed a passing cab.
"Pennsylvania Station, please. Long Island side."
At three the next afternoon, having spent the night in a rooming house in the little village of Montauk, she was trudging along the blacktop road that led to The Lighthouse. Taxis were at a premium in Montauk, and anyway she was determined to save every. dime she could. She was not planning on staying at The Lighthouse very long, if what her landlady had told her was true.
That austere widow lady, with a hatchet face and leathery skin and the look of a Cape Codder about her, had sniffed loudly when Noreen explained why she was in Montauk.
"Nothing but riff-raff goes to the Lighthouse," she said. "None of die locals. Just bums from New York and Brooklyn. Gangsters, I call them. A bunch of no-goods who come up here to fish and get drunk. Drunk, mostly."
She looked at the girl. "Hmmmmm-a pretty girl like you shouldn't go getting yourself mixed up with trash like that! That Rocco Blas' has got a bad name around here."
Now, in the bright afternoon, with the sea a deep blue to her left and the gulls wheeling and mewing over the endless length of sepia beach, Noreen told herself that she must stick it out for awhile, no matter how bad. She had to have money!
The sun grew hotter. The Lighthouse was about three miles out of town, where the beach rumpled itself into enormous dunes. Her reliable and disapproving informant, the landlady, had informed her that the place was in a desolate part of the beach. 'There were no near neighbors.
"Couldn't nobody live near that crew," the old lady said, acidly. "No decent folk would want to!"
When she reached a culvert Noreen stopped for a moment. She dropped the suitcase and sat on the little concrete bridge, watching the gulls fluttering and swooping over the beach. The breeze off the ocean was tinged with salt and she was grateful for the invigorating dampness. She tilled her lungs with a sigh. Ah, that was good. In time perhaps she might get the smell of Mauri King out of her nostrils.
The sound of a car approaching made her look back along the way she had come. It wasn't much of a car, judging from the way the engine was banging and knocking. As it grew nearer there were several loud explosions and gouts of blue smoke hovered around it. Noreen, even in her tired and dispirited mood, couldn't help smiling. It reminded her a little of Waffle's old Chevie, only worse.
To her surprise the wreck stopped as it drew abreast of her. A young man was driving. He was good looking in a skinny kind of way. He poked his head out the window.
"Excuse me, Miss. Would you happen to be Mary Cassidy?"
Noreen nodded. It was the name she and the agent had agreed on.
Now she said, "Yes, I'm Mary Cassidy. What about it?"
The young man's smile vanished. "No need to get huffy about it, Miss Cassidy. I'm only trying to do you a favor. I'm Hank Butler. I work at the Lighthouse too. Rocco sent me in to meet you at the train, but I got balled up somehow. How did you get way out here?"
Noreen still eyed him with suspicion. "I walked, that's how. I came up last night on the last train from New York."
"Oh, I see." He reached to push the car door open for her. "Hop in, then. I guess we all got our wires crossed. Rocco just got the telegram this morning saying you were coming."
Noreen decided that he looked okay. He was skinny, with narrow shoulders under the plain white shirt with no tie. His face was deeply tanned, but she thought he looked sick just the same. A small spot of color burned in each of his lean cheeks. His hair was thick and dark as her own, brushed back away from a high forehead.
"Well? You think you can trust me to get you safely to the Lighthouse, Miss Cassidy?" His eyes, alive and snapping back, were amused.
"I'm sorry." She lifted her suitcase into the back of the old car. "It's just that I don't like to take rides from strangers." She got in beside him and pulled her skirt down.
"Don't blame you. But we won't be strangers long. You arc the singer, aren't you?"
Noreen nodded, thinking of the half dozen or so numbers she had learned with Teddy before the roof fell on her. "Yes. What kind of place is this Lighthouse?"
Hank Butler gave her a quick glance of surprise.
"You mean you don't know! You came out here cold, without knowing what it's like?"
"I said so, didn't I. My agent didn't have time to tell me much."
"Okay-okay. Get the chip off your shoulder, for Pete's sake. It's just that, well, Rocco's joint is pretty bad. Even for a joint. And the entertainers we get are usually the same-usually they're beatup old has-beens. Or never was's." He shot her another look. "Sure can't say that about you, Miss Cassidy. You-well, Rocco is going to flip when he sees you!"
Noreen was liking him by now. She wondered how old he was-surely not more than twenty-five or so. And why did he give such an impression of illness?
"I just hope he flips over the way I sing," she said.
Hank Butler was driving as fast as the old bus would go. Around thirty. "You needn't worry much about that! Not with your looks. Anyway that's what I meant when I asked you if you knew about the setup here. Rocco isn't so much interested in how his singers sing as in how they treat the guests." He snorted. "Guests! Well, I suppose you can call them that. They pay their bills. But they're a pretty rough lot."
Noreen felt her heart sink. What had she gotten into this time?
"What do you mean?" she asked. "And how come you know so much about it? What do you do at the Lighthouse?"
"Wait a minute." He swung the old car into a narrow sandy lane leading to the beach. A moment later they passed a faded wooden signboard that read: The Lighthouse-Food-Drinks-Dancing-Entertainment.
Hank Butler eased the junker to a stop. Noreen looked at him in momentary alarm. Surely her luck couldn't be this bad-
"Relax," he told her as he correctly read the expression on her face. "I'm not going to make a pass at you. But I think we should have a little talk before I take you any farther."
"Talk about what?"
"You. And this job and the Lighthouse. I've got an idea that you haven't the faintest idea what you're getting into. You're a very beautiful young girl, Mary, that's obvious. And that's the key word-young. I wonder if you know the score?"
"Tell me, then," she commanded. "What's this all about?" She fumbled in her purse for a pack of cigarettes. When she offered him one he refused. "No. Can't. Doctor's orders."
He waited until she lit up before he continued.
"Rocco Blase is an old Brooklyn hoodlum. The stories are that he was a small cog in Murder, Inc. I wouldn't know about that. From the type of patrons we get I'd say that it's probably true. You see, Mary, the boys come up from the big town to cool off and relax. Some of them bring women with them, some don't. But there's always a lot of drinking and hell-raising. Sometimes it gets pretty tough."
Noreen smoked and watched him with a little quirk around her red mouth. She was worried by this turn of events but she had no intention of letting him see it.
"And you think this is no place for an innocent little Irish girl like me? Is that it?"
He did not smile. "I didn't say that. I don't know anything about you. Maybe you know exactly what you're doing. Then maybe you don't! You want to take some free advice from' a guy you just met?"
"What?"
"Let me turn this heap around and drive you back to Montauk. Take the next train back to town. I'll give Rocco a story that you never showed up."
"That bad?"
Hank nodded, his lean face serious. "That bad. Well?"
She shook her head. "No. Thanks for the advice, Hank, but I can't go back now. I need this job.
Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself." Yeah, she thought bitterly. Like with Mauri King I can.
Hut this was different. Rocco would have nothing on her. Unless King told him, of course. A chill traced down her spine at the thought. But that was a bridge to cross when she came to it.
Hank started the car again. "Okay. I tried. Now about your routines? I hope you don't run to anything fancy. I'm probably the world's worst pianist."
She stared at him with new interest. "You? You play the piano here?"
He flashed his perfect teeth at her, shining in his dark face. "I'm the piano here. The orchestra, too. What did you expect? A symphony?"
"I-I told you I didn't know what to expect."
"So you did. Well, I'm the music department. A real sour piano, but I'll do my best for you. I'm really a composer, you see. Trying to be anyway. And most composers are lousy musicians." There was an edge to his laughter. "If that's any criterion I should be a great composer someday."
"Do you live at the club too?"
"No. I've got a shack, a hovel, a little way down the beach. Some rich fisherman built it a few years ago and then got tired of fishing. I get it for free. I take my meals at the Lighthouse. And speaking of that eminent night spot, there it is. Now do you still want to stay?"
The Lighthouse was a large sprawling two-story frame building. It gave the impression of having been built a little at a time. On the roof, supported by guy wires, was a wooden mockup of a lighthouse. Behind the place was a fenced in parking lot.
The whole layout spoke of neglect and decay. The building badly needed a coat of paint.
"Not much to look at, is it?" Hank was letting the old Ford idle along, barely moving. "Still not too late, Mary. We can still go back."
Hank Butler carried her bag into the building. It was cool and dark inside and she heard the gentle whir of a large airconditioning unit. A not unpleasant smell of food and beer and tobacco permeated the place.
She followed Hank down three wide stairs, past a checkroom and into a long wide room filled with tables and chairs. Along one side was a long bar. A juke box glowed silently in a corner. At the rear of the room was a tiny stage with a grand.
Hank jerked his head toward the piano. "Our spot. I play, you sing, nobody listens." He put her bag down near the bar. "Stay here a minute and I'll find Rocco. He's probably back in the kitchen." He disappeared through a swinging door to the left of the stage.
She regarded the back bar, shiny with bottles and glasses. Someone had left a shot glass on the bar near her and she picked it up. Full measure. At least this Rocco Blase didn't run a gyp joint like Nick's Sawbuck Club. Probably afraid to, she thought with amusement. Some of the customers might shoot him.
Hank Butler came back with Rocco Blase. Hank's manner had changed now. He was stiff, almost formal. He introduced them and picked up Noreen's suitcase. "I'll take this up, Rocco. Same room?"
"Yeah, Hank. You know. End room."
Rocco Blase was the fattest man Noreen had ever seen. He must weigh 500 pounds, she thought. His head, with thick gray hair, perched on his body like a grape on a pumpkin. His voice, issuing from that huge body, was absurdly high and thin.
"Come sit down," he commanded. He waddled over to a table near the stairs leading up to the foyer. The girl noticed that his chair was specially built for him. He sank into it with a grunt, looking and sounding like an elephant that has had a hard day. His little eyes peered at her through rolls of flesh.
"For once I gotta admit that bum King told the truth. You're a real looker, Mary. Okay I call you Mary, huh? Everybody good friends around Rocco's joint. No formality."
"Of course, Mr. Blase."
"Mr. Blase? What I just tell you? No formality. You call me Rocco, okay?"
Noreen smiled at him. "Okay."
His little head wagged. "Okay. I think you'll do all right. You sing good? That bum agent says you got a voice like an angel." Rocco laughed. "That bum? He wouldn't know an angel if he sees one. But I guess you can sing good enough for my joint. You and Hank work all that out. I don't care so long as you keep the creeps happy. King tell you about your other job?"
"No. I thought I was hired as a singer."
"Sure. Of course. But also you gotta sell cigars and cigarettes, like that. Stand up."
Wondering, the girl stood up. Rocco's beady little eyes ran up and down her figure. "Pull up the skirt so I can see the gams."
Noreen listed her skirt above her knees. He leaned forward with a grunt. "Higher. Come on. Say like I'm a customer maybe. I gotta right to look."
She hoisted her skirt to her stocking tops.
Rocco leaned back with a satisfied look. "Okay. Fine. You got 'em, Mary. Too good for my creeps. You should maybe be in a chorus line someplace in the big time. Maybe, you work out here, Rocco fix that, huh?"
"Thank you, Mr.-Rocco. I'll try my best. I want to make good."
She was glad to see Hank Butler again. Rocco seemed harmless enough, but something about his eyes made her nervous. But she told herself that it was nothing. Just a nervous hangover from her experience with the agent.
Hank showed her to her room, pointed out the shower, and said he would meet her downstairs so they could work out a routine for the evening. Noreen bathed, changed into slacks and a halter and went down. She was starving but made no mention of it as she worked with Hank.
Hank had been right about his piano playing. He was terrible. Even Noreen, with her brief experience, could tell that. Compared to Teddy Phipps he was little better than an amateur. Yet she found herself more and more attached to him as they worked. She began to think him handsome, with his thin, flushed features glowing as though she had a perpetual fever. He was kind to her, and in a very short time they managed to work out a routine of a dozen songs, old and new, that Hank thought would satisfy the patrons.
That first night went off easier than Noreen had expected. She put on her costume, a pair of brief spangled pants, a tiny bra, black net stockings rolled high on her thighs and high heels. In this outfit she circulated among the tables peddling cigars and cigarettes. By midnight the tender flesh of her thighs, between the stockings and pants, was black and blue from the pinches but she did not really mind.
When she told Hank about it he merely gave her a little smile and said, "I told you. You've got to expect that. If that's the worst that happens you'll be lucky. Now why don't you take a break while I give them some of the oldies. This bunch likes to sing."
Noreen began to see that singing was going to be the least part of her duties. Hank knew his audience and, if he played badly, they did not know or care. Most of the men, Noreen had noticed, were middle aged. Some were quite elderly. They dressed well, if flashily, and the predominant accent was that of Brooklyn "and New York. Large bills were tossed around with abandon, though none had yet come her way. Most of them were in some form of the rackets, Hank said, and this was their playground-one of them, at least.
The women were younger looking. Floosie types, the girl thought. For a moment she remembered Mrs. Poindexter, back at Sunny View, with her beautiful face and manners, her poise and air of breeding. Noreen shook the thought away. Maybe she could never be like that, but on the other hand she didn't have to be like these women either.
The place was still half full at three o'clock, when Rocco told Hank and the girl to knock off. By then she had made sixty dollars in tips. One man had given her a twenty dollar bill for a cigar.
This partially compensated for the fact that nobody had paid any attention to her singing. Most of the time she could hardly hear herself against the uproar in the place. The men watched her, though, their eyes approving her slim legs in the black net hose and lingering on her exposed bosom. Some of the women were hostile.
Rocco, however, was well pleased. "You gonna do okay," he told her. "Just what I want in this joint. You sing okay, too, even if I can't hear you." He placed a fat hand on her bare shoulder. "You go to bed now, okay? Goodnight, Hank."
Hank said goodnight and left. Noreen went to her room and locked the door. Later, just as she was about to fall asleep, she heard the waddling shuffle of Rocco in the hall. He stopped before her door and she could hear him wheezing. She watched, in the bright moonlight, as the doorknob moved several times. Then he shuffled away.
Noreen sighed. She was too beat to really worry at the moment. She could handle this too, she supposed. So much had happened to her in such a short time. Things just kept getting tougher. Well, you had to face it. You didn't quit.
Hank's face drifted before her as she went to sleep. He was nice. Sick, too. One of the bartenders had told her that Hank had the bug. TB. Wouldn't go to a hospital until he finished his symphony or concerto, or whatever he was writing.
Noreen wondered how it would be to fall in love with Hank Butler? To be loved by him? Really loved, cared for, protected for once in her life! Could it happen?
And she could take care of him, too. Nurse him back to health. Cherish him forever.
She knew she was dreaming like a silly girl, imagining impossible things, but she didn't care. There were times when you just had to let your guard down.