Bedside Murder

As soon as Wallace Wint left, Kim said, “He came in and asked me if I were John Whitson. I told him no, and he said I looked like John and he asked me if I were an artist too. I told him that I was a lawyer and that my name was Kimberly Hale. Then he said that he noticed I was with you. I said that he was a good noticer. He gave me a very lewd look and asked if it was a serious thing, or if I was just a fancy passing. He told me who he was. I put one hand against his chest and pushed him a little. I said that if he felt like sticking anything in his column, it better be dignified, or I’d personally print a small personal message on his hide. He assured me that he was always dignified and asked me if a date had been set. I told him he should ask you and if you wanted to confirm it, it was okay with me. He asked me if you’d stop singing commercially, and I told him certainly not.”

I gasped. “You didn’t overdo it, did you?”

“I don’t think so. Tomorrow will tell.”

I got him a small corner table not far from the dance floor at the Staccato. The place would have given anyone snow blindness, but I knew that it would fill up later on. I had time to sit and have a drink with Kim. Sam Lescott came over. Sam is a balding man in his late fifties with the energy of a man half his age. His features are somewhat marred from the old days when he did a bit of prize fighting in the ring.

“Sit down, Sam,” I said. “Meet Kim Hale.”

They shook hands. Sam sighed and sat down. He waved a hand at the empty tables.

“Look at the place!” he exclaimed. “Without you, honey, it would look that way all night. Take care of yourself. You’re money in the bank for tired old Sammy.”

I saw Kim’s hand tighten on the tabletop. He asked in an easy tone, “I suppose some of your competition would like to see Laura Lynn booked for a hospital instead of the Staccato?”

“They wouldn’t cry none if she broke a couple legs.”

“Is there anybody in particular, Sam, who’d like to see you have trouble making ends meet?” Kim asked. I kicked him under the table.

Sam gave him an odd expressionless stare. “If you’re asking if I got enemies, sure. All kidding aside, I just talk like this to make Hank feel good. She’s a top star. But there’s other toppers, friend. She gets sick and I get somebody else. In this business you got to give the customers top entertainment.”

Kim smiled easily. “And you certainly know how to do it.”

“I been doing it long enough, Mr. Hale.” Sam stood up. “See you around,” he said and wandered off.

Betty was waiting for me up in the dressing room. With our usual struggle we managed to get the Ryan figure into the silver gown. The top of the dress doesn’t start until it gets way down to here. And I mean way down. Sammy says half the customers come back time after time to see if I’ll ever get the hiccups. The rest of the dress fits in such a way that if I ever get a mosquito bite on one hip, it won’t be possible to zip it up the side.

I sat and smoked and listened to Sonny’s boys ride through the numbers, then the drum roll, the announcement, and I stubbed out the cigarette, went down the stairs and out across the floor, the spot picking me up at the doorway and taking me on out to the mike. Even after all these years, it’s hard to remember not to squint into the glare of it. Some juvenile yowled like a wolf, but I kept my smile on and gave them “Old Fashioned Love” in that voice that Downbeat

calls “low down and dirty.”

I gave them a current one, then another oldie and when they clapped long enough, another current one. The spot carried me back to the door, then shifted to Sonny. I threaded my way between the tables and Kim saw me coming. He jumped up and held my chair.

After Sonny finished his special number, the lights came up a little. I could see that Kim was uncomfortable. He wanted to look at me, and yet my show dress was so extreme that he was shy about it. He jingled change, fiddled with his glass and kept tugging at his necktie.

When the break came, I caught Sonny’s eye and motioned him over. Kim stood up and I introduced them. Sonny sat down. He is aging and has been aging since 1901. But he fights bravely against it. The black wavy hair and the teeth are detachable. He is fabulously beaten on the massage table to keep the waistline down. He eats bland foods, doesn’t smoke or drink, gets all the sleep he can and exercises most religiously.

Sam says that for all practical purposes, Sonny Rice died in 1931, and the current walking corpse is the result of pure will power. From forty feet away, Sonny looks twenty-three. From twenty feet away he looks thirty-two. From six feet away he looks fifty. From three feet away he looks as though he had been taken out of one of those Egyptian mummy boxes and reactivated.

Most women get to see Sonny from forty feet away. His voice is quick, light and gay — with something in it like the voice of a woman who is laughing while clutching a sodden handkerchief and mopping at her eyes.