Knotted fingers swirled the freshly drained glass in a slow circle as the barely melted ice clinked. “You blink and it’s gone, Sammy.”
“That’s life, sir,” said the small, dark man with the neatly graying mustache.
“You know, Green Eddie used to make sure they put a fresh bottle, a bucket of ice and a special glass in front of me when I came in.”
“Yeah, I love that story, too, but it’s eight years now that Green Eddie is dead.”
The old man released the glass and ran his hand through his thin gray hair. His cloudy green eyes were highlighted by Technicolor red rims, which were virulent cousins to his benign pink, pocked nose. “Radio...Soulless voices made of air...Vanity of vanity, all is vanity, so sayeth...” He looked over the bartender’s shoulder into the mirrored shelves behind. Between the colored containers of spirits he watched Paul navigate the crowded room, destined for a well-placed table. “What flavor is this then?”
Sammy looked up. “That’s Paul Waverly. He opens at the Raven’s Nest tomorrow. He’s got a big new hit--’Kiss Me Here’. The chicks eat him up.”
“And so shall they spit him out, soon enough my boy.” He pulled a worn deck of cards from his coat pocket, “Shall we cut for another libation, Sammy.”
“No disrespect Mr. Vine, but I’ve had all the bitter pills I can swallow and I’ve given out all my freebies for the night, so maybe you should move on home.”
“Quite right, dear boy. I shall not draw any further upon your deep well of hospitality, Sammy. I believe I shall introduce myself to
“I’d rather you didn’t, but it's a free country.” Sammy’s voice trailed off as he moved to attend to a paying customer.
“What’s the word old-timer,” said Paul as the old man lowered himself heavily into the seat opposite.
“I hear you are going to be famous,” said Mr. Vine with a smile.
“May already be, for all I know,” Paul answered, his eyes drinking in the bubbling swirl of bodies about the room. “I thought I saw Winchell, maybe you should ask him.”
‘I seem to remember that I used to be famous, but I would not swear to it.“
Paul eyed him as the waiter set a drink before him. “Want a drink, Mr...?”
“Vine, Arthur Vine. Don’t mind if I do. I developed a taste for rum when I worked at a sugar plantation in
“What do you like mixed with your elixir, sir,” asked the laconic waiter.
“You may superficially acquaint it with some cola, friend.” He turned to Paul, “I am told you open a new engagement tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, that’s right. We’re playing the Raven’s Nest for a month and then we are on the road for three.”
“Most impressive, indeed.”
Paul was watching a woman move intrepidly, if somewhat recklessly, across the room in his direction. “Hang on to your hat, old man, but we are on a collision course with the good ship Mabel Herrmann.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, child.”
“I know her by lack of reputation only, but I got a feeling that’s gonna change.”
“I want to meet you,” she said offering her hand for a shake. “I want to ask you,” she leaned over, her chestnut hair sweeping before her face. “Kiss me where?”
Mr. Vine chuckled. Waverly smiled and said, “Sit down, Miss Herrmann. I’m a big fan of yours, too.”
“Who are you?” She asked, her head turning to the old man as she sat down.
“Arthur Vine, star of stage, singer of popular songs, monologist and prestidigitator, my dear. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but alas, it is well past my bedtime, so I shall leave you children to do the things that young people do. I will find our server and send him to you.” He stood, his fists supporting him against the tabletop. He looked down at the green cloth. He appeared ready to speak, but thought better of it. While waving slowly, he deftly flipped his hand, producing a playing card--the Jack of Hearts. He laid the card on the table and headed towards the door. He intercepted the waiter, took a glass off his tray, drank it quickly and pointed to Paul’s table. As he reached the door, he stopped and spoke with a small, gaunt man with blonde, almost white, hair. Arthur embraced him, patted him on the back, perhaps a little too energetically for the young man’s comfort and they left together.
“Yes, well...” said Paul, returning his attention to Mabel with a certain smile.
“I think I remember him. What songs did he do?” Hundreds of platinum tassels swept in waves across her blouse as she moved.
Paul smiled, “Hell if I know. Will you have a drink?”
“Never touch the stuff. Gin and soda with lime. Make it a double, if you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry tonight.” She looked at Paul intently. “What a fresh face you have, honey. Not like a baby’s, more like an altar boy.”
“You got me pegged, sister,” Paul chuckled. “I lead the choir, too.” Paul leaned back and gave the drink order to the sleepy-eyed waiter, who disappeared instantly. Paul turned to Mabel and said, “That suit looks like it’s alive.”
“Don’t you love it,” she said bouncing up. The dress danced in the glittering light. She swirled quickly and smartly and landed in her seat, whether by accident or design, Paul could not tell. “I wore it in the picture I made and the studio let me have it. Sometimes it feels like I’m crawling with bugs.” Mabel had become famous at a young age and, though her legend was old, she had not long ago passed thirty and her experience was nearly invisible upon her oval face. “You are playing someplace fancy tomorrow, aren’t you.”
“I’m opening at the Raven’s Nest, tomorrow, for a month. Why don’t you come as my guest.”
“Don’t let’s talk about tomorrow, when tonight is still young. Have you eaten? Are you alone?--I’m with some old bore that owns something big somewhere in New Jersey...Let’s get supper before he wakes up and comes looking for me.”
“I think it would be nice if one of my guests waited for the waiter to come back with an order before leaving. Besides, I am not in a hurry tonight. Where’s the fire, anyhow.”
“You may find out soon enough, kiddo.”
“If I wasn’t so naive, I’d be shocked.”
The waiter set the drinks down silently and was gone. Mabel drained her glass with dispatch. “I’m hungry.”
“All right, go outside and tell the driver where we’re going and I’ll be out in a minute.”
Paul watched her walk away, molding his plans for the evening to her body. He took a long drink from his glass, tossed a bill on the table, and took a brief look around the room as he slowly rose, vaguely scanning for Mabel’s escort. He took two steps when a commotion arose at the entrance. Voices rumbled and suddenly an angry female voice rose above it all. As he approached he saw Mabel climbing onto a table pulling her blouse over her head and throwing it at a bewildered young woman.
“I didn’t have to get down on all fours to earn mine you no-talent bitch.” Mabel was being held around her waist by the headwaiter. He turned to Paul with a look of exasperation.
“Let’s go, Missy,” Paul said, putting himself between her murderous lightning and its thunderstruck objective. The headwaiter released her and she flung herself at Paul. He bent slightly and her abdomen rammed hard into his shoulder, knocking the wind from her lungs with a gasp. With great effort, he lifted her and carried her outside to the car, which waited down the block. A waiter came running behind with her limp blouse dangling from his hand. Paul set her down heavily on the hood of the car, to the alarm of his driver, who had barely the time to open the door. She looked up at Paul with mute fury. He shook his head with a smile and let out a closed-mouth laugh. Her face softened to a frown.
