The Lonely Lady (30 page)

After that I was even more determined to show her. I attacked my typewriter with new ferocity. But it didn’t matter. Nothing good came of it.

I felt so totally alone. I had no friends—male or female. Show business camaraderie didn’t seem to exist on the level on which I lived, at least not for me. And then suddenly one day I became brutally aware of something else—the fact that I was no longer young.

I had answered a cattle call for girls who were to play bits and extras in a beach scene for a film that would be shooting on Long Island. The audition was held in a large hall over the Roseland ballroom on Broadway and we all had to appear in bathing suits and bikinis. I was almost last in a line of about thirty girls. I stood waiting to walk past the casting director and the producer, hoping that all the jobs would not be filled before I got my turn.

My figure had always been good. I knew that. And I made sure that I kept it that way by spending a half hour every morning doing exercises. I heard my name being called and walked out across the small stage.

In the center of the stage I paused, turned around slowly as we had been instructed, and then walked away from them, swinging my hips suggestively. I had almost reached the end of the stage when I heard the producer whisper, “No.”

“But she’s got a great figure and a sensational ass,” the casting director rasped.

The producer was trying to whisper, but I could hear him. There was a tone of finality in his voice. “Too old. She has to be at least twenty-five.”

I went around behind the stage to get my clothes. The other girls chattered as they dressed, but none of them seemed to have anything to say to me. The producer’s words were beginning to sink in. Too old. They were all younger than I—seventeen, eighteen—bright and fresh and untarnished.

Suddenly I wondered what I was doing trying to live in a world I had outgrown.

Broadway was sweltering in the July heat, but I decided to walk back uptown to my apartment.

By the time I got to my street I was perspiring and exhausted. I decided to go into the liquor store, where I bought a cold bottle of white California wine. Then I went up to my apartment and began to drink. Within an hour I was smashed. The wine worked better on an empty stomach and I had not eaten that morning because I did not want my stomach to bulge when I got into my bikini.

I sat at the window, staring out at the hot streets. Shit. What was the matter with me?

The telephone began to ring, but since I was expecting no calls I decided not to answer. But when it continued to ring I finally picked up.

It was my mother. From the steely control in her voice I knew it was something bad. “JeriLee? Where have you been all day? I’ve been trying to get you.”

I was angry, yet somehow frightened. “For Christ’s sake, Mother! I was out looking for a job. What do you think I’ve been doing?”

The steel was still there. “Your father had a heart attack this morning. He died before they could get him to the hospital.”

The pain seemed tightened around my heart. Then I found my voice. “I’ll be home right away, Mother.”

Chapter 20

It seemed as if the whole town turned out for his funeral. Many stores closed during the morning and the crowd at the church spilled out into the street. The words of the minister were carried to them by loudspeaker.

“John Randall was a good man. He gave freely of his life and time for the welfare of his neighbors. Many of us here today have been enriched by his aid and kind advice. We shall miss him. And we shall always remember him.”

Then the flower-laden coffin was carried out to the hearse and borne to the cemetery, where he was laid to rest. Later after the neighbors had all gone home, Mother and I were alone.

“Let me make you a cup of tea,” I said.

She nodded. “He hadn’t been feeling well that morning before he went to work,” she said, sipping her tea. “I wanted him to stay home and rest. But he said he had too much to do. His secretary said he was dictating a letter when he suddenly slumped over his desk. She called for help right away. But there was nothing anyone could do.”

“Try not to think about it now,” I said.

Her eyes met mine. “Sometimes I think I did not give him enough. He might have wanted a son of his own. But he never said anything. He knew how busy I was with the two of you.”

“He loved you,” I said. “He was happy.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I would not like to feel that I cheated him of anything he wanted.”

“All he ever wanted was you, Mother,” I said.

We were silent for a long time.

“You know many things will have to be changed now,” she said finally. “Without Father’s income, we’ll have to cut back.”

I didn’t speak.

“I was thinking it might be a good idea if you came back home to live.”

“What would I do, Mother?” I asked. “There’s no work for me here.”

“I won’t be able to continue sending you the hundred dollars a week.”

“I can understand that, Mother. I’ll manage.”

“How?” she asked directly.

“I’ll get something soon,” I said. “And I’m almost finished with my new play. Fannon promised me that he would put it on.”

“What if it fails like the other one?” she asked.

“Then I’ll try again,” I said.

She rose from her chair. “I think I’ll go up and lie down,” she said. She started from the room, then turned back. “You know there’s always a room for you here if things don’t work out.”

“Yes, Mother. Thank you.”

I watched her slowly climb the stairs to her room. She was still a good-looking woman. Her back was straight and she held her head high. Suddenly I had a feeling of admiration for her. I wished I could be like her. She always seemed to know exactly what she had to do.

***

My apartment was hot and musty. I threw open the windows. Even with the noise of the traffic it was better than the dank dead smell of the closed-up rooms.

I picked up the mail that had accumulated in the week I’d been away. It was mostly bills.

Idly I opened the latest copy of
Casting News
. I went through the casting calls and open auditions. There was really nothing for me. Then an ad caught my eye.

I reread the ad slowly, thinking that it must be a new club. The only two I knew of were the Playboy and the Gaslight. In my financial condition, a hundred and sixty-five dollars a week sounded good, and they had to be legitimate. They did require police department and state liquor board licenses. The hours seemed right for me too. It would leave me time to write and follow up any other jobs that might turn up.

I checked my watch. It was almost noon. And it was already Thursday. The ad had been in all week. If I wanted to get a crack at it I had to move quickly. Having made up my mind, I went into the bathroom, dumped a whole bottle of bath salts into the tub and turned on the water. While the tub was running I lined up all my makeup including the false eyelashes on the shelf over the sink. I was determined to look my best.

***

It was a wide gray stone building with black-painted double doors. On either side of the door were heavy brass coach lamps that matched the brass late on the door. The letters etched into the brass read simply, “Torchlight.”

I tried the door but found it locked. I checked my watch. It was after two o’clock. Then I saw the small buzzer almost concealed under the brass plate.

When I pressed it the door opened automatically and I stepped inside. There was a smell of new paint and in some of the rooms off the entrance hall I could see workmen hammering and tacking draperies on the walls and over the windows.

One of the workmen saw me. “Upstairs,” he said, pointing. “The front room.”

The girl sitting behind the desk looked at me with a bored expression.

“I came in answer to the ad,” I said.

Her expression didn’t change. “All the jobs are filled.”

“The ad said interviews all week.”

“I can’t help that. We had over four hundred girls here in the first two days.” She reached for a piece of paper. “The place was a madhouse. You can leave your name and number if you like. We’ll get in touch with you if there’s an opening.”

The telephone on her desk buzzed. “Yes, Mr. DaCosta. Right away, Mr. DaCosta,” she said. After putting down the phone, she looked up at me. “Do you want to leave your name or not?” she asked impatiently.

I played my hunch. “Tell Mr. DaCosta that JeriLee Randall is here.”

The expression on her face changed suddenly. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve heard him mention your name,” she said, picking up the phone again. “Mr. DaCosta, JeriLee Randall is here to see you.” She listened for a moment, then looked at me. “Next floor up, first door on the right.”

He was standing in the open doorway waiting for me, a smile on his face. “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “But I heard the girl downstairs say the name DaCosta and I took the chance it was you.”

“I’ve thought of calling you many times,” he said. “But something always came up.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“How’s it been going?”

“Not good. I came in answer to the ad. But the girl says that all the jobs are filled.”

His face grew suddenly serious. “Do you have any idea of what the job is?”

“Only what I saw in the ad.”

He walked around behind his desk. “It’s a kind of superexpensive Playboy Club with extras—sauna, swimming pool, massage—as well as a cocktail lounge and restaurant. There’ll also be a discotheque in the basement.”

“Sounds like quite an operation.”

“It is,” he said. “We have eight hundred people who have already laid down six hundred dollars apiece for membership. We’ve been looking for some very high class girls to act as hostesses. They have to be very special type girls because they will set the tone of the place. Just as the Bunnies do over at Playboy.”

“How will your hostesses be different?” I asked.

“First, they won’t have to wear those silly costumes. Each hostess will wear a gown especially designed for the room in which she works. Second, they have to be able to talk, to be friendly without being pushy. They must make the members feel comfortable, almost as if they were in their own home.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.

“It is,” he said. He looked at me. “Would you like to see some of the gowns?”

I nodded.

He went to a closet in the corner of the room and took out two gowns. One was Grecian, soft and flowing and very decollete. The other was granny dress of flowered chiffon with a square deep-cut peasant neckline. He held them in front of the window. They were almost transparent. “The girls wear these,” he said. “And nothing else.”

I was silent.

“No bras, no panties, nothing but high-heeled shoes.” He put the gowns back in the closet and returned to his desk. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t think I was applying for a job in the kindergarten,” I said.

There must have been something in the expression on my face that made him come suddenly toward me. He put his hands on my arms and looked down into my eyes. “What happened?” he asked.

“My father died,” I said. Then the tears came and I buried my face against his jacket. “And for the first time in my life I’m frightened.”

Chapter 21

I looked up at the wall clock. It was after eleven. The ten o’clock changeover should have been completed by now. It was time to begin the check. I stopped and looked in the full-length mirror on the door of my small office.

The sheer floor-length granny clung smoothly. I was satisfied. The first few days I had felt very self-conscious about wearing it, but I’d since learned that no one seemed to pay any attention, so I’d stopped thinking about it.

I took the elevator down seven floors to the disco in the basement. It was my job to see that all the stations were covered and make sure that there was always someone to replace the absentees, as well as to arrange work schedules. The club had been Vincent’s idea and it had succeeded even beyond his expectations. Now, six months after the opening, membership applications were backed up for two years. It wasn’t what Vincent really wanted to do but his family had been on his back after allowing him two years to chase film deals that always seemed to evaporate into thin air. And when the Paoluzzi business fell apart his father had drawn the line. Vincent was offered two choices. Either he get into what they considered a proper business or he had to come in with them. Vincent chose the lesser of the two evils. It cost his family more than two million dollars to open the club but they didn’t seem to mind. The money was insignificant. The important thing was that their son was making something of himself.

The loud music echoed in the partially filled disco. It was still a little early for any action there.

Dino, the stocky little maitre d’, came over to me. “Everything’s cool,” he said. “Come down later. We’re trying out a new D.J. He’s supposed to be terrific.”

“I’ll try to make it.” He gave me the checklist of the girls that were working and I went up to the cocktail lounge on the ground floor. Angelo was at the desk in the corner. “It’s good tonight,” he said.

I collected his list and went up another flight to the restaurant. The dining room was just beginning to thin out. Carmine hurried over to me. “I’ll need a couple of extra girls Saturday night,” he said. “I’m just about making it now.”

“I’ll take it up with Vincent.”