After dressing in record time, I locked up the boat and rushed into Long Beach, treating myself to a steak dinner at the Rusty Pelican restaurant on Ocean Boulevard. An attractive blonde waitress in a skimpy nautical costume with a face and shape you’d want to remember; flirted her way throughout my meal and collected a healthy tip for her efforts. Afterwards, I cruised north along Pacific Coast Highway, before swinging east toward the famous nightclub on Hollywood Boulevard. The late-night burlesque show was already in progress when I arrived.
I hadn’t been to the Florentine Gardens in at least a year. The building hadn’t changed. Same blocky architecture styled from a nondescript sized warehouse into a building resembling a Moorish palace with miniature minarets, Ionic columns propping up the front entrance, and plenty of glowing neon to attract the suckers. On the inside, furnishings in hyper garish bright flashy colors and a formally dressed nightclub staff to part you from your dough before you complained. The whole package was rolled out by the new co-owner, a fast-talking, little showman named Nick Grant an import from New York City with deep mob connections and a flair for show biz. The nightclub’s business had been slipping since the war ended and Grant was brought in as the answer to boosting business. At least it would work that way for a while, anyway. “Gramps” as he was called by his few friends, redecorated the joint with new carpets, fresh paint, replaced the tables and chairs, and hired a better-looking, staff to appeal to a wealthier upscale clientele. He promoted a newer variety of talented acts from fresher comedians and flashier scantily dressed showgirls to popular singers, jugglers, and acrobats all to the accompaniment of big-name, bands. It was an indoor circus, one gigantic floor show that seated hundreds of customers, treated to reasonably priced entertainment accompanied by overpriced food and watered down booze.
I was running late and expected the joint would be packed and I’d have trouble finding a decent seat. I was right. The crowd was far from thin. “Gramps” was the antidote, a P.T. Barnum for distressed nightclubs. I had to drop a couple of fins to get the seat I wanted at a small table to get to see Rhonda, but it would be worth it.
After polishing off several rounds of cheap booze, I sat there patiently listening to the Mill’s Brothers harmonizing “Glow-Worm” and several other favorites, followed by a short comedian named Red something. The little guy was damn funny, in spite of the fact that he was dangerously irreverent with his comments directed towards a couple of local mobsters seated close to the front who weren’t amused. Just as I was losing interest in these acts, my beautiful Rhonda “The Hotter than a Blow Torch Flame,” finally appeared.
She was billed as the evening’s feature striptease headliner in the variety acts glass-encased playbill advertised outside and in spite of all the others scheduled to perform that evening; she was the one everyone was waiting for. I caught a glimpse of Grant standing off to the side beaming at his showstopper and watching for the audience’s reaction as she was introduced. Big money dreams danced before him as she floated on stage, the joint erupting in applause, whistles, and shouts from the ringsiders.
When I entered, I practically tripped over the lobby marquee featuring this dazzling strawberry blonde. She was wearing nothing more than a red-lipped smile, a G-string, stilettos, and a red feather boa wrapped loosely around her luscious body. The same sign was also plastered outside at the front entrance. Once I saw that, I knew her days in the P.I. business were numbered.
I thought about that as I polished off the last of my drink and sat back to enjoy the show and witness the rise of this beautiful star. Grant was a master at producing memorable acts and I’d witness from the beginning to the very end, Rhonda’s beautiful face and body holding the audience’s attention. They were on the edge of their seats and I couldn’t help it, so was I.
Rhonda’s unique act was no doubt the predecessor to another act Grant would promote, the other big-time, stripper Lili St. Cyr, who apparently wasn’t appearing tonight. Rhonda’s performance was more of a complete fantasy floor show than the usual gyrating striptease bump and grind on an empty stage, performed at most other clubs in town to the beat of a gritty band.
The audience tonight would instead be treated to peeking in on Rhonda intimately stripping off her clothing within the privacy of a room resembling a bedroom boudoir. A dressing table with a mirror, a couple of ornate upholstered chairs, a fancy French recliner lounge, and a full-sized clear-sided bathtub were carefully arranged in a semicircle around the stage awaiting the dazzling star to appear.
As the curtain opened to the accompaniment of romantic and suggestive music, the stunning Rhonda entered, the audience enraptured at this vision of dazzling beauty. She floated across the room fully dressed in a long red evening gown, including, opera gloves, pearls and other fashionable attire suitable for a formal evening out, which we are led to believe has now concluded and she is preparing for bed.
She slowly begins removing articles of her clothing one at a time. Beginning with her shoes, followed by the slow and sensuous unzipping and removal of her evening gown. Stepping out of it, she draped it with care across one of the side chairs, leaving on only her black lace undergarments and stockings. Moving onto the sofa lounge, she reclined unsnapping her stockings from the garter belt and sliding them down one at a time, stretching and caressing her long, shapely legs as she collected and tossed each one onto a side chair.
The audience loved the moves and were twitching in their seats and nudging each other, smiling anxiously for the lingerie to disappear. But there was more to follow…much more.
She moved across the boudoir like a floating cloud, the black lace lingerie clinging and touching her body, begging to be removed. Instead, she slipped into a white transparent dressing gown, before removing everything else underneath, one after the other.
The music and tempo changed in intensity to match the progress of the strip. She danced gracefully back and forth across the boudoir leaving a trail of panties, a garter belt, and a black lace bra each delicately draped over the furniture for all to see with every sensual movement.
The audience strained to catch more than just a glimpse of the darkened shadows of Rhonda’s forbidden treasures, veiled beneath the folds of her moving transparent dressing gown. For the moment, they’d have to settle for what they couldn’t see … yet.
But there was more and they wouldn’t be disappointed.
After the last few articles of clothing were removed beneath the gown and discarded, she turned sideways from the audience and in one swift motion, dropped the dressing gown and settled into the clear tub bubble bath, and began an eye-catching body wash, soaping and sponging, beginning with her breasts and working down to her endlessly long legs. The audience was unable to hold their enthusiasm; clapping, whistling, and desperate for the grand finale, they’d been promised.
With the audience now at her feet and the music reaching a pleading crescendo, she concluded her tease with the last and final act. Flashing that radiant smile, she slowly turned, rising out of the bath to the throbbing beat of the music and the applause in the background, facing the audience. Her statuesque body was now fully exposed … except for her luscious breasts and silken triangle left covered only by a handful of still clinging wet and dripping bubbles.
While the applause and audience acceptance continued, she rewrapped her damp nakedness into the transparent clinging dressing gown and flashed them a final smile and one last quick glimpse of her treasures. The curtain slid closed to another round of thunderous applause.
From the audience’s reaction, Rhonda’s classy act was easily the high point of the evening’s entertainment. From cigarette girl to chorus girl to feature stripper and headliner at one of the most popular entertainment clubs in Los Angeles. The kid was on a roll and who was I to stop her. I motioned for another whiskey and soda and lit another smoke, while I waited for Rhonda to appear. She would probably be a while getting dressed again, so I decided to just sit back and enjoy the next few acts, which after hers would have a hell of a time following.
Alistair Greystone, a British magician in top hat and tails was next. I’d seen him before and was bored. He managed to dazzle the audience with several well-crafted, but stale sleight of hand and a few illusion tricks. It was a definite change of pace; barely passable for those that didn’t know where he hid all the props. Not in the same league as Rhonda’s flashy striptease performance, but then there wasn’t much that could top hers anyway.
Rhonda was fast at changing into a provocative, sparkly, clinging, low cut black silk backless evening dress and definitely more appealing to see than Greystone’s cheap parlor tricks or pulling stuffed animals out of his hat. She showed up at my table unexpectedly halfway through the magician’s act. Her smiling radiant face lit up the room, beaming and happy with her performance. Her alluring body was wrapped up into another flashy outfit, capturing all the attention from the admiring audience sitting near me. I glanced up at Greystone. He appeared uncomfortable seeing her down below in the audience stealing the attention. I’d already lost interest long before he began bungling his patter and card tricks while failing to direct the audience’s attention away from Rhonda upstaging his act. I ignored the rest of his performance as did the others now focused on the seductive Rhonda, mingling in the audience near them.
Before she joined me, she circulated around many of the nearby tables, smiling and laughing at their compliments as she autographed the programs thrust in her direction by a wave of fans and admirers of her last performance. She was floating on a cloud of newfound success and it suited her. Soon she’d be going places and the Florentine Gardens was just the beginning.
Joining me was one happy woman. We exchanged kisses and several servicemen in uniform at a nearby table couldn’t resist this glamorous beauty, shouting out, “Hey, baby, what about another one over here?”
She just turned and blew them a sincere puckered red-lipped kiss off the tips of her fingers, which was blown right back by the admirers with appreciation.
“Sweetheart, that was one hell of a performance,” I said as she settled down beside me at the table. “That was nothing like the usual striptease act at these other clubs around here. Who came up with the clever fantasy skit?”
I motioned a passing waitress in a skimpy outfit for a couple of Bombay gin martinis to celebrate her performance.
“Gramps, wasn’t it great? He’d originally bought all the props for Lili St. Cyr who was scheduled to go on tonight as the headliner, but she called in sick. So, he told me to take her place and from the audience’s reaction, they seemed pleased.”
“No doubt about it. You were a hit tonight, baby.”
“He says, I’m headed for the stars. Can you believe it? It wasn’t too long ago, I was just helping Tex in his garage business and now, here I am.”
The Martinis arrived, and we toasted to her newfound success.
She asked, “Did you like the show so far?”
“I arrived late. Only saw Greystone the magician. Not bad,” I lied.
“You missed an earlier act with the chorus girls. I started there too, you know.”
“I’d heard that and you were so beautiful they plucked you right off the chorus line and here you are now.” I smiled, raising my martini glass again in salute.
She mentioned a couple of the chorus girls that she liked, Yvonne DeCarlo, a brunette with an hourglass figure that was just getting started, and another friend, Jean Spangler, who was also a no-show again tonight.
“Jean’s been missing from the chorus line for several days now and I’m getting nervous. I called her apartment, but the phone just rang. I didn’t have time to find out where she is and I don’t like it.”
She frowned and took a couple of dainty sips of her martini, sucking off the olive from the skewer and chewing it, worried wrinkles creasing her forehead.
“I’m sure she’s okay, baby. Maybe you can check on her tomorrow?”
“I guess so. She’s renting a room from Grant. He owns an apartment building not far from here where several of the chorus girls, room, so … I guess she’s okay.”
Rhonda wasn’t firmly convinced herself and from what I’d heard about Grant’s reputation with young women, I wouldn’t trust him either. I was glad Rhonda had her own apartment somewhere else.
Plowing in our direction and glad-handing the patrons at the crowded tables as he passed, Nick Grant the P.T. Barnum of the west coast worked his way over to our table. Smiling like he’d just won the Irish Sweepstakes, he snapped his fingers for a bottle of Champagne from one of his waiters and bent closer to kiss the cheek of his popular headliner. After we exchanged greetings, he insisted on joining us in celebrating Rhonda’s successful show. I wondered how much he’d already been drinking, as he seemed unsteady on his feet and anxious to take the load off his little short legs.
Rhonda was the center of attention and after Grant planted his fat ass in one of the empty chairs at our table, he showered her with excessive compliments. He launched into a suggestion she follow up her performances at the Florentine with a tour around the states to build up her name at some of the other night clubs owned by his friends and business associates. It sounded like sweet music to her ears. She looked at me, bewildered at the suggestion. I thought it was a little too spontaneous and didn’t like the tune he was playing. It grated on my teeth like fingernails on a chalkboard. I’d bet my last dollar at the track that if he was serious, most of his associates at the other night clubs were mob connections and this kid would be handed from one to the other until she was wrung out. My expression must have registered those concerns. She said with a captivating smile that was hard to refuse, “Gramps, that’s all a little overwhelming to even contemplate right now. Why don’t we talk more about it later, okay?”
“That’s okay with me, sweetheart. I just wanted you to know, I’ve got big plans for my biggest star,” he said, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
He sat back satisfied at the business proposition brewing in his head and took a big swig from his champagne glass, polishing it off. After helping himself to another full glass, he sucked on his stogy, contented that Rhonda’s act was in the bag and already one of the major tickets to his club’s financial solvency.
He followed that announcement up with another big idea that was his original intention in joining us in the first place.
“Rhonda, I’m throwing a private bash at my place tonight right after we close. It’s to celebrate the recent success the club’s been having lately. It’s close, just off of Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I’m inviting several people that you know from the show; Alistair the magician, Senor Wences, the ventriloquist, several girls from the chorus, those acrobats from Hungary, that new comedian with the red hair and several others, plus a few friends of mine. And Mr. Thornton, you’re welcome to join us if you like,” he said, turning to me afterwards with an over-confident grin, blowing cigar smoke toward the ceiling.
I declined his offer as I had to get up early for my surveillance at the Majestic, and Rhonda knew it. I guessed she’d probably not want to miss out on Grant’s party when she turned to me with pleading eyes that said, “I’m sorry Matthew, but I can’t be with you so early tomorrow morning. I’d really like to go to Grant’s party.”
I smiled, easing her out of my plans, and said, “Have a good time tonight, baby. We’ll talk later in the day.”
She understood and we didn’t have to say more.
Grant slid back restless to continue glad-handing his customers and said to Rhonda, giddy as a truant schoolboy at the circus, “That’s all settled then? I’ll give you the address later, but you probably won’t need it as we’ll all be leaving in one long caravan up to my place. I’ll be in the lead car. You’ll just have to follow the others along. It’s only a few miles from here anyway.”
The only thing missing from that vision were a few giraffes, elephants, and a brass band. He gave her another peck on the cheek, shook my hand with his warm, soggy mitt, and tottered off towards the back of the stage.
“Rhonda, before I leave, I’d like you to do me a favor,” I said.
“Anything, Matthew, just name it.”
“I’d like to borrow your little coupe for tomorrow. You can take mine.” She looked puzzled. “I’ve been doing a lot of tailing tonight from Chinatown to San Pedro and my Buick could have been recognized. I don’t think so, but in tomorrow’s surveillance in the daylight, my car will stand out like a black eye. Your dark blue Ford coupe hasn’t been used yet and should blend right in with the other traffic.”
I didn’t have to say more. She left and returned from the dressing room immediately and we exchanged keys. The next act was about to be introduced and I didn’t want to see another. It was time to leave. We walked together over to the front lobby. She kissed me softly on the lips, happy that I’d finally seen one of her performances, and floated back inside for her final show later. I located her Ford in the parking lot and before I drove off, picked up the gun case from my trunk, switching it into the coupe.
The short drive back to my empty apartment on Western Avenue was filled with thoughts of beautiful Rhonda in her bubble bath. I had that sinking feeling I get sometimes that tells me to be extra cautious. But this wasn’t about me. When everything seems to be going along smoothly, something unexpectedly tragic always seems to spoil it. I didn’t like what I was thinking and almost turned back to the Florentine, but I didn’t.
When I arrived at my apartment building, I noticed all the street lights were out. “There’s a power failure in the neighborhood, use the stairs,” suggested one of the other tenants I met in the underground parking garage. That must have been it.
My furnished apartment seemed cold and unfriendly when I entered. I tried the light switch- nothing. I groped my way around the living room, becoming familiar again with the strange furnishings, and stumbled toward the kitchen cabinet where I stored the booze. After seeing Rhonda’s dazzling performance tonight and again personally afterward, my place was a real letdown. I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
I rummaged around in a counter drawer full of odds and ends until I found the candle stub, I was saving for just such an emergency. Once lit, I secured it to an empty ashtray in a puddle of melted wax and looked around at the bare walls. What a gloomy setup. I followed that up with several shots of George Dickel to relax. That didn’t seem to make any difference. I finally gave up and retreated to the bedroom and decided to go to bed early. Undressing in the shadows of a flashlight with a weak battery didn’t do anything but deepen my murky disposition. I crawled under the covers, my feelings sunken to a level of anxiety and depression.
I tossed about most of the night and awoke too many times, just lying there staring at the ceiling, thinking. Something still gnawed at my gut and just wouldn’t let go. Maybe I’d find out in the morning.