WHEN BELLADONNA MARIE DONATO sauntered into Lester Feinberg’s midtown Manhattan Vaudeville and Burlesque Agency, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe spiked heels could hold up that much young woman.
She had a pair of meaty legs that rose to a set of capacious hips, and the ta-tas that shot out of her chest were barely contained by her red polka-dotted top. For their size, they held up well and pointed directly at Lester, their torpedo-like aim daring him to challenge their bold accusations.
“What can I do for you?”
Bella slapped the ad Lester had placed in the Herald-News (WANTED: Female Dancers for Coney Island Revue!) onto his desk and took a seat in one of the two chairs facing him.
The fans were broken. The old vaudeville agent had his jacket off and both sleeves rolled up. He was smoking a cigar to keep cool, yet the buxom piece of Italian candy sitting in front of him hadn’t broken a sweat, even after climbing five flights of stairs with a suitcase and pink hatbox in her hands. How old was she under all of that glamour-girl makeup? Sixteen? Seventeen? God, please let her be eighteen. The scent of her was driving him crazy. She smelled like lilac powder mingled with musk, the kind of musk that called to a man the way tuna called to cats. Lester had seen it all, done it all, but he wanted to drop on all fours and beg for a scratch. It was all he could do to pull the soggy cigar out of his mouth.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Belladonna Marie Donato.”
“From now on, it’s Belladonna Marie.”
“Really?”
“You dance?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
Feinberg (as he was known on the circuit) took an even hit off his tightly rolled imitation Havana and exhaled, blowing the smoke in front of Bella’s face. She had the astonishing face of a young gypsy Queen. What the hell was she? Spanish? Lithuanian? Italian, maybe? Her lips were full. Her turbulent eyes sparkled. The hair on her head was mischievous and wild. Her tits looked like two circus barrels. The gams went on for miles.
“You bring a bathing suit?”
“What the hell for? I didn’t come here to swim.”
Lester’s nose caught a whiff of heartbreak behind the girl’s cheap perfume, and the delicious scent of pain and desperation behind the tough chin.
“What size are you?”
“None of your goddamned business. 38DDD.”
“I’m gonna need to see you in a swimsuit.”
Lester frantically opened a desk drawer, rifled around, and pulled out a small red bathing costume. It was the color of a vine-ripened tomato.
“Step into the closet and try this on.”
“How the hell do you expect me to get into that goddamned thing?”
“You want a job?”
Once in the dark, Bella dropped her skirt, undid her blouse and bra, kicked off her shoes, rolled down her stockings, and peeled down her panties. The wound across her belly suddenly felt tender. It felt like it still had teeth. She tried not to think about her baby as she took a deep breath and squeeeeeezed the tomato-red suit up and over her tender love bunnies.
Knowing full well what heels did for a woman’s carriage and calves, she slipped her spikes back on, tweaked her cheeks, and pinched her nipples hard. She told herself this was just another goddamned beauty and the beast contest. “Heaven, help me,” she whispered. She kissed the cross on her mamma’s rosary beads, dropped it into her cleavage, crossed herself, took a deep breath, and stepped back into the heavy heat of Feinberg’s office.
The horny old gagootz was standing buck naked in front of his desk, stroking his irregularly cut, yam-like, bobbing Brooklyn special.
“You put that goddamned cigar back in its wrapper or I’m gonna dig my heels into your balls so hard you’re gonna wish you’d stayed behind that sad excuse of a desk stroking that sorry excuse for a dick!”
Lester swallowed hard. “Can you hula?”