Chapter One

Chapter One: Office at Night and Girlie Show

 

August, 1950, New York City

 

He hated working late. The fluorescent office lights hurt his eyes and bleached his hands and face into vampiric paleness. The starkly white overhead beams were reflected in the black windowpanes that showcased the night sky and muted steel highrises of the city. He kept a window open beside him, the faint sounds of traffic barely audible in the distance. Distantly, he felt the dull pulsing creep of an oncoming headache. 

 

His name was Leon Haskell and he worked for an upscale ad agency in Manhattan, earned a respectable salary, and had never been married. "An irredeemable bachelor," the secretaries called him. He'd wine and dine them to their hearts' content, but not seal the deal. Only dating, only dancing, only sex. No question. No ring. Though the office was filled with pretty, marriageable girls, ready for babies and a white picket fence, he'd never gone steady with any of them.

 

It was past eight and the building was nearly deserted. Only Mindy, the head secretary, stayed after five, to oversee the janitorial crew. She flickered in and out of his office, humming quietly underneath her breath as she sorted through the day's paperwork. 

 

"Leon, honey, the Roger's account can wait til Monday," she told him with a sympathetic smile. "Go home and get some rest. It's been a long week." She lingered by the filing cabinet, eyeing him with a mixture of longing and pity. They'd shared a couple of nights together in the past, which had always ended in awkward mornings and slightly strained workdays. But at least she was smart enough to take their affair for what it was. It was obvious: Leon Haskell simply wasn't husband material.

 

He looked up from the memo he'd been mindlessly staring at. Though it was late, Mindy looked as pretty as ever, her form-fitting dress robin's egg blue, her black, glossy hair crimped at the ends. He remembered running his hands through her hair as they were making love. It was coarser than he'd expected, thicker. She'd been a passionate lover, unexpectedly experienced for a smalltown girl from southern Kentucky.

 

"Yeah, you're probably right, Minds. I'm useless here." He scooted his chair back and tossed the memo onto his already paper-strewn desk. His back ached and his fingertips were smudged with copier ink. God, he was exhausted. 

 

"You get home soon, too," he told her. "A girl like you shouldn't be out on these streets at night. If something happened to you, this office would have to shut down. We couldn't function without you."

 

She chuckled, her blue eyes shimmering sweetly. "You be sure to tell Mr. Reynolds that Monday morning. Maybe he'll give me a raise."

 

"Eh, maybe he'll grow a heart and give us all a raise."

 

"It'll be something to pray for on Sunday." She walked over to him, the click of her heels muffled on the carpet. "Have a nice weekend, sweetie..." The scent of lavender filled his nostrils as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, her lips dry and papery with faded lipstick.

 

"You too, Minds." He slipped on his jacket and picked up his briefcase, his back popping quietly. He put on his hat, walked out the door, and made his way to the elevators, heaving a tired sigh. 

 

Thank God it was Friday.

 

~~~

 

He was 35 years old and stuck in a job he hated. He'd moved to New York five years ago to become a photographer -- he'd set out to be an artist, not some middling ad exec. Back then, BEAUTY and LOVE and TRUTH and PASSION hadn't just been words to him. They'd been ideals, something to aspire to. He'd taken his poorly packed suitcase and a camera and moved to the most populated city in America, intent on capturing the wonder the world held. 

 

Everybody knew war -- four long years of it. He knew it, his family knew it, the whole damn country knew it, and everyone was sick of it. Leon wanted color and life, and beauty most of all. He saw it in the little things: children playing down the street, the sky over Central Park, the sunburnt colors of the Staten Island Ferry. There was more than blood and violence and death in the world. His photos were happiness, hope. An emblem of recovery. A photographic portrait of a healing nation.

 

Well, that's what he'd thought at the time. Life hadn't been impressed. Neither had Time. Nor The Saturday Evening Post. Nobody had, really, big or small. Desperate for money, he'd taken the job as Assistant Art Director at T. B. Walker, a fairly successful advertsing agency on Madison Avenue. He was lucky -- a job like that for a out-of-towner like him. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Hundreds of guys would kill for it. 

 

But he'd sold out. He put his camera in the closet, took a suit and tie out, and endured soul-sucking two hour commutes five days a week. 

 

For Christ's sake, he put together advertisements for washing machines.

 

He was, in all truth, a very, very unhappy person. 

 

New York was a great city; the history alone was enough to drive a guy nuts. It was busy and fun, the brightest spot on the map. It was filled with every dream, every temptation -- you only needed the balls to say yes. Hell, El Morocco was the hot spot for every successful businessman in town, guys who played dirty but won big. When Leon first arrived in The Big Apple, it was like Heaven. A loud, overpopulated, pushy Heaven, a place of endless possibility, without the cherubs or the harps.  

 

From freezing, cloudy Maine to this -- it was the change he'd been looking for. New York was where his future lay: fame and fortune, and maybe even a Pulitzer. He saw it all. He'd make something of himself. Break away from the weak, broken puppy he'd been. Tied to the past, chained to his family. Ghosts, the lot of them, some still walking and talking, sure, but still ghosts. He'd be different. Better. Stronger. 

 

He'd been an idiot.

 

Here he was, stranded on Madison at nine at night, not a taxi in sight, profoundly alone. Friday nights always got to him. There was an emptiness to them, a lack of purpose. And he was so, so tired, wrung out by the week. Another five days wasted doing something he hated. He'd put off his dream for a little longer. In the bottom of his closet, his camera was gathering another layer of dust.

'Someday' was a dangerous word. 

The night was warm and a light breeze ruffled his suit jacket. Taking the hint, he slipped it off and threw it over his arm. He'd walk until he spotted a taxi. The street lamps cast the dirty pavement in warm circlets of yellow light, cigarette stubs littering the ground. A couple of cars honked in the distance and he heard a man yelling, his words disjointed by a thick Italian accent.

He walked forward on autopilot, not really paying attention to his surroundings. All these office buildings looked the same -- tall, grey, and intimidating. They made up a forest of wealth and prosperity, materialism at its most imposing. One day, he'd probably have an office on a top floor, too -- because, though he didn't like his job, he was good at it. Promotions were bound to come around, and his was inevitable. 

The thought did nothing to warm his heart. 

The faint sounds of music caused him to look up. A seedy little theater stood before him, the windows blacked out, the guttering rusted and tilted at a rakish angle. The only splash of color on its dreary, rotted facade was the marquee, a dinky neon sign flashing GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! in bright pink lettering beside a miniature cartoon of a busty topless woman smiling at him menacingly. 

It was an unappitizing picture and yet it suited his mood perfectly. The bleakness of the busted-up joint spoke to him. Without thinking twice about it, he ran a hand through his hair and walked inside. He needed a f*****g drink.

The music was louder inside, but not annoyingly so, something with a seductive beat, a hint of a rumba. Surprisingly, the place was fancier than its front let on. The cherrywood stage shone in the dim light, ringed by thick, black, dusty curtains. A couple of businessmen milled around the edges, clutching perspiring drinks and talking to themselves. Their eyes casually followed the nearly naked woman shimmying on the stage in front of them. 

The atmosphere was relaxed and Leon felt oddly at home. The bandstand beside the stage was empty and only a couple of tables were occupied. He sidled up to the bar and ordered a scotch, eyes roaming around the room, but eventually landing on the girl, an inevitable draw. 

He studied her with a scientific intensity. She wasn't beautiful; her face was a little too coarse, her square jaw too masculine. Farmstock, most like. Probably got to New York a couple of years ago and simply drowned in the people, a variation on his song. The city was magnificent, but it made a person feel their own insignificance. 

His eyes met hers from across the room and he swallowed the rest of his drink, wincing at the burn in his throat. The spotlight chased after her hungrily as she sauntered and sashayed across the stage, fluttering a blue piece of silk behind her like a sail. The tease. Her breasts bounced with each step, heavy and gorgeous and a little more than a handful, and her waist was small and formed a near perfect hourglass. Her hair was a lusty red, the color of a new copper penny. For a brief, rawly physical moment he felt a fierce stab of lust go through him. Bet she'd be an animal f**k.

She moved in time with the music, ignoring the men's catcalls. There was a sort of distant dignity to her, which he liked. She was nothing like the women in his office, those simpering little girls who batted lashes and giggled at him like a gaggle of geese. The world and this woman were acquainted. It was a refreshing change.

He ordered another drink, loosened his tie, and walked down to the stage, leaving his jacket and briefcase by the bar. He caught snatches of the other men's conversations ('...only got to be director by running to daddy, so, yeah, hear, hear, let's toast to nepotism for ya...' '...and I told Marge to skip the goddamned Ladies Club meeting, nothing but a bunch of interfering old hens...') and took a seat at an empty table, so close to the woman he could see the line of sweat above her upper lip. That spotlight had to be warm.

He knew she was aware of him, how his gaze had latched on to her. He could see her watching him out of the corner of her eye. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke and her sparkly silver high heels moved through the gloom, as if of their own volition, twin fishes dancing around each other. He wished he could kiss the white, well-defined muscle of her calves, touch the sturdy taper of her ankles. Connect. On some level, in any way. 

The music was slowing down and coming to an end. She gave a last sinuous twist of her hips and bowed to the audience coyly. Though Leon stayed silent, a couple of men clapped and whistled and one drunkenly called for an encore, but she simply smirked and shook her head, her hair brushing the tops of her shoulders. Before exiting the stage, she sent Leon a covert little wink, the tips of her lips tilting upwards in a more genuine smile. 

He practically choked on the last of his drink. That'd been real, right? His imagination hadn't run away with him -- he wasn't that drunk yet. She'd been looking at him. 

An edge of desperation laced his thoughts and he came to a split second decision. He got up and grabbed his things, throwing a tip down for the bald bartender who nodded at him in appreciation. He strode back outside, breathing in the scent of rotting garbage from the alleyway. He put his jacket back on and adjusted his fedora, trying to look respectable and non-threatening. This was okay. He could do this. Hell, he actually had done this a million times before -- just not with a stripper who worked a Friday night girlie show. 

After about ten minutes he spotted her coming out the back entrance. Her red hair shone black in the moonlight and, though the night was warm, she wore a heavy tweed greatcoat, as if overcompensating for her previous nudity. While she fiddled with the strap on her handbag, he approached her cautiously, clearing his throat. 

"Hello, ma'am," he said, with what he hoped was a winning smile. "I just wanted to say that I, uh, enjoyed the show. That -- " He blushed. "You're a very striking woman."

For a moment, he was sure she was going to dismiss him -- or else run down the street, screaming for the police. But she gave him a piercing once over and hitched her bag up higher on her shoulder. Apparently concluding he wasn't a serial killer, she held out her hand and grinned at him, sharklike. 

"Dorothy Haines." Her voice was smokey and deep, with a heavy midwestern twang. Definitely an Okie, straight off the farm. "Course the stage name's 'Scarlet'. Can't ever think why."

He shook her hand, unsurprised her grip was as strong as his. "Leon Haskell. No stage name as of yet, sorry to say."

"Aw, hate to break it to you, doll, but you don't have the chest for my line of work." Her eyes twinkled. "But you've got a nice face."

He blushed again and looked down, but she continued, unperturbed by his embarrassment. "Hey, why don't I buy you a cup o' coffee. I know a great all-night place just down the block. Hand to God, serves the best pie in the state." Her smile widened. "Feel like I should after that staring contest back in there. Don't know how you managed it, mister, since I wern't wearin' nothin' but my birthday suit, but it felt like you was undressin' me with your eyes."

"Oh, uh, sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean to be so intense."

"Nah," she waved her hand. "Don't worry about it. Means I'm earnin' my pay. And it was nice to see a fresh face 'mongst the usual toadies."

She slipped her arm through his own and led him down the street, her heels tapping in time on the pavement. There was something gay and carefree about her, in the way she moved, her easy gait and the loose swing of her hips. Though her curves were all woman, her frankness was oddly childlike. 

"Ah," she motioned, after a couple of minutes. "There it is."