She glanced over and saw that Frankie and the redhead were lying side by side on the other rug, taking drags from the same joint. She knew that he had not even noticed her presence in the room, he had been too involved with his new lover. She wanted to go over to them, but she knew that this would only anger him, so she got up slowly and walked out to the kitchen.
In the hallway she ran into Carla, an older woman who had been a successful stripper at one time, but the years of late hours, too much booze and dope had taken their toll and she was haggard and emaciated.
"You look a little frazzled, kid. Just been back in Shoo-Fly's joy room?" she asked.
Cynthia nodded. "I no sooner get satisfied in one way that I'm hungry in another!"
They laughed and walked in to the kitchen where there was a buffet set to feed about one hundred people.
"Pot sure makes me famished," she said, helping herself to a sandwich.
"When are you going to try the 'real' thing," Carla asked.
"Try what?" she replied.
"Heroin… horse," she said, "Come on. I'll fix you up. It's really the greatest!"
Cynthia hesitated, not really sure whether or not she should get involved with something as strong as that. She had heard what it could lead to, but she needed something to make her feel better.
"How do you take it," she asked naively.
"You can sniff it, but a shot's the best," Carla replied. "Come on, I'll show you."
Carla took her by the arm and led her into a small room off the kitchen where several people were standing around watching another young man sterilize needles and boil the white powdery substance and pour it into a syringe.
Carla took a small capsule of heroin out of her pocket, opened it and sprinkled the white powder on a mirror, dividing it into several portions. She handed the mirror with a minute amount of powder on it to Cynthia.
"Here," she said. "Stop up one nostril and sniff this stuff with the other."
Cynthia reluctantly took the mirror into her hand, balancing it carefully.
"I understand that it can make you sick the first time," she said, still not sure whether or not she should try it.
"Sometimes it does," Carla continued, "but after that you're riding high. You have to start sometime!"
She bent over the mirror, following Carla's instructions and sniffed the loose heroin.
"Now, the other nostril," Carla said. She obeyed, taking the powder deep into her nose. It tickled her nostrils and she felt like she wanted to sneeze, but resisted the impulse.
She raised her head slightly and then it bit her. A wave of nausea flooded her whole body. She felt warm, dizzy and weak, totally unable to fight the sickening feeling that was taking over her body and her mind. She braced herself on the small table where the others were waiting for their portions and staggered unaided over to the sink and threw up. When she felt as though the very lining of her stomach was in her throat she sat down and put her head between her knees, hoping that the nausea would pass. She sat there for several minutes letting the quivering feeling pass and then she felt high, light and wonderfully happy. She lay on the cool linoleum floor for a while and then slowly got up and wandered as though in a trance into the living room and dropped down on a cushion.
She could hear the conversations going on around her, but she took no notice of them. She was completely content to be alone with her thoughts and feeling of supreme bliss. Time ceased to exist and she had no idea how many hours had passed when she finally went to sleep.
She woke up when someone shook her shoulder. She groaned and looked up to see Al standing over saying, "Come on, time to go home."
"For God's sake, Al, I'll go home when Frankie does," she said.
"He's already gone," he said, pulling her up by the shoulders.
"What," she moaned, "when?"
"He left several hours ago with that chick," he said. "Come on, I'll take you home."
Cynthia looked at him, disbelief in her eyes. Frankie had never left her before and gone off with another woman when she was around. Pangs of jealousy twisted inside her and for a moment she was afraid she would be sick again.
Feeling numb, she silently followed Al and waited while he found their coats. Although there were still quite a few people scattered throughout the apartment, Shoo-Fly was nowhere in sight.
It was just beginning to get light when they walked outside into the cold winter weather. The sharpness of the wind against her face woke her up completely as they walked down the street trying to find a taxi. The buoyancy and happiness of being high had vanished and she felt depressed and extremely tired. Perhaps Frankie would be home, she thought, but when Al left her at her door and she went in, only silence and the stale odor of tobacco greeted her. She went from one room to the other, hoping that she would find him sleeping somewhere, but she saw nothing. Feeling more depressed and wondering when and if Frankie would be back, she drew the blinds against the morning sun and went to bed.
She was awakened late that afternoon by the ringing of the telephone and Al's voice saying that he wanted to tell her something, but he preferred not to discuss it over the phone and asking her to meet him at the 960 Club. She asked if it were about Frankie because he had not returned as yet, but he said no. She dressed quickly, grabbed a bite to eat and ran out to find a taxi. When she walked into the club, Al had not yet arrived, so she went backstage after asking the bartender to tell Al where she was.
There was hardly anyone backstage and the door of Torchy's dressing room was closed. She knocked once and then opened it. Torchy wasn't there, but Gypsy was! They were both equally startled at seeing each other so they just stood there staring for a moment without moving or speaking. Gypsy was sitting on a chair, her heavy thighs crossed, one hand holding a cigarette, arrested in mid-air.
Recovering first, Cynthia said, "I thought Torchy was here," and she started back out the door.
Gypsy jumped up and said, "Wait!" She swayed slightly and sat down heavily. "Now that you're here, sit down."
She looked at her warily. Either Gypsy was high or roaring drunk, but judging from the smell of gin in the room it was probably the latter.
She walked into the room and closed the door, standing with her back against it.
"Well, what do you want?" she said coldly.
"My dear pal Cynthia… so nice to see you again. So inexperienced, so sweet, who has no eyes for Frankie," she laughed, loudly and drunkenly.
"Okay, cut it out, I'm leaving," she replied as she put her hand on the knob.
"No… wait," Gypsy's loud, crazy laugh ended in a series of hiccoughs. "Stay awhile."
Cynthia remained motionless, staring at her with disgust, not knowing whether she should leave or stay and take the chance of being insulted further.
"Here, have a drink." Gypsy leaned over, reaching for the bottle, and almost fell off the chair.
Cynthia shook her head, "No thanks," she said brusquely.
"Aw, come on honey," Gypsy continued, "after all, we've got something in common to drink to."
"We have absolutely nothing in common!" she replied.
"Well, at least pour me a slug," Gypsy stammered, "The damn bottle keeps moving around."
Cynthia walked over, splashed some gin in a glass and handed it to Gypsy. "Here," she said as Gypsy reached out to take it with a shaking hand. Seeing her close up, Cynthia noticed that she looked ten years older, the skin on her face was pasty white and deeply lined; her hair which had once been an electric red was now limp and dull. She began to feel a little sorry for her.
"Look Gypsy, don't you think it's about time you went home? I'll get one of the boys to take you…"
"Don't tell me what to do," she interrupted angrily, looking up at her with lifeless and bloodshot eyes.
"Have it your own way, then. Good-bye!" she said as she started for the door.
"I'm waiting for Frankie to take me home," she said with a smug smile on her face.
"Don't be stupid," Cynthia retorted, "Frankie wouldn't drive you to a dog fight."
"That's all you know about it, dearie," Gypsy said, glancing up at her haughtily.
"What do you mean by that," she said.
"Just what I said. You aren't as smart as you think you are."
"Meaning what?"
Gypsy said nothing but continued to look up at Cynthia, a self-assured, nasty grin on her face. Finally she said, "What's the matter? Afraid Frankie will leave you?" She saw Cynthia flush and laughed again, saying, "Or has he already?"
"You filthy bitch," Cynthia blurted out angrily.
Gypsy's face became cold and hard as she screamed, "Don't call me a filthy bitch. I can still take any man away from you, you pig, and especially Frankie. I know how I can do it!"
Cynthia stepped closer, her face still flushed, but now with anger. "Okay, Gypsy," she said. "I've heard the dirty lies you've been spreading and your stupid threats, and if you rat on him I'll tear you to pieces. So keep away from him, you understand me?"
Gypsy rose from her chair, trying to keep her balance. "You're telling me to keep away from him?" she screamed. "After what you've done, you stinkin' bitch, after you…" she raised her arm and splashed the gin at Cynthia.
The liquor hit her in the face and ran down the front of her coat. She stepped back in surprise trying to wipe the stinging liquid from her eyes at the same time. When she blinked in an effort to clear her vision, Gypsy leaped at her, catching her off balance and she fell to the floor, Gypsy on top of her scratching at her face and pulling her hair like a crazy woman.
The door burst open, banged against the wall and Al and the stagehand rushed in. They managed to pull the girls apart and Cynthia leaned against Al, panting and gasping. Gypsy squirmed wildly in the other man's arms, trying to get back at Cynthia. It was only when he slapped her sharply on the face that she quieted down and then burst into tears.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Al said and steered her rapidly out the door. They left by the rear exit and stopped in the alleyway until she could recover her breath and her composure. They walked out to the sidewalk and down the street to another bar.
With a couple of scotches lying warmly in her stomach, she soon felt better and asked why he had called her. "And if it's anything about Gypsy, I don't want to hear it. I've had enough of her for one evening!"
He looked at her solemnly and said, "No, it's about Harris."
"Conrad?" She looked at him completely surprised. "What about him?"
"Nothing much, really. Just a rumor I've heard. I still see a lot of my old newspaper pals and they told me about it."
"What, for heaven's sake?" she inquired anxiously.
"Well, it's really more than a rumor. To be exact, Bob knows the guy and says he's already started on it."
"Al," she said impatiently, "Will you please stop mumbling and tell me what's going on?"
"There's this guy named Joe Flanagan on the 'Evening Star'. According to Bob, he's a young squirt of a cub reporter who doesn't know his ass from his ear, however, but he got the bright idea if he did a big expose on his own and presented it to his editor, all written and nicely tied up with a red ribbon, he'd be the fair-haired boy."
"Expose?" she said.
"Yeah. Expose of Harris. And you know as well as I do that there's enough dirt to be dredged up about Harris and his crooked deals, in and out of politics, to raise one hell of a stink."
"But would they publish it? After all, Conrad's a big guy in town."
"Yeah, they might. Stan Morgan, the editor, would never dare order an investigation himself or it'd be his neck, but the trouble is their circulation has fallen lower than a stripper's morals and if he were presented with the stuff all wrapped up, he might just print it. After all, once the stuff was out, the public would probably get so aroused they'd demand a full investigation, and if Harris was convicted, Morgan would be riding high and so would his circulation."
"Yeah, I see. Not very nice, is it?"
"Thought you might want to tip Harris off. Not that I have any great love for the bastard, but after all, you'd be dragged in for your share of publicity too as his number one girlfriend."
She looked at him startled. This aspect of it hadn't occurred to her.
"My God," she said, "I hadn't thought of that. I'll call him right away." She got up from the table and went back to the telephone booth and didn't return for five minutes.
"He's getting ready to go out," she said, "but I told him it was important so he said for me to come right over."
"Good, and take it easy, kid," he said, winking at her.
"What's the guy's name again?"
"Joe Flanagan, on the Evening Star."
"Got it. Thanks a lot, Al."
She picked up her gloves, kissed him lightly on the cheek and left.