is he?” I yelled back.
“She! In the back!” A very thin woman was sitting at a tiny desk talking into a telephone. She slammed the receiver down and stared at me and said, “Well, what?”
I held the Book open. “This is a wonderful opportunity to list with the City Directory at no cost to you, the businessman.”
“Don’t hand me that,” she said. “I run this place. Everyone out there is a mad dog from hell until proven otherwise, including you and that son of a bitch landlord on the telephone.” She lit a cigarette and blew smoke at me. “Trying to break my balls, can you believe the son of a bitch?”
“Why not give the Book a try for a year?”
“All right, hotshot, what’s your name?”
“Frank.”
“As in what?”
“Frank St. Claire.”
“Nice. So lead off with it. Don’t start with the ‘no charge’ bit, make it sound good, give it a little class, dress it up for crissakes.” She filled out the form. “What made you come in here?”
“That’s my assignment, beauty shops.”
“There’s too damn many. It’s a cutthroat business, it’s very competitive. Do me a favor and don’t list all of ’em right around this neck of the woods. Make me look good. The Biltmore, that’s a ritzy crowd, they got sheckles in their pants.” I told her thanks, I’d do my best. I left, but then I went back.
“Let me ask you something,” I said.
“Fire away, Frankie.”
“How long can fingernails grow if you don’t cut them?”
“Who knows? They keep growing, like hair. It’s molecular.”
“Thanks.”
“Why?”
“I see this woman in Pershing Square every day where I eat lunch. Her nails are about a foot long, but curved back around.”
“Tell her to drop in for a manicure, I’ll give her the professional discount.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a very thankful guy, Frankie. Go get yourself a new pair of glasses.”
I walked back to Pershing Square. The woman in black was gone. It was getting on toward evening, and I closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I woke up, she was back. “Precept upon precept, line upon line, here a little, there a little.” She seemed to be in a relaxed frame of mind. “Of money, some have coveted. They have erred from the faith and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.” I waited, hoping to hear more. I tried to give her a quarter, but she hid her face behind the Bible and wouldn’t look at me. I left.
There’s a bar at the top of Grand Avenue called the Los Amigos. They have a coin-operated player piano, a shuffleboard table game, and booths along the side. The bartender’s name is Russell. It was late, and the place was quiet. Russell saw me come in.
“Hiya, Frank. Haven’t seen you around lately. The usual?”
“No. I want a whiskey sour. That’s a good drink, right?”
“Sure, Frank, sure. One whiskey sour.” There was a woman alone in a booth, and she looked up when she heard my voice. It was the manager from Beauty by Rene.
“Thankful Frankie,” she said. I sat down across from her.
“How are you this evening, Rene? I guess I’m surprised to see you in my neighborhood.”
“Don’t be.”
“How’s it going with the landlord?” I asked, just trying to be delicate.
“That ball-busting son of a bitch? I can’t move now, things are just starting to pick up. Downtown’s gonna take off when the war hits.”
“War?” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about or how many drinks she’d had.
“War, kiddo. As in Adolf H.? You heard about him?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the papers lately. Where is the war?”
“Get lost. Nobody’s that out to lunch, but nobody. You better get your nose out of that book. Get yourself a girl, there’s one on every corner.”
I was starting to pick up a slight drawl in her talk. “Where are you from, originally?” In Los Angeles, it’s a harmless question.
“Amarillo, Texas. I caught the first thing smokin’. End of story.”
“How’d you get started in the beauty line?” I asked.
“I was a bartender in Amarillo. The L.A. cops won’t let a woman tend bar in their precious town. I went to cosmetology school, I’m legal.”
Russell brought fresh drinks. “This whiskey sour is not bad,” I said.
“Look, I can’t figure you out. I mean, you’re all right, aren’t you? Upstairs?” She pointed to her head and made a circle with her finger. “It’s no act — the book and your job and all that?”
“It’s no act. I work very hard. My boss is a bastard, like your landlord. I’ll tell you a little story if you want to hear it.”
“Fire away, Frankie. Fire away and fall back.”
“I had one friend here on the Hill. Mr. John, an Italian opera singer. But he doesn’t sing anymore, and you want to know why? Because he’s dead, that’s why. He jumped off the roof of the New Grand Hotel.”
“A jumper.”
“You come back to my place and I’ll show you something you never seen in a month of Sundays. I can’t believe it myself.”
“I got to get down the Hill before the train stops. Tomorrow is another day to be beautiful, right, Frankie boy?”
“You don’t believe me. You think I’m one of those mad dogs, like you said.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Whiskey sour is a damn good drink.” She got up and left, just like that.
Russell walked by, checking tables for tips. “Can’t win ’em all!” he said, clapping me on the back so hard I almost choked. I thought about leaving, but then Louie Castro walked up. Louie is a very fat, oily man with a fat, oily voice. Not the kind of man you’d care to know too well. He owns the Los Amigos and lives upstairs.
“Nice to see you, Frank. Always nice to see an old friend.” He slid into the booth. “Of course I heard about Mr. John. Tragic.” I nodded, like I was too sad to say anything. “I understand you came into a nice little bequest. That’s the kind of man he was, generous to his friends.” Louie makes it his business to know about things; he likes to
