Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Nineteen

Dori Ellis is not the only showgirl I’d ever dated, but I’d been trying to cut down for a while. And it wasn’t because they were long on looks and short on brains. That’s a cliche. I’ve found showgirls who were pretty damn smart, with educations that came both from books and the street. No, they were simply driven by what they did, and had little time for anything else. Almost all of them I’ve known are either divorced or have been in and out of short-term relationships. Maybe that was why I asked Beverly to go with me to the Rat Pack show. Waitresses could be just as pretty and smart, but they certainly weren’t career-driven-not yet, anyway.

When I went looking for Carla, the showgirl Pepper told me Unlucky Lou was seeing, I walked in on a full dress rehearsal and was reminded of why I started dating showgirls in the first place.

They were so damn beautiful.

I watched as the choreographer put them through their paces on stage. Legs flashed, breasts heaved, high heels made rat-a-tat sounds on the boards, blond-brunette-red hair flew, and they sweated-I mean, they perspired. There was nothing quite like a statuesque showgirl swea-perspiring.

As I watched I realized that I recognized one or two of them. That’s the other thing about showgirls. Some of them are in it for thelong haul, others come and went with the wind. While the core group was usually steady, there was a pretty good turnover rate, as well.

Big breasts were always good in my opinion, but for showgirls the most important thing seemed to be legs-long, long legs. Breast size varied, which made for a good variety, but when they were moving in perfect unison and those long legs were kicking and twirling, it was a sight to see.

Finally, rehearsal was over. I’d only had to stand and wait about fifteen minutes and then the girls started filing by me, heading for their dressing rooms. Some of them flirted in passing, others just threw me interested looks, while still others ignored me. The two I knew greeted me by name, but kept moving.

I also knew the woman who had been running the rehearsal. Her name was Verna and she had been a showgirl for a lot of years. Now she was in her forties, still striking, with red hair and the long, good legs. She came offstage dressed in a leotard, also glistening with perspiration.

“Hello, Eddie,” she said. “What brings you here? Checking out my girls for your next conquest?”

“I wish, Verna.”

“Or maybe you prefer them a little more … seasoned?” Verna was big-breasted, and since her retirement from full-time dancing she’d gained a few pounds which, from what I could see, had gone to all the right places. She wasn’t built for dancing anymore, but she was perfect for, uh, other forms of recreation. A few extra lines around her eyes and a streak of gray in her red hair did nothing to alter her appeal to men.

“I’m actually looking for a particular girl, Verna,” I said.

“What’s her name?”

“Carla?”

“I got two Carla’s, Eddie,” she sad. “Which one?”

“Um, she’s the one who’s supposed to be seeing Lou Terazzo?”

Verna made a face.

“That’s Carla DeLucca. Is she still seein’ him? I warned her off, but they’re young, they don’t wanna listen to me. Shit, I’ve beenthrough enough of those torpedoes in my day to know better, but do they listen?”

“I guess they have to make their own mistakes, Verna.” I didn’t want to add anymore fuel to her anger.

She heaved a sigh that was very interesting to me visually and which apparently cleansed her emotionally and said, “I guess you’re right.”

“Was she at this rehearsal?”

“Yes,” she said. “A big brunette, too top-heavy for my taste-as a dancer, I mean-and her feet are too big. I don’t think she’ll be here past next year.”

“But she’s here now?”

“Yeah,” Verna said. She gave me a leer. “You wanna go into the dressin’ room and find her?”

“I’m tempted,” I said, “but I’m afraid if I go in there I’m not going to want to come out.”

She laughed, throwing her head back.

“If I let you go in there they may not let you come out,” she said, placing her hand on my chest. “A handsome man like you … well, I’ll go in and tell her you want to see her when she’s dressed. You just wait out here where it’s safe.”

“Thanks, Verna.”

She let her hand linger on my chest a little while longer.

“You and me have been in Vegas a long time, Eddie.”

“Long time, Verna.” She had been dancing at the Flamingo when I arrived in town.

“How come we never went out?”

I took her hand in mine, lifting it from my chest and holding it gently.

“You were always out of my league, Verna,” I said, and then to try to lessen the sting added, “but then, you’re out of everyone’s league.”

“Yeah,” she said, sliding her hand from mine, “that must explain why this old broad is alone.”

“Verna-”

“Shut up, Eddie,” she said. “I’ll go and tell Carla you’re waitin’ for her.”

I guess that was another thing about the girls who were in it for the long haul. By the time they stopped dancing they were alone. Men in Vegas were looking for young girls, so someone like Verna would have to find a way to stay in the game-like becoming a choreographer. If not they’d end up waitressing or, worse, dancing in some club on the outskirts of Vegas, where tits and ass were more important than long legs and the ability to dance. Verna might have been a little bitter, but she was also one of the lucky ones.