Читать книгу Bugsy Malone - Alan Parker - Страница 8

BLOUSEY BROWN HAD always wanted to be famous. She got the bug very early – at the age of three she gave an impromptu recital for her family at Thanksgiving. She would tap dance a little and sing some, and what her rather squeaky voice lacked in volume she made up for with enthusiasm. Her audience was always especially encouraging. But what family doesn’t have a talented child? In fact, there had been vaudeville acts in Blousey’s family since way back. They hadn’t gathered a great deal of fame amongst them – the yellowed notices in the cuttings book weren’t too plentiful – but they were remembered with great affection. At Thanksgiving, when Blousey put on her shiny red tap shoes with the pink bows and did her annual turn, someone would say, “She’s got it all right. You can tell she’s gonna be famous. There’s a kind of sparkle in her eye. Bravo, Blousey. Bravo.”

It was the last “Bravo” that did it. Since that moment, Blousey had been hooked on show business.

Life wasn’t easy – sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it. Like now.

She clicked open her compact and quickly repaired her make-up. She fixed her lipstick and pinched the wave in her hair. One dollar eighty that wave had cost and already it was straightening out. The guy in the beauty parlour had said she looked terrific, and she hadn’t been about to argue. What girl didn’t like looking pretty? She had parted with her dollar eighty gladly. She checked the crumpled piece of paper in her hand once more. Scribbled in pencil were the words: Fat Sam’s Grand Slam Speakeasy. Audition 10 o’clock.

The note had been given to her by a friend who had been in the chorus at Sam’s and had got Blousey the audition. The friend hadn’t written down the address, of course. Speakeasies were against the law and the Grand Slam’s location behind Pop Becker’s bookstore was a secret. As it happens, it was probably the worst kept secret in town, because half of New York went to Sam’s place for their late night entertainment.

Blousey had pushed her way across the floor of the crowded, smoky speakeasy, following her friend’s instructions: up the stairs to the backstage corridor that led to the girls’ changing room and the boss’s office. A screen of frosted glass with neat geometric shapes etched on the panes formed the wall between the office and the corridor. On the door, printed in rather aggressive gold letters, was ‘S. Stacetto. Private.’

Blousey sat on a wicker-back bentwood double seater, to which she had been shown by a nasty-looking character who had cracked his knuckles as he said, “Sit there, lady. The boss will sees yuh in a minute.” Some minute. The minute had stretched itself to an hour and a half and she was still waiting.

Blousey ferreted nervously in her battered leather bag. She had brought too many clothes with her as usual, but she reassured herself that one never knew which number they’d ask for. Her bag was also extra heavy because of her books and baseball bat. The books were very precious to Blousey. They were old, with stiff-backed covers, and Blousey had read them and re-read them till she knew every page. Ever since she had been out of work she’d feared she might come back to her apartment one day to find that her landlady had taken them by way of rent. So she took no chances. Where she went, they went. The baseball bat was for protection. From what, she was never sure. She wasn’t even sure if she could lift it – let alone swing it – but, like the books, it went with her everywhere.

All around her in the corridor, the chorus girls trotted back and forth in their stage outfits, a flurry of sequins, organza, and orange feathers. Blousey blushed a little at the sly and giggly glances they threw in her direction. She breathed a heavy sigh. She had decided to sit it out, no matter what. Fat Sam’s black janitor whistled a bluesy melody as he swept up around her. Blousey politely lifted her feet for him to sweep under. She was beginning to feel fed up and just a little tired. She rested her head against the wall and listened to the speakeasy band as the lively music found its way backstage.

Suddenly, the music was mixed with the muffled sound of agitated voices coming from Fat Sam’s office, behind the frosted glass partition.