GET A LOAD OF THIS
It sometimes happens that you meet a dame who’s such a hot number that you want a second look. Maybe you’re driving a car at the time of seeing her. Most likely you’ll run up on the kerb or have a collision. Then, again, you may be walking along the street, and, turning your head as she passes, you bang into someone who starts bawling you out. Well, Fanquist was one of those take-a-second-look-dames. You know what I mean, don’t you? An all-metal blonde with a build-up that does things to you, and a figure that weakens your resistance.
I saw her for the first time when she was working for a guy called Rabener. This guy ran a smart restaurant-floor show on Broadway. I’d known Rabener off and on for several months. He was smart; maybe he was too smart. Anyway, I didn’t like him. He was a cold, hard-faced guy, and I guess he had a mean streak somewhere. It always knocked me how the hell he ever made a success of his restaurant; but he did.
Fanquist acted as his secretary. Odd name that, but it came out after that it was just a glamour build-up. I’ve forgotten her real name, but it was something pretty terrible. Anyway, we don’t have to bother with that.
As I was saying, I used to see quite a lot of her when I went to the restaurant. My work as a society columnist took me there most nights. It was as good a joint as any for meeting the sophisticated mob I wrote about. She didn’t mix with the customers. I’d see her pass through from time to time on her way up to Rabener’s office. Her appearance generally made the men splash soup on their shirt-fronts. She was that kind of a dame.
I played around with the idea of getting to know her, and I guess I wasn’t the only one. Rabener wasn’t having any. When I suggested that I’d like to meet her, he just looked at me as if I were something that’d crawled out of an exhaust pipe. So I actually never spoke to the broad. And what’s more, after what happened, I don’t suppose I ever shall.
You see, one evening she killed Rabener. It was quite a spectacular killing. It happened when Rabener was in the restaurant—slam bang in front of everyone.
Rabener had been hunting around for a publicity stunt for some time. He wasn’t satisfied with the entertainment he was giving. He thought all the other night-spots were doing the same sort of thing, and of course he was right. He even asked me for a suggestion, but I didn’t see why I should help to fill his pockets, so I played dumb. Well, he did hit on an idea. He staged one of those crazy thriller nights on us unexpectedly. You know the kind of thing. We were given a horrific ballet—a faked gun-fight, a guy pretending to be stabbed, someone punching his pal in the eye and other such harmless stuff which went down big with the moronic mob. The evening was nearly over when it happened, and the crowd was well oiled. There had been a great deal of shooting, and believe me it sold a lot of liquor.
Rabener came in and walked around the tables, having a word here and there with the customers. He could never unbend, but we were used to him by now, and we gave him a big hand for the fun and games he’d arranged for us.
I was sitting with a party near the stairs leading to the office. As Rabener was going round, Fanquist suddenly appeared at the head of the stairs. I forgot about Rabener and concentrated on her. Believe me, she certainly was the tops. There was just one little thing that had kept me from insisting on an introduction. She looked tough. When I say tough I mean she didn’t look the type who’d give in without a fight. My time’s so tied up that unless they give in quick I have to pass them up. It’s too bad, but that’s the way I live. Anyway, I should worry. There are still a lot of broads even today who do it for the joy of it.