patient said. ‘You’re the one showing the dirty pictures!’”
This got a nice laugh from the Strip Joint audience, and even the bloated Barray flashed a grin. Too bad Barray hadn’t done his homework —Amazonia had been created by a shrink. That might’ve provided him with a nice comeback.
But all he could muster was, “Maybe some of the dangers the critics see in these comics are in the eye of the beholder. But you can’t deny that this new trend of crime and horror is a disturbing one.”
“Is it?”
“Is it disturbing, you mean?”
“No. Is it new? I seem to recall, as a young girl, going to see Boris Karloff in Frankenstein and Bela Lugosi in Dracula ...but I turned out all right, I think.”
This might not have been the best argument, since she’d also been stripping at Minsky’s when she was a “young girl.”
“And they teach Edgar Allan Poe in schools,” she reminded the disc jockey. “James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson are both still livening up our movie screens, and no one’s complaining. And isn’t Dragnet on NBC?”
Letting out more cigarette smoke as if emitting steam, Barray said, “Dr. Frederick says these so-called ‘crime doesn’t pay’ books use the capture or downfall of criminals as a means of glorifying violence and depravity.”
Now Maggie frowned, a rarity because she fought wrinkles as hard as she did pounds.
“I’d rather not have to defend those books,” she said, “or condemn them, either. It’s outside the realm of the Starr Syndicate.”
“Is it? Don’t you syndicate Crime Fighter to a growing list of papers?”
This was starting to feel less like a friendly chat at the Strip Club—a soiree, remember—and more like an ambush. But Maggie didn’t ambush easily.
“We do distribute Crime Fighter,” she said. “The hero is a costumed character not unlike Batwing...but, Dr. Frederick will be pleased to learn, without a young male companion.”
“Crime Fighter’s sidekick is a monkey.”
“That’s right.” She gave him a smile that was both wicked and flirtatious. “And if you find that objectionable, Harry, then maybe you’re the one showing the dirty pictures.”
What could Barray do but laugh good-naturedly at that?
But he seemed relieved to be able to tell the audience at home that he’d be “right back with Maggie Starr and another special guest,” after the commercial.
I went over, moving past a light on a tripod and around the massive camera, managing not to bump into the crew or stumble over the heavy cables. I leaned in and spoke to Maggie while a young male production assistant used a soft cloth to dab away the disc jockey’s sweat, a makeup girl waiting anxiously to touch up his makeup.
Whispering, I said, “You’re gonna take this bout on points.”
Barely audible, her smile frozen, she whispered back, “I wouldn’t mind scoring a knockout. I’ve been set up.”
“You’re doing fine. You don’t seem defensive at all.”
“How do I look? Nobody’s touching up my makeup.”
“Naw, you’re on your own. But you look swell. I liked that shrink joke. Nice job, cleaning it up.”
“Thanks.”
“Keep it light now.”
She gave my hand a rare squeeze and I made my way back to the bar, where Benny the bartender had held my ringside stool for me.
Meanwhile, the “special guest” Barray had referred to was being escorted through the tangle of cables into the waiting seat in the booth next to Maggie. He was a little guy with full head of dark hair parted in the middle, making two swooping wings out of the halves. He had an untrimmed mustache and tweedy sportcoat over a sweater and shirt— he’d pay for that under those lights—and carried the vaguely rumpled, absentminded demeanor of a Greenwich Village intellectual.
Which was exactly what he was. That and a minor celebrity locally, a professional expert who turned up on radio and TV, his specialty “the popular arts.” He would opine on the profundity of
This got a nice laugh from the Strip Joint audience, and even the bloated Barray flashed a grin. Too bad Barray hadn’t done his homework —Amazonia had been created by a shrink. That might’ve provided him with a nice comeback.
But all he could muster was, “Maybe some of the dangers the critics see in these comics are in the eye of the beholder. But you can’t deny that this new trend of crime and horror is a disturbing one.”
“Is it?”
“Is it disturbing, you mean?”
“No. Is it new? I seem to recall, as a young girl, going to see Boris Karloff in Frankenstein and Bela Lugosi in Dracula ...but I turned out all right, I think.”
This might not have been the best argument, since she’d also been stripping at Minsky’s when she was a “young girl.”
“And they teach Edgar Allan Poe in schools,” she reminded the disc jockey. “James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson are both still livening up our movie screens, and no one’s complaining. And isn’t Dragnet on NBC?”
Letting out more cigarette smoke as if emitting steam, Barray said, “Dr. Frederick says these so-called ‘crime doesn’t pay’ books use the capture or downfall of criminals as a means of glorifying violence and depravity.”
Now Maggie frowned, a rarity because she fought wrinkles as hard as she did pounds.
“I’d rather not have to defend those books,” she said, “or condemn them, either. It’s outside the realm of the Starr Syndicate.”
“Is it? Don’t you syndicate Crime Fighter to a growing list of papers?”
This was starting to feel less like a friendly chat at the Strip Club—a soiree, remember—and more like an ambush. But Maggie didn’t ambush easily.
“We do distribute Crime Fighter,” she said. “The hero is a costumed character not unlike Batwing...but, Dr. Frederick will be pleased to learn, without a young male companion.”
“Crime Fighter’s sidekick is a monkey.”
“That’s right.” She gave him a smile that was both wicked and flirtatious. “And if you find that objectionable, Harry, then maybe you’re the one showing the dirty pictures.”
What could Barray do but laugh good-naturedly at that?
But he seemed relieved to be able to tell the audience at home that he’d be “right back with Maggie Starr and another special guest,” after the commercial.
I went over, moving past a light on a tripod and around the massive camera, managing not to bump into the crew or stumble over the heavy cables. I leaned in and spoke to Maggie while a young male production assistant used a soft cloth to dab away the disc jockey’s sweat, a makeup girl waiting anxiously to touch up his makeup.
Whispering, I said, “You’re gonna take this bout on points.”
Barely audible, her smile frozen, she whispered back, “I wouldn’t mind scoring a knockout. I’ve been set up.”
“You’re doing fine. You don’t seem defensive at all.”
“How do I look? Nobody’s touching up my makeup.”
“Naw, you’re on your own. But you look swell. I liked that shrink joke. Nice job, cleaning it up.”
“Thanks.”
“Keep it light now.”
She gave my hand a rare squeeze and I made my way back to the bar, where Benny the bartender had held my ringside stool for me.
Meanwhile, the “special guest” Barray had referred to was being escorted through the tangle of cables into the waiting seat in the booth next to Maggie. He was a little guy with full head of dark hair parted in the middle, making two swooping wings out of the halves. He had an untrimmed mustache and tweedy sportcoat over a sweater and shirt— he’d pay for that under those lights—and carried the vaguely rumpled, absentminded demeanor of a Greenwich Village intellectual.
Which was exactly what he was. That and a minor celebrity locally, a professional expert who turned up on radio and TV, his specialty “the popular arts.” He would opine on the profundity of
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