Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

first day as a professional dancer, his first step toward fame.

      He recalled the last time he had been driven over this foothill boulevard, Mr. Lowell beside him, Johnson's broad back curving above the pane of the glass separating chauffeur from passengers. He was much happier today. He had succeeded in surviving nearly four months of Hollywood, months of hard work, life between the drab walls of a furnished bedroom. The great and the near great had passed him by. He was not yet one of them. They had succeeded because they had worked hard, had defied their own weaknesses. He too—he thought this morning—would win in the same selfless way.

      ​She sat up.

      "What are you thinking about?" She smiled knowingly.

      "I don't know."

      "Me?"

      "No."

      "You look so serious. Relax, Ken, if you want to get anything out of this try-out."

      "I'm not nervous."

      "Then why so all-fired grim? Listen, buddy, we're not working in the Follies yet. We're not even playing the Orpheum in L.A."

      She took his hand. "Maybe," she said, "if you was a bit more human, you'd feel better."

      In the Mission House, they rented two rooms separated by an ell in the corridor of the shabby little hotel.

      "In my language this is a dump," Anita said as she unpacked her bag. "And I let you get away with this double room stuff because you looked too innocent for words downstairs at the desk; and I'm not going to San Quentin for corrupting the morals of a minor. But we coulda taken a twin bedroom and saved seventy-five cents a night. I won't bite you and if I do the marks won't show later than nine the next morning."

      They couldn't find the theatre. Its narrow lobby hid between a market and an automobile salesroom, "looking like nothing but a very old vacant lot," said Anita. They found their names on the house-board. They were one of three acts, "Mme. Blanco, the famed Swiss Sharpshooter; Prince Zarah, the International Mystic; and the Metropolitan Dance Team Par Excellence, Rogers and Gracey."

      ​"Gooda-goda," barked Anita, "we are next to closing."

      "Is that good?" Ken asked.

      "When the closing act is Cecil B. De Mille's 'King of Kings,' it couldn't be worse. I should have done a Salome routine and brought your head on-stage in a soup tureen." The box-office was not yet open. The office door was locked. Back stage they happened upon a wizened, wrinkled old gentleman who announced that he was Sam Anderson, father of Joe Anderson, the house manager.

      At last Ken penetrated the mysteries of the theatre. Sam Anderson pointed the way to their dressing-room.

      "One room enough?" he asked.

      "Plenty," said Anita.

      Ken followed her across the gloomy stage to a corridor. She unlocked the door of a narrow frigid cell. Two dressing tables, two chairs, a wardrobe, a barred window.

      "Looks like the jail house to me," she said, "but I s'pose it's heaven to you, Buster."

      "I like it."

      "The orchestra will be here at twelve o'clock," Sam Anderson said. "Got your contracts with you?"

      Ken nodded.

      "Ed Feinberg will be down, I think," said Anderson.

      Anita laughed. "To see us break in? Who told you?"

      "He wrote me when he sent Joe the contract."

      After the old man had left, Ken asked her who Ed Feinberg was.

      "The agent, silly. The man who made us what we are today. I don't think he'll come this far to see us perform. Come, let's get into some practise clothes."

      "You first," Ken said.

      "Listen here, what do you think I am?" she exploded. ​"We got quick changes to make. Get in that corner and slip into your dancing strap; I've got a belt on already. Have to keep one on all the time with hot stuff like you around."

      A few minutes later, they had changed into trunks and shirts.

      "I never knew how pretty you were," she said.

      "The same goes for you, baby," he said.

      "You mean that?" She laughed. "Aren't you going a bit too far?"

      "You've been wonderful, really wonderful," he said. He took her in his arms. "If we ever get to meaning anything at all in this business, it'll be because you've been so wonderful."

      "Those are precious words, precious," she whispered, as she let him kiss her.

      Chapter VII

       Table of Contents

      ​

      HALF the audience was Mexican; the orchestra squeaked through the overture with dismal monotony of tempo and old Sam Anderson was always late on cues—he acted as grip, props and curtain man—yet it was a great opening performance. The audience warmed quickly to the routines of Rogers and Gracey, applauded loudly when Ken let his legs fly high in his specialty. They received four curtain calls after the waltz.

      "We pepped them up, the tamales, for their Bible lesson," Anita laughed as they dressed. "Boy, it sure feels good to work."

      He was naked except for his strap and he rubbed his lean body with alcohol, then powdered himself.

      "If you went on that way," Anita said, "you'd wow 'em all the way to Mexico City."

      He had lost his shyness. The stage, sparkling lights, music and applause, was stimulating dry wine. He stepped into his street clothes, bubbling over with enthusiasm.

      "Let's do something," he suggested.

      "I'm for celebrating. Let's see—we each make one fifty profit on the day. I'll chip in and buy a bottle of gin with you."

      "I'd rather not drink," he said.

      "Not even a special Anita cocktail? Here—" she tossed him a dollar bill.

      ​He found Sam Anderson at the stage door. "You can get gin at the corner drug store," said the old man.

      "Where can I buy some flowers?"

      "Right next door. The market is open until eleven."

      He made his purchases and light-heartedly hurried back to the theatre. As he opened the dressing-room door, he saw the black overcoat of a man. He entered. The bulbous-nosed ruddy-cheeked Jew who faced him was Ed Feinberg.

      "I was down to Palm Springs and dropped by to see your act. It's okay," he commented.

      "Can you get us more time?"

      "Yes … and no," he replied.

      "I get it," Anita remarked tersely.

      "I don't," said Ken.

      "This is business," Feinberg said. "I guess Miss Rogers is the business manager of the act, ain't she?"

      "Yes," Ken replied.

      "You leave it to her." He winked. "She knows how to get dates. You keep on dancing. You're all right, kid."

      Ken handed the flowers to Anita.

      "Sweet boy." She smiled. "Now don't you go talking about us two, Ed."

      "I'm on my way," Feinberg said. "Good luck, anyhow."

      "You won't stop over and have a drink with us?"

      "I can't. Gotta sleep in L.A. tonight."

      "So that's an agent," Ken said as the door closed.

      "That's an agent," she agreed. "He took his one buck fifty commission too, the bastard. And more beside."

      She tucked