The Golden Spoon was strictly for suckers. Located a block north of the river in a renovated three-story building, it sported a white-and-red striped canopy which stretched from plate-glass door to curb, a huge tri-colored neon sign which flashed Follies Parisienne —Twenty Beautiful Girls—No Cover Charge, and a sharp-eyed doorman with the build of a heavyweight pug and more brass buttons than a general. As I approached, he pulled back the door with his right hand and exposed the white-gloved palm of his left hand, all in one smooth synchronized movement. I ignored the hungry palm, nodded, and walked in. He let the door bang behind me.
The joint's main floor was the standard layout: first, a plushy foyer with the inevitable cloakroom and framed, glossy blow-ups of the come-on girls; next, a crystal-and-chrome bar, at one end of which a dozen B-girls in flashy, low-cut evening dresses clustered like flies around a bruised banana; and, at the rear, for guys who were dragging their own mamas or wanted to eat and put on the dog, an elaborate, dimly-lighted dining-room, complete with tables, chairs, waiters in black ties, a Latin-American orchestra, and a ten-by-twelve dancing arena.
A young kid was poised at the entrance to the bar, indolently balancing a tray of cigarettes against one hip. She had thin crimson lips, dark eyes, and thick black hair which had been lacquered into a shiny up-do. A rhine-stone-studded Spanish comb stuck jauntily into the air from the bulge of hair at the back of her head and a red rose emerged from a puff over her forehead, except for a black, lacy mantilla, most of the rest of her was out in the open.
I stopped beside her and eyed the expanse of bare skin. "So this is what they wear in South America," I said, grinning.
Without cracking a smile, she said: "It's awfully warm down there, mister. Cigarettes?"
"Pack of Tareytons." I tossed her a half buck. "Where'll I find Millie White?"
Description:
The Golden Spoon was strictly for suckers. Located a block north of the river in a renovated three-story building, it sported a white-and-red striped canopy which stretched from plate-glass door to curb, a huge tri-colored neon sign which flashed Follies Parisienne —Twenty Beautiful Girls—No Cover Charge, and a sharp-eyed doorman with the build of a heavyweight pug and more brass buttons than a general. As I approached, he pulled back the door with his right hand and exposed the white-gloved palm of his left hand, all in one smooth synchronized movement. I ignored the hungry palm, nodded, and walked in. He let the door bang behind me.
The joint's main floor was the standard layout: first, a plushy foyer with the inevitable cloakroom and framed, glossy blow-ups of the come-on girls; next, a crystal-and-chrome bar, at one end of which a dozen B-girls in flashy, low-cut evening dresses clustered like flies around a bruised banana; and, at the rear, for guys who were dragging their own mamas or wanted to eat and put on the dog, an elaborate, dimly-lighted dining-room, complete with tables, chairs, waiters in black ties, a Latin-American orchestra, and a ten-by-twelve dancing arena.
A young kid was poised at the entrance to the bar, indolently balancing a tray of cigarettes against one hip. She had thin crimson lips, dark eyes, and thick black hair which had been lacquered into a shiny up-do. A rhine-stone-studded Spanish comb stuck jauntily into the air from the bulge of hair at the back of her head and a red rose emerged from a puff over her forehead, except for a black, lacy mantilla, most of the rest of her was out in the open.
I stopped beside her and eyed the expanse of bare skin. "So this is what they wear in South America," I said, grinning.
Without cracking a smile, she said: "It's awfully warm down there, mister. Cigarettes?"
"Pack of Tareytons." I tossed her a half buck. "Where'll I find Millie White?"
**