Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

“No, but we’ll go up anyway.” She gave an imperial nod to Harry behind the reservation desk, who rebounded it to Freddie, the stairway escort, and off they started, to my relief. Byerle was almost out of earshot, but I could hear her unladylike response to something Tierney told her. “Damn it, you promised it would work. Suppose Jay Porter finds out.”

That little piece of pattycake was none of my business, so I got back into my act and entered the “sandbox” and gabbed with Otis, the attendant, for a few seconds before heading back to Miss Stars-In-Her-Eyes.

She had a hurt look on her face. “They were nobodies, Gina. I do know some nobodies.”

“That’s all I know...” she smiled “...except for you, Chick.”

That was lunch. By ten o’clock that night, Gina Velker was definitely on her way to becoming a somebody.

To pull it off, I was calling in a lot of owed favors from news guys, columnists, and PR flacks. Thursday morning’s newspapers carried gossip column items about Chick Kelly’s new heartthrob, and one of the tabloids had a picture of us at Studio 54, non-dancing. Since most of the real celebrities were out of town, I was getting more attention than I actually deserved. By noon, the local TV gossip hens were on the phone, and I gave each of them a little tidbit to nibble on. For instance, my “no comment, give me a break, she’s a married lady” statement got us two whole minutes on the six o’clock news’ “People and Places” segment. I knew we were in clover when the junk tabloids started phoning in for the dirt.

But all this razzmatazz was nothing to what I had planned for Thursday night. It was snowing hard when I rang Gina’s doorbell at eight fifteen. I expected to find a wide-eyed lady who had been stunned by her instant celebrity. Instead, I was the stunned one and she was the stunning. For a second, I didn’t think it was the plain Jane dame I had dragged around town the night before.

“Elizabeth Arden,” she said, touching her perfectly manicured nails to her professionally made up face. Even the mousy off-blonde hair had been touched with soft gold. “Halston,” she went on, as she pirouetted to show me the flare of a sexy crepe outfit.

Damn it, the girl was a knockout, and I found myself wishing she weren’t a crook. But crook she was, at least so my further information from Tregannon, the private investigator, had indicated. It seemed that Samson Velker was so dumb and such a mope that dreaming up the criminal conversation scheme was beyond him, which left only my darling date as the heavy.

“Very nice, Gina,” I said, taking off my topcoat. “Must have cost a quid or two.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “That’s a thank you, not an invitation; at least not yet. Thank you for my chrysalis. I looked it up. It’s a butterfly coming out of the cocoon. I don’t mean just getting gussied up or buying new clothes, either. I got this dress on markdown. I’m a good shopper. Always have been, but until I met you, I never had the courage to buy one. Maybe courage is the wrong word. Confidence? Poise? I don’t know, but I feel like saying to the world, ‘Damn it, look at me!’ That’s always been my problem, Chick. I’ve been too shy. I was a wallflower at dances and a secretarial school dropout because taking dictation embarrassed me. Hell, I only had one real girlfriend in my entire life to share things with. I guess I ended up married to Samson because he posed no threat. Why am I going on like this? I salute you, Chick Kelly, my Pygmalion.”

I was half expecting an orchestra to play “I Could Have Danced All Night,” but the other half of my brain was taking care of business. “You realize that we are what’s known as an item,” I said. I wanted to see if she had gotten any flak from Samson. Obviously she had him on a string because she only kissed me again and said, “Good. I’ve always wanted to be an item. Is that champagne?”

I held up the gaily wrapped bottle and presented it to her. When I had asked Jack Mac to select a bottle from the joint’s wine cellar, I hadn’t realized he was going to make a packaging production out of it. “Ah yes, m’deah, a touch of the bubbly.” I gave her some James Mason.

“It’s like being with ten different people,” she said with childlike glee. Rich Little would have made her blow a fuse. “Let’s not open it now, Chick. I want to save this for a special moment.”

“Okay, then let’s get out our paint set and cover the town.”

We started with blanquette de pecheur at Lutece, some jazz and juleps at Bechets, and on to the eleven thirty show at the Rainbow Room. Later, we hit the Improv (I did six minutes — pro’s privilege) and the disco at Regine’s. Note that here I am trotting all over town when I own my own joint, but Jay Porter is picking up the tab, and besides, I want to spread the “hot item” stuff around.