The Stand-In Read Online Free Page B

she deserved credit. Believing he’d knifed Fat Georgie, she knew damn well that lawyers to defend him would cost , plus her friends would find out what she’d made her son do to earn money for her because, he noticed, she never told anyone about his striptease. She never mentioned the My-Oh-My Club, the name never crossed her lips.
    When she did get to the bank and handed over six thousand seven hundred sixty-five bucks, most of which he had earned, he figured they were even. He was an Englishman going back to England, until he got there, anyhow, because it turned out, birth certificate or not, he was no Britisher. She had made him a female impersonator and by taking him to Hollywood when he wasn’t even seven she had also made him a British impersonator.
    Dr. Wilson on Harley Street had taken care of his voice and except when he got excited and forgot, he sounded like a man, but although his accent was okay, he was no Englishman. She had made him nothing.
    And he still was nothing, the nothing assistant in Cyril’s pansy antique shop. He had met Cyril in Kline’s antique shop in New Orleans. (Cyril bought stuff there that did better in London, and Mr. Kline bought from Cyril.) Desmond had talked to Cyril about going to London someday because there you could beat the star system, and Cyril said to look him up. He had looked Cyril up and now he was helping out until the repertory theater in Liverpool had the opening they’d promised him. Working for Cyril had led to Ronnie Ashton and Ronnie had led to Boy. (Desmond’s gut twisted.) Ronnie had come to the shop to collect his cut for getting Cyril the job decorating the Victorian house for the movie. The house belonged to Ronnie’s aunts, and since Cyril had a big collection of Victoriana and knew where he could get whatever else was wanted, Ronnie suggested Cyril to Mr. Ossian.
    Cyril was out when Ronnie strolled in, but he said if Desmond didn’t mind he’d wait around because, actually, he’d been counting on the money for dinner.
    Naturally Desmond had offered to lend Ronnie eating money and Ronnie had said okay, thanks, if he would be Ronnie’s guest. So while they were eating, Desmond mentioned that he didn’t know London and would like to, the “in” places. Ronnie laughed and said he knew them only because he— pause —escorted— pause —ladies to them. (He meant he was a kind of gigolo.) He didn’t escort too many ladies, because husbands preferred escorts to be on the queer side. Ronnie had looked at him then, and Desmond thought maybe he was going to say he could put him on to jobs like that, so he made it very plain he was a straight even though he was temporarily working for Cyril.
    That evening Ronnie agreed that if he acted as guide, Desmond could pick up the tab. (The first time Ronnie had chosen La Gavroche in Lower Sloane Street, It was a new restaurant, and Desmond was out eleven pounds for two courses and the bottle of wine Ronnie had chosen, but even though Ronnie had never been there before, they got a good table and the kind of service that meant they knew Ronnie was somebody even if they didn’t know who.) Ronnie had acted really interested in Desmond, and after a while he even told Ronnie about Hollywood and Bran and his voice. It turned out a psychoanalyst would have been cheaper. Ronnie gargled double whiskeys like water, but Desmond picked up the tabs and would have gone on picking them up because—okay, corny, he thought after a while, Ronnie was his friend.
    And then he made the big mistake. Okay, he was stoned, but even so he should have had more sense. He told Ronnie about the My-Oh-My Club, about the songs and the striptease. He told him about the bikini and turning his back so the tourists could see the phosphorescent hands in back, one on each side, and about the finish, too. Dimwit, dope, to tell Ronnie how he’d worked up his imitation of Coral Reid as