THE FEMININE VIEWPOINT

AN ORCHID FOR HENNIE

by and about women

by gabrielle ganelle

It hadn't been easy. Nothing was ever easy for Hennie. Now they had it fixed. Why not? What was there to lose?

"It's almost too perfect, Baby," Joe said, springing slowly up and down on the balls of his feet, sliding his hands into hip pockets. "We've got it made. All we gotta do is play it smart. When you go on tonight don't get scared, Baby."

He pulled a hand from his pocket, leaned partly backwards to knead the muscle behind his right knee. "Make like any other night... then, 'Blue Moon'... our song, Baby. And sing your heart out because this is gonna be the last night you sing for peanuts." He brought his heels down with a thud, his face tightening up as it often did when rage was getting hold of him. "Look . . . Doll . . ." he Doll..." said, hammering the last letter of each word into the air, "you back out of this thing now and I'll—” He

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stopped; chewed on the tip of his tongue. "So help me I'll give you what Jan got." He screwed a fist into the palm of his hand. "Don't talk like that, Joe." Hennie shuddered. "Sure. I'm gonna get her for all she's got. Why not? People like Paula Winters ought to get took."

"You know it," he said. "Her old man's worth enough..." he slapped big hands on his knees and swung around to face the bare yellowed wall, "we shouldn't have no trouble in getting you on Broadway . . . or better, Doll." Hennie watched him through the mirror. Sometimes he could make her feel so good-important. He had a startlingly triangular face with wide apart eyes: eyes intense blue-like a saint or a killer,' she thought, and shuddered at her comparisons.

"Wait'll that father of hers finds out what she really is," Hennie said and laughed: curly, not-happy laughter.

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