ment.

RANSVESTIA

"I'm from the Trib," Eddie began, about to explain his assign-

Before he could continue, the man nodded and pointed down the corridor, "Room with number three on the door. Take the next left."

Eddie was about to thank him when the man turned away and began a violent bout of coughing and spitting into a bucket behind him.

The door with number three on it badly needed a new coat of paint. Eddie hesitated slightly, then rapped loudly on the door.

"Yeah," a strong male voice answered through the door.

"I'm from the Tribune," Eddie said, wondering how the performer would view his faded blue jeans, jacket and bedraggled grey, cotton shirt.

"Sure. Come in," the baritone voice called.

The room was brightly lit, both by small lights about the mirror and also by a long, overhead fluorescent lamp. A long chesterfield ran the length of the small room. The wall opposite was covered with pegboard with the mirror in the center. In a wooden chair in front of the mirror sat an unshaven, middle-aged man, his greying hair thinning noticeably on top. He wore a tattered old bathrobe, under which Eddie could see a stained, white undershirt.

"Uh, I'm, er, supposed to be here to see, er, Lola Levine before, er, the act tonight," Eddie wondered who the old guy was. Perhaps he was the agent.

The older man yawned, stretched and reached over to pick up his unlighted cigarette butt from the ashtray. "Yeah," he said. "So ask away, kid. I'm Lola Levine."

...

Eddie's eyes almost popped from his head. "B-but ." he stammered.

The grey, rheumy eyes looked up with understanding. "Well, ya didn't expect Marilyn Monroe at these prices, did ya?" He lit the cigarette with a flick of his thumbnail and regarded Eddie sourly.

10