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It was a heavy duty, industrial strength garment, providing the kind of the support needed by Carrie Nation as she wielded her massive ax against a solid mahogany bar in a den of iniquity. Were it to be made of brass instead of the fruit of the rubber tree it would have not been out of place adorning a robust Viking matron upon the stage of the Metropolitan Opera; circled in uncountable concentric rings of stitching running inexorably to the pointed center of the cup. I always had to fight the urge to paint a red circle in the center of that target, but common sense won out every time.There were other wonders in that drawer. Garter belts, girdles and even corsets. They were much too large for me at that time, but I wore them anyway. I would spend hours on end enjoying the illicit thrill of those wonderful items of apparel. It was some time later that I found the old trunk in the attic with the outgrown clothes of my mother's past and was able to both wear something closer to my size. Ameche was out since I didn’t doubt the Boys were listening in on Scarlett’s horn, and she knew coming to see me would only get her more than her share of hurt from Slim. How long I was lost in my thoughts I couldn’t say. I was yanked clean of them when I heard the rumble of a man’s voice accompanied by high musical laughter. A sound so fine could only come from my baby, and every muscle in me went tense as piano wire at her approach. ‘That was fine, love. Just fine.’ Slim’s brogue, slightly slurred by vintage scotch, boomed from right outside the dressing room door. ‘You really know how to knock them dead, don’t you?’ A more muffled laugh and the door opened. Scarlett’s vertigo-inducing high heels clicked across the tiled entryway followed by the weightier thump of Slim’s perfectly polished Rochesters. Never one to resist staring down the barrel of a gun, I eased forward, trying to make as little noise as possible, to steal a peek. Sure it was dangerous, and for a moment, I could.
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