SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  Of course she had.

  “You’re Starry Knight?” My voice was pitched lower than Libba’s but it communicated the same level of surprise. We’d found Starry Knight at the Alameda?

  “So what if I am?” The girl might be miserable, maybe even terrified, but she had teenage attitude in spades.

  “Keep your nose out of this.” Side-burns paired this bit of advice with his most menacing glare yet.

  Libba waved away his sorry (to her) attempt at a glare (three stingers and two glasses of wine with dinner can render the deadliest of glares banal). “Pish.”

  Side-burns’ eyes narrowed to a point where his vision was probably impaired.

  Libba hiccupped and her lips parted. She looked as if she meant to tell him if he wasn’t careful his face might get stuck that way. A sentiment Side-burns might not appreciate.

  “Do you want to be here, Starry?” My words came out in a rush.

  The girl lifted her chin. “Listen, lady. Do yourself a favor. Leave me alone.”

  I’d walked away from one girl in trouble. I wasn’t about to walk away from a second one.

  “What’s going on here?” Bill appeared at Libba’s elbow with her mink draped over his arm.

  “We’re just chatting with these lovely people,” said Libba.

  Since Side-burns was as far from being a lovely person as New York was from Hong Kong, Bill’s brows rose. “Is there a problem?”

  The manager joined our little party. “I called the police.”

  Side-burns’ furious gaze encompassed us all. “I told you to mind your own damned business.” His fingers wrapped around Starry’s upper arm. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

  The manager looked relieved.

  Bill looked confused.

  Libba and I looked at each other. I took a deep breath and said, “You’re not taking that child anywhere.”

  “Lady, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of this.”

  “Are you threatening her?” asked Bill.

  “I don’t make threats.”

  “That’s supposed to be a promise?” Bill puffed up his chest and scowled. He might have achieved menacing himself were it not for his plaid sport coat and Libba’s draped mink.

  The manager whispered something that sounded suspiciously like a four-letter word.

  Frankly, he looked too young to whisper those kinds of words.

  I held up my hands. Palms out. Fingers spread. “Let’s all calm down.”

  Libba and Starry rolled their eyes, Side-burns settled his glare on me, Bill snorted, and the manager looked as if bursting into tears might happen—soon.

  I swallowed. “I mean it. If this young woman is your daughter, you have nothing to worry about. If she’s not, I’m sure you won’t mind explaining to the authorities why you’re at a hotel with a minor dressed this way.”

  With her-arm-is-on-fire speed, Side-burns released his hold on Starry.

  She smoothed her too-short plaid skirt and stared at the carpet. I couldn’t see her face but the frantic tension radiating from her told me she was out of her depth.

  “Erp.” The hotel manager was definitely out his depth.

  “Did the police say when they’d be arriving?” I asked.

  “Erp.”

  I presented the manager with an encouraging smile. “Perhaps a time frame?”

  “Five minutes.” The manager was deathly pale. Poor man. Having someone arrested for pandering in the lobby wasn’t likely to attract the kind of guests the hotel wanted and a manager who looked older than nineteen would probably blame him.

  I kept the smile in place—more difficult when it was directed at Side-burns. “You could leave,” I suggested. “Before the police get here.”

  He considered my excellent suggestion and reached for Starry’s arm. “Come on, Starry.”

  My smile disappeared. “Like I said, the girl stays.” With Mother for a mother, I’d learned how to sound implacable at an early age.

  Or not. The corner of Side-burns’ lip curled into a sneer. “Starry.” He sounded impatient. He expected her to leave with him.

  “She stays,” I repeated.

  The girl looked up from her study of the carpet, her face unreadable. Did she want to go with him? Did she want to stay? Impossible to tell.

  Libba cocked her head. “Do I hear sirens?”

  Side-burns’ jaw worked. Hard. Chewing-an-enormous-wad-of-gum hard. He cast a vicious death-glare my way. “I know who you are. I’ll find out where you live.”

  “Are you threatening her?” Bill needed some new material (and a different sports coat—one with a bit of gravitas—but that was Libba’s problem not mine).

  “I don’t make threats.” Side-burns needed a new response. And a new death-glare. The one he had was wearing thin with repeated use.

  “Erp.” The manager needed a new word. Or maybe a string of them.

  Side-burns shared one last death-glare with all of us, stalked through the lobby, and paused at the entry. His gaze sought Starry’s and he waited.

  Seconds passed.

  The girl didn’t move a muscle.

  With a shake of his head, he pushed through the revolving doors. We watched through the plate glass window as he jumped into a cab and drove away.

  “Ellison—” Libba was practicing her own death-glare “—who was that awful man?”

  “No idea,” I replied.

  Starry shook her head as if she couldn’t believe she’d landed herself in the midst of meddling socialites. “That was Ray. His name is Ray.”

  “What now?” asked the manager.

  “You might want to call the police and tell them not to come.”

  “They’re not coming.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I lied about that.”

  “Erp.” It was the only answer I could think of.

  Libba, with multiple stingers and two glasses of wine to her credit, shook her finger in the young man’s face. “You lied?”

  “I figured if he thought the police were coming, he’d leave.” The manager glanced at Starry and a bubble appeared over his head. Inside the bubble floated the words, I thought he’d take you with him. “May I call you a cab?”

  “No,” I replied. “We’re going to sit down in the lounge and talk.”

  “We are?” Bill didn’t sound remotely pleased by my plan.

  To be fair, the manager didn’t look remotely pleased by my plan either.

  “You and Libba go on, Bill. I’ll catch a cab.”

  Bill nodded. Once. A short, decisive jerk of his chin. Then he handed the manager his valet ticket. “Would you please have them bring the car around?”

  The manager smiled, delighted to be rid of at least part of his problem.

  “We can’t leave Ellison,” said Libba.

  “Of course you can,” I told her. “You and Bill go somewhere fabulous and grab a nightcap.” Libba needed another drink like she needed a hole in the head. “We’ll catch a cab in a little while.”

  “We?” Libba grabbed my arm and pulled me a few feet away from Bill and Starry. “We don’t know this girl.”

  “No,” I agreed. “We don’t.” We knew she was in trouble.

  “She looks like an exotic dancer.”

  I made no comment.

  “Or worse.” It was hard to argue Libba’s point when Starry was dressed like a sexy school girl.

  “I’m not leaving her.” I’d left Leesa and she’d ended up dead.

  “What are you going to do with her?” Libba’s eyes widened. “You’re not planning on taking her home?”

  That was exactly what I was planning. “No, of course not.”

  “Good, because if your mother found out you brought home a stripper, her head would spin in full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree cir
cles. Multiple times.”

  Libba was right. Mother’s reaction would make Linda Blair’s performance in The Exorcist look like a young lady taking tea. When her head was done spinning, she’d lecture me (deservedly) on exposing Grace to unseemly elements. But if I didn’t take Starry home, if I left her, she’d be on her own. I couldn’t do that. I just had to make sure Mother never found out what I’d done.

  “Libba.” Bill jerked his chin toward the drive where his car waited in front of the door. “The car is here.”

  Libba cast a quick glance at the car then focused on me. “What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea.” It was the absolute truth. Sort of. “I’m going to help her.”

  Libba leaned closer to me. “You can’t save everyone.”

  Maybe not, but I could at least try.

  Bill held up Libba’s mink. “Are you ready?”

  Libba walked over to Bill, slid her arms into the coat’s sleeves, and gave me a last penetrating stare.

  Bill rubbed his chin. “Ellison, you’re sure I can’t take you home.”

  “I’m sure. Thanks for offering.” I shooed them toward the door. “Be careful on the roads.”

  They walked toward the door—at least ten feet before Libba glanced over her shoulder. “Call me.”

  “I will.”

  And then they were gone.

  I looked at Starry. Pigtails, a smattering of freckles, cherry red lip gloss, lace bra, short skirt, stilettos.

  She looked at me. “Those people that just left, who were they?”

  “My friend, Libba, and her date.”

  Starry rubbed her arms and looked worried.

  “They’re good people. I promise.”

  She fixed her gaze on the revolving door to the outside. The wrinkle in her brow suggested she suspected them of being undercover vice cops.

  “Really, you don’t need to worry. Are you hungry?”

  She shrugged. “I could eat.”

  “I skipped dessert.”

  She snorted.

  “Do you like pie?”

  “Everyone likes pie.” She paired this pronouncement with an eye roll.

  “Not everyone. There are cake people out there who won’t touch pie.”

  “I like cake.”

  “But you like pie better?”

  She nodded.

  “Wonderful. We can be friends.” I glanced at my watch. “The Pam Pam Room is still open. Let’s get some pie.” For Starry, we’d add a side of dinner.

  We walked down the hall toward the restaurant. I could feel the manager’s gaze between my shoulder blades. I didn’t have be a psychic like Madame Reyna to know he wanted us out of his hotel. Well, he’d get his wish. After Starry ate.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Sure enough, the manager was watching us.

  And Wright Halstrom was striding out the front door.

  Starry and I sat at a corner table in the Pam-Pam Room and ate pie. She ate pie. I pushed bits of lemon meringue around my plate.

  Starry put down her fork and took a sip of water. “Why did you help me?”

  If some stranger told me she’d interfered in my life at the behest of a spirit, I’d run away. Far away. “The man you were with didn’t look very nice.”

  “Ray? Ray’s all right. Better than most.”

  That didn’t say much for most.

  “Why were you here?” I asked.

  “You mean why was a girl like me at a swanky hotel?” The bitterness in her voice curdled the milk in my coffee.

  Actually I’d been looking for a client name. Soliciting prostitution was against the law. I was sure of it.

  Starry picked up her fork and downed another bite of pie. “Ray was supposed to meet with some guy.”

  Who would designate the Alameda as a meeting place with Ray?

  “What’s Ray’s last name?”

  Starry looked me in the eye. “Smith.”

  And her real name was Rapunzel.

  “Who was Ray meeting?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. If she knew, she wasn’t telling. “Ray brought you to the hotel dressed like that?”

  She looked down at her blouse and buttoned two buttons. She didn’t blush, didn’t seem overly concerned that everyone in the lobby had seen her bra. “He’s worried. Someone’s been asking around the clubs for me.”

  Oh dear. I picked up my coffee cup and let it warm my hands. “How did you meet Ray?”

  Her lips twisted. “You mean how did I end up like this?”

  That was exactly what I meant. “I suppose.”

  “Why do you care?” she demanded.

  “I have a daughter about your age.” That and I should have helped your friend. “I’d like to help.”

  The skin around her eyes tightened and she looked away. “Take care of your daughter. It’s too late for me.”

  That was maudlin. I sat up a little straighter and gave Starry a Mother look. “Don’t be ridiculous and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your life is just beginning. You can make of it whatever you want.”

  She stared back at me. Suddenly tough as nails. “Easy for you to say.”

  “It is,” I allowed. “Life isn’t about easy or difficult. Right now, for you, life is about being smart enough to accept my help.”

  She dropped her gaze and lifted another bite of cherry pie to her lips.

  I waited.

  “My dad died when I was five. For a few years, it was just me and my mom. Then she married Gary.” Starry scraped the edge of her fork across her plate, picking up lingering bits of crust and melted ice cream.

  I waited.

  “At first, Gary was nice. Things were better. Mom didn’t have to work so hard.” She put down her fork and studied her plate. “Then she got sick. Cancer. And Gary—” she turned her head away from me, staring at the view of the Plaza. Her lips thinned. A single tear welled over the rim of her eye. She swiped at it. Viciously. “After she died, I figured the streets couldn’t be any worse than Gary.”

  “There wasn’t anyone else?”

  “My mom’s mom. But she didn’t believe me.”

  “So you ran away and met Ray.”

  “No. I met Leesa. I’d been on the streets for a while and she said she’d get me a job.” She sent her version of a death-glare across the table, daring me to pity her. “I knew what the job was but I was desperate. Besides, it couldn’t be any worse than Gary.” She laughed softly. It was the kind of laugh reserved for three-time divorcees or women who caught their husbands in bed with their best friends. It was a laugh that belonged to those who’d seen pain and heartache and the horrible things people do to each other. It was laugh that acknowledged life was solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. It was the laugh of a girl who’d been wrong. Gary was not the worst thing in the world.

  I clenched my hands to keep them from reaching across the table. I pressed my lips together to keep them from uttering something sympathetic and trite. The girl staring at me knew better than to trust such easy expressions of concern.

  She put the fork down on the edge of her empty plate. “Leesa had it worse than I did.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can dance. I’m good at it. Dancing’s better than—” she looked at her empty plate as if she couldn’t imagine where the pie had gone.

  “Do you want more to eat? A hamburger? A steak?”

  “No. I’m good.” She took a drink of water. “Also, Leesa looked too young to work at the club. Getting busted for minors is bad for business.”

  “What happened to Leesa?”

  Starry shook her head. “She went out to the suburbs. I told her I’d go. The guy, he’s—twisted. But she went. And she came back with this coat. Said a lady had given it to her. I told her she should sell it.
But she said she was going to return it.”

  My throat swelled and I nodded, unable to reply. Now I took a sip of water. “What about the other girls who were shot?”

  Starry’s eyes widened. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood, sending the chair crashing to the floor. “I didn’t tell you Leesa was shot.”

  She hadn’t. I was an idiot. Any trust we’d established was gone. I held out my hands, pleading. “I’m the woman who gave her the coat.”

  Starry pinched the bridge of her nose. Was she considering her choices? At least she hadn’t walked away. Yet.

  A waiter appeared next to her and righted the chair. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Navy blue with brass buttons. A pea coat.” I told her. Then I shifted my gaze to the waiter. “She’s fine, thank you.”

  “What to do you want?” Starry’s hand reached for the back of the chair. She gripped the wood so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “To help. Like I should have helped Leesa.”

  “You have no clue what my life is like. But, because you’re feeling charitable today, you decided you’d swoop in and help me? How did you know my name? I know you and your friend recognized it. Tell me.”

  “We went to a psychic. She said Leesa wanted us to find you.”

  “A psychic?”

  “Yes.”

  Her lips pulled back from her teeth. “Let me guess. Shag rug and plastic slipcovers.”

  I nodded.

  “Madame Reyna.” And I thought her voice was bitter before.

  “How did you know?”

  Her gaze slid away from me. “Leesa talked about her.” Her hand loosened its grip on the chair. “I’m out of here.” She turned and marched toward the lobby.

  Dammit. I dug in my purse for a five, found a twenty, threw the bill on the table, and rushed after her.

  I caught up with her before she pushed through the revolving door. “Where are you going?”

  She turned and looked at me. “Stay away from me. Stay out of my life. I’m not your problem, lady.”

  “Ellison.”

  “What?”

  “My name, it’s Ellison. And yours is Jane.”

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t use that name anymore.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business.”