I wanted to plant the palm of my hand hard against her delicate cheek and drag her delusional ass to the airport and put her on that plane back to London. But whether I liked it or not, I had one of my pawns positioned in too much of a compromised square.
“We’re all in this till the end, Jay.” An unsettling buoyancy held her face. She turned and strode across the floor and back to the table. The narrator came on the loudspeaker, directing everyone back to their groups.
46
Three hours had passed, and the three events I was scheduled to dance were finished. I felt relieved to be out of the spotlight for the moment, but I still had the last and final heat to go, the tango.
An intermission was announced, after which a meal was to be served. The crowded room with all its participants and staff began to break away into the lobbies and corridors or outside where some strolled through the fresh air.
I held the same folded newspaper that Detective Sullivan gave me earlier. I scanned the article, the one regarding a dead local sports jock. I exited the building and walked around a corner of the hotel. Huddled inside a courtyard were Catherine, Lena, and Angela, all smoking cigarettes. I stopped nearby. The hazy sunlight inked dark lines in their elegant stage faces.
“Why, if it isn’t a clique of cats,” I said. A half-bent smile hung on my face. I stood slouched and tired from all the bop, boogie, and salsa steps I had previously stumbled through. The three prima-ballerinas were quiet, only watching me. I pulled a gold-sovereign coin from my pocket and tossed it toward Lena. She caught the coin, as if ready for it.
“A penny for your thoughts?” I said. “Or in this case, a gold sovereign for a dance with the devil?”
“Hello, Jack,” Catherine said in a discounted tone.
“You’re speaking to me?” I said as I stepped closer. “And to what do I owe this honor?”
Catherine took a drag of her black cigarette. Lena and Angela each had their own black cigarette crimped between pretty lips.
“Would you care for a smoke, Jack?” Angela asked. She seemed emboldened, standing amongst her noir team of cats, yet I could tell the conversation she and I had earlier still swirled in her head.
“He doesn’t smoke,” Catherine said. “He just smolders like a wet, moldy rug when you throw it on the fire.”
“My oven is warm and always on, Cat.”
“Don’t call me Cat.”
“Excuse me, your highness. I hope you don’t mind that I stole one of your gold coins. I found it in a bag of tricks you cats left inside a trunk in my house, and since possession is nine tenths of the law, I thought I’d take it out on the town.”
“What do you want, Jacky boy?” Lena said, stepping close me, flexing her alpha-female posture.
“I just to come out and congratulate you three. It seems you’re all winning the show today. Do make sure you hide those cute little butts of yours—the cigarettes—that is. Rare fags like those are easy to spot. With all the Feds and local P.D. swarming around here, it’d be a shame to see that sweet DNA become incriminating evidence.”
Lena squeezed the last drag of her cigarette, then dropped it, grinding it into the sidewalk with her foot. She said, “Why not smoke them, Jacky boy? They’re all over town by now, anyway.”
“Thanks to you. But I’m sure a recently discarded one, about four or five a.m. this morning was left smoldering on a dark football field.” I held the folded newspaper in front of me, showing the front-page article of the latest murder. It does appear you cats had another stash of claws someplace.”
“You do have gall to be standing so close to me, Jacky boy. Or is it a death wish?” Lena said.
“Last I heard there’s no law against an invited guest taking up space on private property. Your face looks pretty fucked up, Lenny. Need any Vicodin?”
Lena eased in closer, putting her face close enough so that I could feel her breath hissing from her flared nostrils. A heavy layer of makeup foundation caked over her face, trying to hide her tearing, puffy black eyes. Her nose too was still swollen. Nice work, Jack.
“Cat got your tongue, Lenny?” I said.
“Her nose is broken. It hurts when she talks,” Angela said.
“I bet. How about another race, Lenny? This time I drive the Ferrari.”
“Heard from any investigators lately, Jack?” Lena said. “You know, the old, fat private dick kind?” Her eyes turned eerily black, the same way they did at Roger’s house. She went on, “The chubby sleuth squealed like a pig when he found me in his hotel room. He squealed even more when I cut him to the bone.”
I wanted to, needed to, pound what was left of the bitch into a bloody corpse, but now wasn’t the time. I nudged her away, placing her within an easy reach of a lethal right cross. Ivy’s face, the sound of his voice...the image of Lena slashing him to death burned in my brain. Tonight you die, bitch.
Students, staff, guests, and onlookers began herding back into the ballroom. I checked my watch; it was time to tango again. The three ballerinas began for the door. I took Catherine by the arm before she passed me and pulled her around.
“Take your hand off me,” she said.
Lena gave me one last evil stare before she walked inside after Angela.
“I need to go inside, if you don’t mind,” Catherine said.
“A few hours ago we were chatting like lovers,” I said. “You’re even wearing the necklace I gave you. Or does that mean anything?” I lifted the newspaper again and held the article with matching photograph of the late Tommy Barton toward her. “Another scapegoat?” I asked.
She only starred at me.
“The murder happened in a football field. Imagine that. Not artificial turf either, but just good ol’ rye and fescue; the kind that can leave green stains on a person’s kneecaps. But today you seem to be wearing dark nylons to hide the evidence. Must have been your turn to flay the playboy, huh, Cat? By the way, why do you need to kill these playboys?
“The same reason you needed to kill Michelle Brigham.”
I only looked at her.
She said, “You need to cease with this sleuthing routine, love, so that we can get on with this.”
“Well, before we get on with this, there seems to be a lot of players around the dance floor tonight: detectives, G-men, dance instructors, politicians. Oh, and do be careful with one of your colleagues, he seems to give allegiance to no one except whoever has the most rat food.”
A grin crimped her mouth. “I’m rather good at catching rats; William should be no problem.”
“I take it you’re in communiqué with Newport Beach’s skinniest rodent?”
She nodded.
“The poor boy just wants to dance on Broadway,” I said.
“William has neither the talent nor will he have the needed lifespan to dance on Broadway.”
I figured as much. “The killing has to stop, Catherine.”
“Of course, John. But you still haven’t completed your final dance yet, and when you do it’ll change everything. It seems we have a date with destiny this evening, love. You know, that point of entropy—that place to fall—that vacuous moment that screams out for an answer?”
I concluded that the board was clearing by the moment and that the king and queen will indeed soon be on the run toward a date with destiny, and that the killing, by no means, was going to stop. I stepped aside, letting my sparkling lure glide back to that goddamn dance spectacle.
47
More time was left regarding the intermission, so I continued my tactical trek along the hotel grounds. I reluctantly sought out one final player who refused to abandon this life-or-death game. I had gotten everything I needed from William, including the recorded messages he attained by bugging his clothes and Brenda’s walls. Unfortunately, all private conversations at the studio between Catherine, Lena, and Angela had been in French and Latin. Those cats must’ve smelled the rat early on, and so they covered their pretty backsides with the artfulness of one hell of a ma
squerade. Vengeance est mei.
My trek didn’t take long. The sound of soft-soled dancing shoes tiptoed behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see William. We stood in an obscure section on the other side of the hotel away from the assembly of our peers. He approached me and said, “Right on time, Jack Kidd.” Elation simmered in his face; the kind one has when coming into a large sum of money.
“Did you check your phone, William?”
“It’s there, one million. Thank you very much.” He then did it, a pirouette, ending with two faux six-shooters pointed at me. “I’ve had a rooty-tooty time with you, Jack Kidd, and you are one groovy grape, but I must be off to prepare my next routine, after which I’m on a jet plane bound for New York.” William began to move away.
“What’s your involvement with Turner and Balosky, William?”
He stopped. “None of your beeswax, Kiddy Jack.” A smug, way over confident grin twisted his face—and why not? He had my laundered money stashed safely in his bank account, so any more coercion from me would be nothing more than an empty threat. But as I stated before, I had one more dumbass I needed to keep out of a growing pile of dead bodies.
“Catherine knows, William, that you outed her and Lena and that you’re just a deep throat in all this, pun intended.”
“So what, I don’t care what that cat-scratching bitch thinks. She’s a murderer and whatever I did to her is all fair in love and war.”
“That may be true, Willie, but you pissed off a cat-scratching bitch without a conscience. She’ll win the war.”
“Let her try. After the tournament, I’m on my way to New York.” William began to walk away again. I stepped in front of him, holding a folded newspaper up to his face that I hoped would display enough caveat to prove my point. He darted his eyes between the article and my stern expression.
He said, “I read this morning...so what?”
“Who do you think killed him, William?”
“Don’t play nurse maid with me, Kiddy Jack. I got what I wanted—now get the hell out of my way.” He tried to push past me, but I held my position.
“Listen to me, William. After this comedy of horrors is finished today, I know a man you can trust, Detective Frank Sullivan. He’ll slip you out of here tonight and hold you in protective custody until certain scenarios around here have blown over. Do you understand?”
“I see what’s going on—you want your money back—”
“Fuck the money, William! You can have the money. What I’m talking about is your life. Once this all blows over here in a few days, Detective Sullivan will release you from custody and send you on your merry way to New York and a million dollars richer. Do you comprehend this?”
William stared at me, contemplating, I could only guess, matters of his life and death.
“These people you’re two-facing, William, won’t let you live long enough to become a collaborating witness to the crimes that are about to go down here in the next few hours. They’ll cover their tracks, and when they do, you’ll be one dead mole.”
For a moment I thought my caveat had won him over, but like all arrogant, greedy fools, his eyes resumed the callous gaze. He said, “You have no more control over this than anyone else, Kiddy Jack, and so it’s every man for himself, right?” He winked his eye, blew me a kiss, then twitched his skinny ass back to the ballroom.
48
The audience sat at their tables enthralled at how Catherine the Great graced the floor with gravity defying extravagance. And the student whom she waltzed with made no contribution to her deft movement of time and space. He literally hung onto her for notable respect.
Dr. Murphy stood alone at the edge of the ballroom—her studio ever closer to capturing the flag—as the spectacle of Catherine waltzed in front of her. A rousing ovation rang through the ballroom following Catherine’s performance. After graceful acknowledgement, Catherine returned to her table alone and center.
I stood on deck, waiting my turn. I moved to the edge of our pseudo-encampment of fellow students and waited for Angela. Brenda approached me and reached for my hand and escorted me to the floor.
“Where’s Angela?” I asked.
“I made a switch.”
“You’re good at that.”
“It was necessary.” I saw in Brenda’s eyes an impish twinkle. Things were about to get interesting.
Only three couples competed in the heat. Lena stood posted in fight-ready position with her partner. All six of us stood ready for the music.
“Argentine Tango, the same routine,” Brenda said.
“But I’m dancing with Angela—”
“It’s with me now. Remember, a four-step start with Cruzadas—cross the feet—the feet have action. Lead and I’ll pick up if need be, but stay close and tight. Let me break at points, understand?”
I nodded.
The music began and our steps proceeded. Brenda moved with no hesitation or sense of obstruction, each turn, each break, as if a shadow clung to me. The floor was comfortably open with each couple controlling a third of the floor in directed lines.
I leaned into a turn, a Promenade poised parallel into Cradle-rock-fans. Then a change of face into Cambio, a Barrida, sweeping her across, followed by another basic. I extended my arm, leading her to flair out, taking her in and closing the move, next, a half-circle turn, a Medio cortè.
Over and again we executed the steps, looping each set into eight-beat phrases. Brenda’s skill moved in precise timing, compensating in perfect syncopation any and all of my edginess. We danced passably well, and the look on Lena’s face proved it, causing her routine to change. She drew her partner closer and into the center where our paths would have to cross. She marked a spot, a quick turn, pausing for just a moment into a frozen pose, aiming her huntress face toward me.
I knew Brenda understood Lena’s intent, the sheer reason a prima-ballerina dances. The dance was a form of martial art, and those who danced professionally, danced to conquer.
Brenda drew our line, an angle of conflict where Lena would have no choice but to attack. Our two promenades converged. Lena commandeered a swift turn, swinging her and her partner’s bent elbows sharply toward my face. Brenda corresponded quickly by pulling me out of the path of the oncoming elbows. With stability and speed, Brenda swept us both to an about stance to Lena’s back, and with the stud of Brenda’s high heel shoe sweeping inconspicuously across the floor, she clipped the stud of Lena’s shoe, causing it to dislodge, leaving Lena to stumble.
Lena broke away from her partner, kicked off both shoes, and returned to the dance barefoot, losing only a few beats. She maneuvered herself and partner back to the pattern, yet this time I knew her revenge would be calculated to an exact moment. No prize, no recognition mattered, only a blunt, vindictive strike from a sharp, boney area of her body against my face.
The two lines advanced, and all four of us met in the center. We performed sweeps, fans, and kicks, whipping our legs and feet, preparing for the clash, unsuspected by all except those who knew Lena and Brenda and how it would have to end.
A sudden rotation of Lena’s extended right arm swung sharply at me; a quick pivot of Brenda’s feet pulled me from the oncoming pair of fisted hands. In an instant, Brenda countered with a quick and more exact swing of her arm that forced a blow of my clenched knuckles squarely into the tender cartilage of Lena’s broken nose.
As if the fluid scene had shifted into slow motion, Lena’s head slung back with her hand clutching her face. She then dropped to the floor, sitting frog like until she recoiled into a fetal position against the polished hardwood, bleeding profusely from her nose. The music cut from the overhead speakers; gasps and jeers of the crowd built to a loud rumble.
Brenda and I retreated quickly from the ballroom. I looked back, relishing how the pale-skinned bitch lay, down-for-the count. Angela and the others rushed to the floor and hovered around Lena. Catherine sat alone at the table watching me exit the ballroom.
49
> 8:15 p.m.
I drove my Porsche southbound along the ever-congested interstate 405 through South Orange County. I was talking on my cell phone to Desmond Winston. “Worlds have collided, Jack, and a turning point has taken place, but you’re pushing your luck, mate. You may have gone too far.”
“It’s going to work, Desmond.”
“What’s going to work? Sketching a story, escaping with a psychopath? You’re not supposed to fall in love with your muse—I told you that.”
“I need you to make the calls, Desmond. I need everything set in place, just like we planned.”
“We didn’t really plan anything; it was more an outline I gave you. I didn’t think you’d take this seriously.”
“An outline I followed and filled in. I lined up all the names and contacts. It needs to be done. Just do it—please.”
“If all this is about the death of that Brigham sheila two years ago, you need to get the hell over it, mate.”
“It’s more than that, Desmond. I don’t have time to debate this.”
“I see...all right. If that’s what you want me to do, I’ll make the calls and move things around. You’re hooked now, Jacky boy. None of this surprises me, though. You always were a few sandwiches short a picnic when it came to women.”
8:35 p.m.
I parked my car along the street, then walked toward the front of Brenda’s residence. The front door opened as I neared the house.
“Why, if it isn’t the great Fred Astaire,” Brenda remarked.
“I prefer Gene Kelly,” I replied. Brenda and I had defeated something together tonight, causing her watery-green eyes to convey a restless joy. I entered her house.
The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd Page 29