by Неизвестный
“What about the police?”
“If there’s a game running, the cop on the beat is getting a cut—and so is his sergeant. In a dispute, whose side do you think they’ll come down on? The beat cop will tell you to move on and be thankful for the life lesson.”
“Now if you will excuse us a moment,” said St. Laurent, “the Paramount has a surprise number for you while we prepare the stage for our grand finale.”
The curtain drew together slowly as Nicholas Ivanovich once again took the stage, standing in the spotlight to the right on the apron.
“By now I believe you have learned to expect the unexpected,” said Ivanovich, “and we have a little treat for you that we hope is unexpectedly enjoyable, although a touch naughty.”
Men in the audience whistled and hooted in anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Paramount Theater proudly presents for your pleasure an exotic sampling of the Moulin Rouge Follies, featuring the fabulous Natasha Zarenko Performers and the Cancan!”
The crowd hungrily applauded its approval mixed with cat calls, while from the pit below, the orchestra launched into a zesty rendition of the Infernal Galop. Almost instantly, four dancing girls appeared in front of the curtain, entering in pairs from each side of the stage, tossing their skirts above their knees, back and forth, as they skipped lightly to the center of the stage where they locked arms with the other pair when they passed each other, spinning like blades on a windmill. The dancers moving forward raised their knees high and shook their ankles as they skipped and turned, while the dancers moving backward bent over at the waist and tugged their skirts over the top of their white pantaloons, exposing dark hosiery and bare thighs at the top of shapely legs.
Vera tilted her head close to Alan’s. “And you had no idea about this either?”
Alan grinned and shook his head.
The dancers separated but rejoined quickly, all four now facing forward in a line. In a synchronized movement they each grabbed the hem of their skirts with both hands, pulling them up as high as their faces and began high kicking, first in one direction and then the other. They separated into pairs again and while one performer danced in place, kicking her knees high, her partner raised a leg and grabbed it near the ankle, bouncing on the ball of her foot as she spun around a number of times to the delight of the crowd.
Vera elbowed Alan teasingly, and he lowered his head in mock embarrassment.
The dancers separated again and backed up closer to the drawn curtain. They took turns, first one and then the others running to the middle, performing cartwheels, where dark silk covered legs spun in front of white petticoats and bloomers, resembling flowers opening and closing all too quickly.
A dancer with dark hair and striking features stepped forward, gracefully alternating high kicks that would knock a top hat off a presidential candidate. After more than a dozen kicks with each leg, she suddenly dropped to the floor doing the splits, with her dress descending gracefully over her legs, like dandelion fluff.
“Ow!” said Alan. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Not so much,” said Vera. “You get used to it.”
Alan smiled wryly. “Not that I could do those, but I’d be afraid I’d land on something important to the family tree...”
Vera grinned.
Once the lead dancer returned to her feet, the dancers huddled into a circle, bent over at the waist, and spun counter-clockwise with their skirts pulled high over their bloomers, shaking their posteriors on every step to a loud ovation from the audience. When they came out of the huddle they formed a line and linked arms across their shoulders. They high-kicked as they stepped sideways, hopped, and reversed direction, before finishing with each of them in turn doing a jump-split, landing on the stage facing the audience with their arms held high in the air.
While the crowded theater clapped appreciatively the women got up and sashayed across the stage, exiting to the right.
“Wow!” said Alan. “Tough act for St. Laurent to follow.”
Vera nodded. “Although a short number, that’s a strong act. The kind a theater likes to finish with. Makes me wonder what else’s in store.”
It took a full minute for the crowd to catch its breath, and while Alan and Vera whispered between themselves, the stage lights dimmed and the curtain opened to a very dark set. A swarthy man in Arabian Nights silk, short vest, and turban entered the stage, approaching St. Laurent, who seemingly ignored his presence while he began taking in the radiant glow of a narrowly focused spotlight.
“For this little adventure, we are going to travel deep into heart of Ancient India where the presence of a white man is almost unknown. Where their ancient culture, customs, and religions have long held beliefs we might find barbaric. While studying their culture, I observed a practice which still remains a part of their mystique, which I found quite fascinating and I thought the western world might want to see. It is the Hindu tradition of suttee, where royal widows self-immolate themselves on funeral pyres at their husbands’ funerals so they can be with their spouses in eternity. On a practical level it clears up the messy business of estate planning and the passing of titles and property to the heirs.”
The audience laughed.
“It has been reported that on rare occurrences the wives have not been willing to fulfill their expected role and need to have some spiritual guidance from community members to join their husbands in the afterlife.”
The lights continued to dim on stage as St. Laurent and the eunuch lit four torches positioned in tall stands, two on each side of a dark shape on a platform at the rear of the stage. Together, the men pulled a velvet cover off a black lacquered and polished nickel coffin, located on a raised platform, and folded the material neatly, while St. Laurent continued his narrative.
As soon as the cover had been folded, a similarly attired eunuch entered the stage, pulling LaPierre along behind him. She now wore silky harem pants, a slinky top, and a light veil that covered only the lower portion of her face. The eunuch led her to St. Laurent, where she obediently stopped and lowered her head. The two eunuchs took positions as sentries on either side of St. Laurent, their strong arms folded formidably in front.
“Tonight is the official debut of an act never before seen in America,” said St. Laurent, “I am going to present for your wonder, awe, and amazement the Witch of the Flame!”
With a wave of St. Laurent’s hands, the turbaned assistants crossed the stage to the coffin, lifting it up, and carrying it out to mid-stage, where they turned it slowly in a tight circle, exposing the ornate prop for the audience’s inspection, before carrying it back to the platform, carefully setting it down, and closing its lid.
“Instead of burning on a pile of brush and chopped firewood like France’s Joan of Arc, our Hindu princess has chosen a casket as her means of passage to the other side to meet her husband, a notorious Indian tyrant and philanderer, hated by his people but loved by this woman. The problem for her is not knowing which direction her husband has taken in the afterlife. Will this transitional method transport her to a blissful life in heaven or condemn her to the burning fires of hell?”
Without saying a word, one of the eunuchs bowed to the magician and exited the stage, while the other stood imposingly next to Miss LaPierre, seemingly unimpressed with her beauty or helplessness. St. Laurent indicated something on the platform with a tilt of his head to the princess, and she obediently picked up a blue wizard’s robe adorned with bright dragons in a repeating pattern, holding it open for the magician as he slid into the robe one arm at a time, transforming into a wizard. She handed him a white wig with long hair and a matching beard to complete his ensemble. He slid the wig and beard over his head and deftly pushed it into place, before pulling up the conical hood, which made him appear taller, more menacing.
The wizard tugged at his sleeves, rolled his s
houlders, and picked up another torch, lighting it from one already ablaze. With it he approached the princess menacingly. She bowed obsequiously and stepped backward to stand beside the eunuch. Wordlessly the wizard spread his arms wide, drawing the audience’s focus to him once again, while he elegantly passed in front of the eunuch and the princess, circling the coffin, directing his torch into the deep shadows under and around the casket to show there were no concealments, his dancing gown visible through the brass trellis as he glided behind the coffin.
Having completely circled the coffin, he stopped in front of the princess and gestured with the torch for her to climb inside. She shook her head in protest as the wizard pulled opened the coffin and indicated again with the torch for her to climb inside.
She lowered her head and refused to move from her spot, clutching her hands to her bosoms. The wizard balled a hand into a fist and planted it on his hip, glaring at the princess, but still she didn’t move. He shook his head and held the torch near the princess’s face. As he did, the eunuch swept an arm underneath her legs, lifting her off her feet, and deposited her on the edge of the platform next to the coffin. She raised her hands in front of her face, palms out, and shook her head wearily. The wizard pointed again towards the shiny box with the torch. Reluctantly, slowly, the princess stepped into the casket, while members of the audience raised their voices for her not to enter it.
“Let her go!” someone pleaded.
The wizard spun half way around and raised the torch defiantly, as if threatening anyone who dared to challenge him. Then he returned his attention to the princess and motioned with the torch again. The princess sat down, dropped her head, and then slid into a prone position. The wizard handed the torch to the eunuch, pulled the lid closed and latched it shut. A few seconds later, the wizard picked up a shiny sword that had been on the platform next to the coffin. He gracefully swung it in an arc and caught it high in the air, his hands stretched over this pointy hood. Then he stepped up to the coffin, found a slot on top and drove the sword into the casket, the plunge met by a blood curdling scream.
“You beast!” yelled someone in the audience.
The wizard rolled his head and picked up another sword. He similarly swung it high and caught it as with the other. Again he stepped forward, found another slot on the casket and plunged the sword inside.
“Agghhh!” a woman’s voice moaned from the coffin.
The wizard rested his hands on his hips and cocked his head, as if something weren’t right, and then he quickly pulled the swords out and threw them down on the stage in front of the coffin. He took the torch from the eunuch to illuminate the latch, which he quickly opened. As Soon as he tugged the lid open, flames shot several feet into the air, forcing the wizard back. He reached up quickly and slammed the lid shut.
Many in the audience had screamed at the sight of the flames, and now with the coffin closed, they sat in total silence.
The wizard inched forward and opened the lid a second time, and as before the flames shot several feet into the air, forcing him to withdraw and hastily close the lid again.
The audience grew alarmed and began chattering among themselves.
“You did this to her!” yelled one patron. “You must save her!”
The wizard cautiously opened the lid again. This time flames shot upward, but not as high—and then they died slowly. The eunuch inched backward as the wizard stepped forward, holding the lit torch out in front of him as if he were burning away cobwebs from a haunted house. As he leaned cautiously over the casket, a red-faced demon with a cape and horns suddenly sat up erect and lunged for the wizard, grabbing him by the neck. The suddenness of the attack took the wizard by surprise, and knocked the lit torch out of his hand, to the floor, where it rolled out of view into the curtains behind the platform and stage.
The wizard fought back, grabbing the demon with both hands around his neck and shoved him back inside the coffin.
Several in the audience screamed.
With one hand holding the red demon down, the wizard groped frantically with the other hand and slammed the coffin lid.
The audience screamed encouragement for the wizard, and below his hand the lid jumped from kicks and pushes coming from beneath it, trying to force it open, but somehow the wizard found the latch and clasped the lock shut. After a moment he backed away from the seemingly possessed casket.
“Save the girl!” yelled a voice from the audience, soon followed by others echoing the sentiment.
His back to the audience and staring at the coffin, the wizard nodded and took a torch from one of the stands. He marched with purpose up to the coffin, unlatched the clasp, and threw the lid open. He swept the torch over the open casket, inspecting its interior, and then he climbed onto the platform, stood over the coffin, and drew his robe around him, while holding the torch in front. The flames on both sides shot high in the air, accompanied by a large puff of smoke that enveloped him. When the special effects flames subsided, the smoke continued to linger over the empty stage and coffin that continued to glow in places, like hot embers that had escaped a bonfire.
Many in the audience began clapping at the dramatic climax.
Vera nudged Alan with her elbow. “Isn’t this about the time we should be seeing the rescued princess?”
Alan grabbed his arm rests, leaned forward, and stood up at the same moment the music in the orchestra pit stopped. He scowled down at the stage and then glanced to Vera at his side, shaking his head.
“Something’s wrong there!” he said. “That can’t be part of the act!”
5
Return to the present, Capitol Hill
Inside of Vera’s kitchen, she removed an ice tray from the small compartment inside her refrigerator, levered it open, and dumped the ice cubes into a glass bowl on her kitchen table.
“Fancy-shmancy,” said Rose Red. “I didn’t know those things could make their own ice.”
“They’ve come a long way since the ice box,” said Vera, as she slid a few cubes into the top of an ice pack and twisted the cap shut.
Vera wrapped the ice pack with a fresh kitchen towel and sat on the edge of the sofa next to the reclining Tasha, who tilted her head obediently to the side. Vera pressed the cooling pack against the bruised area, took Tasha’s hand and showed her where to press on it, to keep the bag in place. Then she sat back and gazed into Tasha’s eyes.
“Your pupil dilation looks normal, so I think you’re going to be alright. Would you like a couple of aspirin to go with that?”
“If I may be so bold, I’d like a glass of vodka to wash them down,” said Tasha. “If you don’t have any on hand, one of the girls can run out and get us a bottle. I’m sure our handsome driver can find a place.”
“This is Washington State,” said Alan. “We’ve got state controlled liquor stores that closed at 6:00pm.”
“How primitive!” said Tasha. “The country repealed Prohibition years ago, and I know you have cocktail lounges all over downtown...”
“Lounges don’t sell liquor for take out,” said Alan.
“Sure they do, handsome. You have to know how to ask and do it in the right way. You’d probably have to bribe them, but Star knows how to charm it out of them.”
Star rolled her lips slowly and flashed Alan a knowing smile. She shrugged her shoulders and arched her plucked brows high, confirming her skills at persuasion.
“Is Star your real name?” asked Alan.
The brunette gazed into the distance and shook her head. “It once said Mikala on a lost birth certificate somewhere. Nobody calls me that unless they’re pulling my hair and whispering in my ear.”
Alan cleared his throat and smiled. “Got it.”
“I’ve got vodka on hand,” said Vera, watching Alan with an impish grin. “If we run short, we’ll try it Star’
s way. I’ve found the Fireside Lounge on Second Avenue has been accommodating for special requests.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Tasha. “I’m starting to feel better already.”
Vera retrieved a clear bottle of liquid from a dry bar, brought it back and set it on the counter near Sophie. “If you would take care of the drinks, I’ll see to our other needs.”
While Sophie brought out drinking glasses, Vera pulled a chair close to Yvette, sitting on the edge of a large sofa, picking at shreds of silk sticking to fresh scabs on her scratched legs.
“We should clean those up,” said Vera, “before they get infected, and just maybe we can prevent scarring.”
“You can do that?” asked Yvette.
“I know if we don’t treat them right away, you’ll have scars—or a lot worse.”
“I don’t want that!”
Vera nodded.
“Why don’t you slip out of what’s left, and I’ll get some warm water, soap, and a cloth to scrub you up.”
As Vera went back into the kitchen, Yvette stood up and promptly slid out of her silk pants, letting them drop to the floor, revealing flesh-colored underwear, made of the lightest material—the tiniest pair Alan had seen in his life—hardly enough to cover the essentials. Then she leaned over, hooked her thumbs inside her black hose, and tugged what was left of them down over her knees, one leg at a time. Yvette winced after she rolled the nylons past mid-calf, where she encountered a deeper gash on her muscle, where more of the clinging silk snagged hungrily at her skin.
Yvette sat back down, and Rose Red came over and scooted in next to her on the sofa, offering assistance, while lifting Yvette’s feet into her lap.
“Let me help you with these,” she said. “I’m no stranger to bleeding.”
When Vera came out of the kitchen she slowed to a stop as she passed Alan. She slid a hand across his shoulders, up his neck, and scratched the back of his head playfully. She leaned close to his ear, almost touching it with her lips.