by Joan Boswell
“This is most irregular. Nothing was said in our policy about the car being driven. I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”
“I was driving it until this winter,” Travelle argued. “That policy’s still in effect until July.” Thin Lips continued to look sceptical. “Look, if it’s theft that’s worrying you, why not drive it yourself,” Travelle said, smiling, “Then you can be sure it’s safe.”
My crew came out of their huddle. “Hey, like can you drive it through the parking lot and then circle around? We want like a shot of it pulling up, you know, like James Bond is coming in for lunch.”
We could all see how well Travelle liked that suggestion. In minutes, Thin Lips, the insurance man, was behind the wheel, doing his best 007 impersonation as he pulled into the parking lot and exited onto the side street, squealing the tires.
“He’s going a little fast,” Travelle said, stepping off the curb to signal to the car.
“Hey, even the insurance guy’s got a little soul when it comes to a car like this.”
Travelle turned to smile at me, so he didn’t see the car speeding up still faster as it came around the corner and headed right for us. I didn’t believe it myself, and I was looking right at it. In the very last minute I pulled Travelle out of the way of the speeding car and skinned both my elbows as we landed heavily on the sidewalk.
We lay there and watched the Aston Martin disappear up the road.
Several hours later, I pulled into the underground parking of the big Delta Chelsea Hotel downtown. I knew better than to go home right at the moment. No way to know who might be sitting in my kitchen.
I’d left Travelle full of assurances and numbers where he could reach me. He was getting on the phone with his insurance people when I left. I wondered what they’d say. The police had given me no trouble. I had ID up to the eyebrows, my phone numbers were all legit, and I’d even obtained a permit to allow us to film on a public thoroughfare. By the time they figured out only the permit was real, my little documentary director would be long gone.
I pulled into a parking space next to a vintage Aston Martin.
Tommy was keeping the space empty for me, looking like a mechanic in his dirty coveralls. His insurance clothes were in a suit bag, ready to sling into my car.
He had the biggest grin I’d seen in days, and somehow his lips didn’t look thin at all.
“This is a great car,” he said, giving me a hug. “You sure we can’t keep it? Nobody’s expecting us.”
“Are you insane?”
“Hey, even the cops think somebody stole it. How’s the Boss going to know any different? Worse comes to worst, we blame the son-in-law.”
Like I said, Tommy gets good ideas, but he never seems to see what the worst might come to. I’d figured out that the Boss could protect me if I pissed off the son-in-law, but who was going to protect me if I pissed off the Boss? I plucked the keys out of Tommy’s hand.
“Move over honey,” I said. “Let me drive.”
Violette Malan’s published fiction includes mystery, romance, fantasy and erotica. Violette won the inaugural short story contest at the 1999 Bloody Words Crime Writer’s Conference. Her mystery fiction is included in the noir anthology Crime Spree, the Ladies’ Killing Circle’s Fit to Die, and the all-Canadian issue of Over My Dead Body.
Them There Eyes
Coleen Steele
You always notice the pretty ones.
It was at Rye’s Pavilion in Peterborough, during our Glenn Miller medley, that I first spotted her. A gorgeous little number, with long, wavy, chestnut hair, glossy red lips and smouldering eyes. The Ava Gardner type, dark and sultry. And she had a body to match—all dangerous curves.
But she was young. Very young.
Playing the same songs night after night, you don’t need to watch the music every minute. You have plenty of time to check out the dancers. Actually, that’s probably why it took me as long as it did to notice her—she wasn’t dancing. Just standing by herself, watching the band all evening.
I saw her again a week later, at the dance hall in Dunsfield this time. Again alone, not dancing. During a rest in “I’ll Get By”, I let my eyes wander. When my gaze swung her way, we made contact. It was like a shock to the system—those big dark eyes staring at me unwaveringly. Though disconcerted, I managed a smile. It wasn’t returned.
A kick from Bill Dinsmore beside me made me jump. I had missed my cue. Leaping in, I blew a clinker, earning a glare from Sammy, our bandleader. Those big eyes had done more than make me forget my place, they had made me forget to breathe. With a bit of concentration, and no further glances in her direction, I played through the rest of the piece without any mistakes. But it was a struggle—I could feel her staring at me, studying me.
Then suddenly she was out on the floor. Some lucky guy had coaxed her to dance. I watched, mesmerized, as she surrendered herself to the music, skirt fanning out, revealing long shapely dancer’s legs even Betty Grable would have envied. Her lithe body swayed and twirled like nothing I’d ever seen. She had to be a professional, but what was she doing here, I wondered? I also wondered what it took to get more than a dance from her.
That was the only time I ever saw her dance. After that display, the guys lined up to ask her, but she shot them all down. And for the rest of the set, whenever I glanced her way, I found her eyes upon me.
I made up my mind to approach her at the break. I didn’t dwell too long on the question of why I’d caught her eye when she could have any guy in the place at her feet. I didn’t want to think about it. Not then. I ignored the fact that being in this business for over twenty years had taken its toll, and I didn’t have much to attract a dish like that. I put it down to luck and convinced myself that some girls just had a thing for seasoned trumpet players.
When the set finished, and I bent to put my horn on its stand, Bill nudged me. “Who’s the doll with the big eyes? I wish she’d give me the once over like that.”
I grinned. “Don’t know, but I’m gonna find out.”
Pushing past, I stepped down from the stage, only to find she wasn’t where my appreciative gaze had left her. I scanned that room from top to bottom, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Disappointed, I shrugged and turned back, following the last of the boys out through a side door for a breath of fresh air and a smoke. She’d probably gone to the ladies room to freshen up. Provided one of the young guys that buzzed around her didn’t get too lucky, there’d be time later to catch up with her.
But not that night. I watched until it was time to pack my horn away; she never returned. By the time our last set ended, I was disappointed and feeling deflated. Girls like that didn’t come around often. When Bill asked if I wanted to join some of the boys for a drink and suggested we might get some female company, I hesitated at first.
“All right. Sure. Why not?”
I packed up and threw my jacket over my shoulder, but didn’t escape quick enough.
“Pretty sloppy tonight, Finley.”
“Sorry, Sammy, I had something on my mind.”
“Well, you’d better get it off your mind quick. We’re playing Dunn’s in three days, and I don’t want any screw ups.”
“Sure, Sammy.”
The next day five of us, our instruments and our luggage piled into Bill’s old ’43 DeSoto and headed west to Bala. The tiny resort town, a jewel set in the Muskoka Lakes, where every summer the rich came to play, boasted Dunn’s Pavilion, one of the swankiest dance halls in the province. Playing Dunn’s was always a highlight of the summer tour. When I stepped through those doors, my mind couldn’t help but conjure up all the greats that had played there over the years—the Dorsey Brothers, Les Brown, Glenn Miller, Guy Lombardo, Count Basie.
Dunn’s had a house band, of course—this summer it was Ozzie Williams’ Band—but almost every week a big headliner would play a night or two. This week it was us. We weren’t the Dorseys, but we could assure just a big enough draw to get the booking.
&n
bsp; One of the reasons I had hooked up with Sammy’s band was because of the touring we did every summer. We were always on the move, sometimes playing two or three halls in a week. Some of the fellas preferred getting a steady booking at a resort like Bala for the whole summer. They’d bring their wives and families north and rent a cottage, spending their days fishing or lazing in the sun. Me, I needed to move around. I tried settling down, even marriage once, but I wasn’t good at it. I got itchy.
When we took to the Dunn’s stage, I couldn’t help but scan the crowd, searching for those red lips and luminous eyes. She wasn’t there, of course. Bala was a long way from Dunsfield. I ignored the little pang of disappointment and breathed a sigh of relief that I could concentrate on my playing. It was all smooth sailing, and I really hit a groove. Until the final set.
I was blowing my way through “Swinging on a Star” when I got a funny feeling I was being watched. Now, of course, being on stage, someone was always watching me, but this was different. It sent a chill down my spine. I scanned the dancers crowding the floor and then the onlookers beyond. There she was, standing just inside one of the doorways leading to the wrap-around veranda, with those beautiful eyes fastened on me. I shot Sammy a glance to see if he had noticed the little squeak my trumpet made at the sight of her. When I looked back, she was gone. I spent the rest of the evening searching for her. A couple of times I thought I caught glimpses, but it was so crowded, I couldn’t be sure.
After a couple of days’ rest, the tour moved on again. The Dardanella in Wasaga Beach was next on our list. It didn’t have the same stature as Dunn’s, but it was always fun. Surrounded by an amusement park and the longest freshwater beach in the world, it couldn’t help but have a carnival atmosphere. This year, when I took my trumpet out of its case, I didn’t feel quite so festive. You see, I was beginning to feel spooked.
Most guys would have thought me damn lucky to have a doll like that showing such interest. Part of me was, I guess; you know, flattered and wondering if I was going to get a chance with her. But the other part was spooked. It was disconcerting to see that girl popping up in dance halls across the province. Don’t get me wrong, we have fans that will catch our show a couple of times during the summer at different halls, but this girl was trailing us. Or, I should say, me. I do play a pretty mean trumpet, but nothing that should persuade a dish like that to traipse around after me just to see me blow. And if she was interested in more than just the way I handled a horn, why the disappearing acts?
I waited all evening in Wasaga, never easing up enough to get into the swing of things. She never showed.
We played a few smaller beach towns along Lake Huron, but I didn’t see her. By the time we reached Grand Bend, I had begun to relax and believe maybe it had all been in my imagination. I allowed myself the pleasure again of letting my eyes wander over the dancers in search of pretty girls and shapely legs, without fear of seeing those eyes upon me.
“Don’t look now, lover boy, but your mystery girl’s back.”
That feeling of unease returned as I followed Bill’s gaze. There she was. As gorgeous as ever. She strolled in, turning heads, and once she found a spot for herself, swung her attention immediately to the band. Her eyes sought me out, and when she saw me watching her, one brow arched gracefully, as if she were amused she had caught my attention. It was the first time I’d received any acknowledgement. It should have pleased me, but instead it made the hairs on the back of my neck quiver.
“Boy, she must have it bad for you. When you gonna land her?”
The look I gave Bill shut him up quickly, and he left me alone for the rest of the night. I finished out the set, of course, but my heart wasn’t in it. All the fun had gone out of playing.
The last note had barely finished when I jumped off the stage, horn in hand, and struck out for her table. She started to get to her feet to make her escape. I was determined to catch her this time. I would have made it too if some guy hadn’t stepped in my way.
“Hey, I saw you play with Trump Davidson and Bobby Gimby too, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I’ve been around.” I tried to brush past him, but he called in the recruits, and I was suddenly swarmed by his pals. Past them, I could see my quarry heading for the door.
“See, I told you I knew him.” He smiled broadly at his friends. “These are my friends, Mike and Al and Tony.”
“Nice to meet you guys, but I’m kinda in a hurry.”
“Sure, sure. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Harry Finley. Look, I’ve really got to go.”
They finally released me, their enthusiasm cooled by my chilly manner. I knew I’d put them off, and Sammy wouldn’t be pleased if he found I’d been less than friendly to some fans, but I didn’t care. I needed to catch that girl.
I couldn’t see her, but I ran as best I could through the crowd and out into the night. She had vanished. I hunted amongst the cars that were beginning to pull away and peered down the lane at couples strolling back to their cottages and motels, but without success.
“Lookin’ for something?” came a husky, feminine voice behind me.
I swung about frantically.
The girl sauntered into the light cast by the parking lamp. She was long-legged, curvaceous and inviting; the type any sane man would be grateful to find.
But she was blonde.
The girl took a drag on her cigarette and tried too hard to look sophisticated, coolly looking me up and down. A couple of girlfriends giggled behind her. My frustration and disappointment must have showed, because her composure started to crumble, and she took a step back.
“Sorry, doll-face. Not tonight,” I said. “Any other night, but not tonight.”
When I returned to the stage to collect my case, Sammy was waiting.
“Finley, you better get your act together. You want to chase girls, fine, but you do it on your own time.”
Considering what I had just turned down in the parking lot, I thought that funny. Chasing girls had been the last thing on my mind lately. I just wanted this one to stop chasing me.
In London and Port Stanley, she didn’t put in an appearance, but still I didn’t relax. I knew I’d see her again. My music was suffering. I couldn’t concentrate, wondering each time I played if she’d be there watching me. The summer season was almost over, and for the first time in years I was glad to see it end. I wanted to get back to Toronto. I don’t know why, but I felt that once I got there, this would all be over. She wouldn’t follow me there. I could concentrate on my music again. Well, we just had two dates to go—Crystal Beach and Port Dalhousie. I bet she’d wait until the last night, in Port Dalhousie to make one last show. I was wrong.
The Crystal Ballroom was one of my favourites, and like Dunn’s, it attracted the biggest names. But it wasn’t just that; the crowd was always fun. Could be because it shared the beach with an amusement park, or it could be because of all those Americans who ferried across the lake to dance and have a good time. They came from Rochester and Buffalo and little towns in upstate New York, and something about being in a foreign country seemed to really make them want to cut loose.
The ballroom itself was huge—1,500 couples could dance at one time—and crowded to capacity that evening. But I spotted her. Perched in one of the balconies like some divining angel, she stared down at me all through the Glenn Miller number and the Hoagy Carmichael song that followed. I had my eyes fastened on her and didn’t let go, but when we slipped into “You’ll Never Know,” she slipped back into the crowd and was lost to me. Twice, later in the evening, I glimpsed her on the main floor, but she didn’t dance.
Tonight was the night. I knew it in my heart. My stomach knew it too—it fluttered and jerked through the second set and clenched tightly through the third. My nerves were shot, and it showed in my performance. Several bad notes and a butchering of “Stormy Weather” earned me glares not only from Sammy, but the rest of the band. Even our singer, mild-mannered Cliff, shot me a look
of reproach between numbers. I didn’t care. I just wanted it all to be over.
With the last note still hanging in the air, I chucked my horn into its case and jumped to my feet. She was still there, near the refreshment counter. Tonight I’d catch her.
“Can I have a word with you, Finley?”
It was Sammy blocking my path. “Can it wait?”
He shook his head, and my heart sank. Not at what I knew was coming, but because she was getting away.
Sammy pulled me towards the rear of the stage, where we wouldn’t be overheard.
“I wanted to wait until the end of the season, but tonight’s the last straw. When I took you on, I thought you were a pro, but you’ve been off most of the summer. It’s not fair to the rest of the guys. I’m letting you go now.”
“But Sammy, I’ve just had a problem I’ve been working through.”
He eyed me with contempt. “That girl you’ve been dragging around? Do her parents know what you’re doing?”
“It’s not like that. I don’t even know who she is—”
“Look, I’ve had enough. Come by in the morning, and I’ll pay you off.”
There was no choice but for me to take my horn and go. I glanced at Bill, who was still packing up, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. Great, not only was I out of a job, I was out of a ride back to Toronto. Actually, I was more worried about a ride than a job. A trumpet player with my experience shouldn’t have any trouble picking up work. Maybe I’d try Bert Niosi at the Palais Royale. I’d heard one of his trumpet players, Ross Archer, was talking of retiring, heading back to Winnipeg.
I didn’t spend too much time troubling about it. Not then. It could all wait, but my chance with that girl was fast disappearing. She’d probably be long gone by now, and if she planned on following me to Port Dalhousie, she’d be disappointed.
Wading through the diminishing crowds, I stumbled out into the parking lot, where many were trying to find their cars. Gales of laughter reached me from the docked ferry as it loaded up to deliver exhilarated partygoers across the lake. Even without the music to accompany them, many were continuing their dancing onboard. At least they were having a good time.