by Laura Bickle
“You mean, what kind of blood-soaked trauma they might have?”
“Meh. Or they might have some stuff that will help us get into the Society for Creative Anachronism at school. Some of those SCA girls are hot.” Carl bobs his unibrow in a way that’s meant to be suggestive, but just looks like a nightcrawler’s having a seizure on his forehead.
“I’m sure this will be...” I struggle to find the words, “a grand adventure. Of some kind.”
CHAPTER 14
“Well, it doesn’t look majorly creepy,” Carl says. “At least not from the curb.”
“Have I told you recently that you’re completely full of shit?”
“Just trying to make the best of a bad situation, man.”
The Burlwell is in an area of town I’m not too familiar with. There are a whole bunch of really old-looking two-story row houses, pierced every once in a while by commercial structures. The Burlwell sits between a house that’s been converted to a halfway house and a vacant lot. A hand-lettered folding sign says: ‘SALE TODAY!’ The sign’s a bit faded, so I think it’s probably been out there for a while.
The Burlwell’s an old, filthy structure with plywood nailed over the attractions poster niches and heavy-duty gingerbread on the façade. It probably hasn’t been painted in twenty years, and pigeon-claw-scraped paint is flaking off on the sidewalk. My dad would call it “Georgian.” I call it “fugly.” But it doesn’t really matter what I think.
I screw up my courage and open one of the front double doors. It smells like dust and termite frass inside. A wrinkled, threadbare burgundy patterned carpet stretches across the lobby to a gold-painted ticket box.
“Hello?” I call out.
Something scrapes and rustles behind the ticket booth. An elderly woman wearing a velvet kimono, a silver foil turban, and way too much rouge emerges from the darkness.
“You must be Joyce,” I say.
“Yes!” Her painted face breaks into a smile, and she extends her hand to me like a movie star. Her nails are painted bright red, like Chinese lacquer. I don’t know if I’m supposed to shake it or kiss it. I settle on shaking it.
“I’m Raz, and this is my cousin Carl.” Carl, big enough to look older than me, extends his meaty paw. “We’re with Stannick’s Pawn Shop, and we were wondering if we could take a look at some of your merchandise?”
She smiles. “Oh, yes! I’d be delighted to show you our inventory. Right this way...” She hobbles off across the unraveling carpet in satin slippers.
“This is really an amazing place,” I say. There’s not much light, but what little there is comes from wall sconces and a chandelier originally designed for gas. The electricity gives off a dim amber glow that hides some of the shabbiness. It also nearly obscures a rat scuttling along one wall. I deliberately pretend not to notice. The rat has been here longer than I have, and I’ve got no desire to embarrass Joyce.
“I’ll give you the tour,” Joyce says. “The Burlwell was built in 1894 by James Martin Burlwell, who came over from England. It was the first theater in Starboard City, created specifically for ballet.”
A chill trickles down my neck as Joyce ushers us into the theater. The seats are tiny fold-up seats, nothing like what’s in modern theaters. Carl couldn’t even fit in one. They’re upholstered in red velvet that’s completely worn off the seat and shoulders.
“It became a conventional theater after a rather unfortunate incident with the ballerinas. Nine of them were found hanging from the gaffer’s ropes above the stage before a production of Swan Lake.” She points to the stage, the scarred floor covered in boxes and racks and bits of debris.
I don’t look up. Don’t want to imagine it.
We cross the orchestra pit and climb up on the stage. Joyce continues, “We’ve been trying to transform this into a movie theater for the last ten years, but there have been no buyers. Community theatre hasn’t been enough to keep it alive...” Her voice trails off.
“You were an actress?” Carl attempts to make conversation.
Judy shines. “Yes. I was Mabel in Pirates of Penzance and Gertrude in Hamlet for more than twenty years. I retired from the stage ten years ago, but still play piano.” She gestures to a battered upright piano on the stage. “The piano’s for sale.”
We dive into the junk onstage. Carl is delighted by a tin suit of armor. I dig into the dusty wardrobes, pawing through soldier uniforms, pirate costumes, Southern belle dresses, and tights for men. There are clown shoes, space alien outfits in silver, and a gladiator skirt. Actually, there are a lot of gladiator clothes.
“We did Spartacus for three months in the summer of ’81,” Judy reminisces. “All those well-oiled men...that was the best summer of my life.”
I cringe and pull open the doors of a wooden wardrobe to escape. It blisters open with a tangle of filthy ballerina shoes and tulle. I pause, reluctant to touch them. Joyce ducks in under my arm to chirp:
“Ah! These are very old, from the thirties. They just don’t do beadwork like that anymore.” She pulls a white costume with a full skirt from the wardrobe.
It’s pretty, and not just in a girly-girl way. It’s got a long skirt made out of some kind of netting, reaching down almost to the floor when Joyce holds it. It’s white, with feathers embroidered on the front and laces and stuff dangling from the back. Ribbons. Pretty.
I tentatively reach out for it. This could work.
Carl clomps around the corner, wearing a gladiator scabbard. “Did that belong to one of the dead ballerinas?” he blurts.
Joyce’s mouth turns up. “I have no idea. They’re old. That much I know.”
I stare at it. I want to get it for Lily. But I don’t want to imagine running my hands over a dress and accidentally letting my guard down if it has a bloody past.
Carl distracts Joyce with a discussion on stage gladiatorial combat.
I’m left with the dress.
I take a deep breath and decide to confront it with the Bunko.
WHITE AND PINK BLUR together. Wooden toes tap and scrape on the floor of a stage to thunderous applause. A woman cradles a bouquet close to the bodice of the costume. Roses. She’s careful to hold them just a bit away so that the color doesn’t rub off on the dress. The manager will kill her if there are stains.
The costume hangs on a rack in a long room where the ballerinas prepare for practice every day. I’m fascinated by their half-nude bodies as they dress and undress, but chilled when I see the manager watching them.
They practice long hours, staring into mirrors and enduring the shouts of the manager. He tells them they’re not even a step above whores. He treats them worse than whores, abusing them. One of the girls bursts into tears and runs away.
The girls blur together. I can’t tell them apart. I’m sure more than one girl has worn this dress. They don’t seem to last long. They sleep in the long practice hall, on cots, never seeing the outside. The only light they get is from the footlights. I don’t know how long it’s been since one of them has felt sunshine on her painted face.
The manager beats them for their mistakes. He breaks a girl’s leg before the others to make an example of her. The others cower. It’s like a nest of pale birds, terrified of a coming storm. Their misery is palpable. The girl with the broken leg disappears, until one day another girl is searching for a costume and opens a trunk.
The girl with the broken leg is folded up in the trunk like a marionette. The discoverer’s sobs are inconsolable, but very quiet. She closes the trunk with shaking hands. She doesn’t want death at the manager’s hands for herself.
But he’s becoming worse. Girls come; girls vanish. Rumors fly like the sparrows that are occasionally trapped inside, stranded in the ropes above. The manager tries to shoot them, but always misses.
Some of the girls make a pact. There will be no more of this. They wait until opening night of Swan Lake to make their move. The manager is searching for them, screaming. It’s only fifteen minutes until curtain time.
They are furious. Furious enough to ruin him the only way they know how. The girls crawl up the ropes with the sparrows, among the set weights and counterweights. One by one, they tangle their necks in the ropes and fall into darkness.
When the curtain opens, it is to pale flowers dangling on the ends of strings, turning lifeless in the footlights.
And that is the end of Burlwell’s ballet.
I RELEASE THE DRESS, rubbing my hands against my jeans. Glancing up at the darkness above, I swear I can see something moving. Rats. Just rats on the ropes, I tell myself.
I want to get the fuck out of here.
Carl’s sitting on the floor with Joyce, who’s showing him the leather sandals from Spartacus.
I try to control my breathing. I catch Carl’s gaze, jerk my chin toward the door.
“Carl tells me you’re looking for a dress for a young lady,” Joyce says. Her wrinkly face crinkles in a smile. “I think you might find what you’re looking for in the box over there...”
Carl offers the old woman a hand up, and she creaks over to a chest on the floor. I’m relieved it’s not the chest I saw the dead ballerina in. She opens it and gestures for me to come look.
“These are costumes from Chicago,” she says. “The last time this was performed here was in the seventies, but the clothes were made by a master seamstress. She got every detail correct.”
She lifts items out of the chest: gangster hats, black and white. Men’s jackets and pants that she calls “Zoot suits.” They’re really very cool—1920’s gangster-style. She shows us a prop machine gun and a real violin case.
And there are costumes for women. Simple dresses covered in fringe and sequins—flapper dresses. Joyce lifts one out of the chest and holds it out.
It’s exquisite. It’s a pale aqua blue, sleeveless, covered in fine beading. It’s not too long, and not too short. Formal, but not stuffy.
“Wow,” I say.
“I like it.” Carl nods. He’s wearing a gangster hat. It suits him.
Joyce hands the dress to me. With all the beading, it’s really heavy. “There’s a headpiece and gloves for it in here. The great thing about flapper dresses is that the sizes are so approximate...if your lady friend is a size twelve or under, she could wear it.”
I’m afraid to know the history of it. My nerves are too raw. I just close my eyes for an instant.
I see a girl who looks like Lily, wearing a feathered headband and big earrings, laughing as she dances across the stage. Her hair is short, and she’s dangling one of those long cigarette holders in a gloved hand.
I open my eyes. Good enough. “This is it,” I say.
“Wonderful.” Joyce beams. She finds the headpiece I saw the girl wearing in my vision, along with shoes and gloves.
Carl can’t help himself. He ducks behind a wardrobe to try on a zoot suit with his white gangster hat.
“You look like Al Capone,” I say.
He looks down. “I like it. I may wear this to prom.”
“The three of you could all go in twenties’ attire,” Judy offers helpfully.
I start to think. I have nothing to wear, either. I rummage in the chest and find a suit that will fit me. It’s charcoal-colored, with wide lapels and thin white stripes. I dig out a black hat. Joyce encourages me to try it on, and pushes the two of us toward a cheap mirror propped up in the wings of the stage, probably for actors to do a last check before going onstage.
I have to admit, I look pretty fucking cool. My shoes are shiny. My tie is pure white. Carl grins beside me, tips his hat. Carl always digs Halloween. Mrs. Renfelter kept making us costumes until I was thirteen, at which point my dad said we were too old for that nonsense.
“How much for the men’s suits, the blue dress, and the accessories?” I ask. I’m dreading the answer, but I want this very badly. For all of us.
Judy sits on a box and thinks. “Two hundred for the lot.”
I glance at Carl. Carl mouths, “Do eeet.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” I hiss back at him.
“We’ll get it,” he affirms.
“One-fifty?” I say.
“Cash?”
“We’ll put down a fifty-dollar deposit now for you to hold them and bring you the rest of the money by the end of the day.”
Joyce nods. “Good deal.”
We change back to our street clothes. I miss the zoot suit already. I give Joyce the fifty dollars and help her shove the trunk of Chicago costumes to the back, out of sight of any other buyers.
“Be back by five p.m.,” she warns. “I close up shop then.”
“We will,” I agree. We shake on it, and Carl and I leave the theater.
Blinking in the afternoon sunlight, I stare at my watch. We have two hours.
“Where are we gonna get the money?” Carl asks, all sober in the daylight.
“We could ask your dad.” It seems sort of unmanly to go crawling to Carl’s dad for the money. We sure as hell aren’t going to ask mine.
“He won’t go for it. He’s already behind on the motorcycle payment. But he won’t admit it.”
I’m determined. “Beg, borrow, or steal...we’ll get it.”
ON THE WALK TO THE bus station, we discuss and discard several plans. Neither of us has the skills to be a pickpocket, nor do we have the balls or moral bankruptcy to push down little old ladies and snatch their purses. We circle back around the humiliating idea of asking our dads for the money, but I know they’d say no. They think things like prom and Halloween costumes and spending a week in France with the French club are totally frivolous. We consider stealing from them, but there’s no way we can pull that off without getting busted. We can’t wash enough windows for spare change in two hours.
Carl has exactly seventeen dollars and twelve cents on him. I have two dollars for lunch money rattling around in the bottom of my book bag.
We decide that the only rational plan is to go gamble. Yes, I know it’s illegal. But it’s the only way we can think of that turns a little money into a lot really fast.
We haul ass to the casino district, to the Byzantium Casino. It’s the oldest casino, the shadiest, and the most crowded, so we’d be under less scrutiny. The newer casinos, like the Broadway, have black domes housing cameras all over the place. Byzantium has ’em, too, but the building is an old hotel, and seems to have more blind corners and places to hide than the others.
Plus, there’s the appeal of sticking it to the Mob. If there’s an opportunity to steal outright from them, I’d take it. The desire to take even a hundred bucks’ worth of revenge on them for what they did to the Renfelters is hard and cold as a stone in the back of my throat.
Carl gives me one of the ball caps in his backpack. We offer to help a group of little old ladies with their luggage. They’re delighted to have two strapping young men hump their luggage up from their tour bus. We accept their offers of tips, and we manage to slide past the concierge without getting stopped. My hands sweat on the handles of a pair of light-blue suitcases. Security is supposed to be watching for exactly this kind of thing. It feels too easy.
We make it inside the hotel lobby. One of the old ladies with the platinum charge card has the reservations, and she goes up to the clerk. I try not to make eye contact with anyone, instead, focusing on telling one of the old women that she has a really nice set of luggage patterned like a cheetah. They’re from a small town down south, and this is their time away from their husbands. Golf widows, they call themselves.
Platinum Card returns with a fistful of room keys, and the women squeal. Carl and I follow them up the elevator. It has mirrored doors, and I can see myself sweating in them. Carl is cool as a cucumber, acting as if these ladies are his elderly maiden aunts. They laugh and smile at him.
This is dangerous shit. This group of old ladies has allowed a couple of young men to follow them up to their rooms. If we were criminally minded guys...well, we are. These ladies could get hurt. I want to warn them.<
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But I don’t. We walk down the plush patterned carpets to the rooms. Carl and I stop respectfully outside their block of rooms, arranging suitcases by the doors.
“You’re good boys,” Platinum says, patting my cheek. She smells like lemons, and her hair is a pale blond and pinned up high on her head. She hands me ten dollars.
I protest, though I want the money.
“Go play the slots,” she says.
I blink. Shit. She’s on to us. “Ma’am?”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she laughs. “The clerk asked me who you were. I told him you were my grandsons.”
“But why?” I blurt.
She smiles. “When Albert and I were young, we sneaked in here after we got married. We were sixteen...old enough to get married without our parents at City Hall, but not old enough to gamble. Albert thought that was a crime.”
I swallow, feeling the color draining out of my face.
She hands me a fistful of tokens the front desk clerk has given her. I have no idea what to do with them. I think about laying my sob story about wanting to buy Lily a prom dress on them, but that feels too much like begging. I have too much pride for that.
“You boys have fun. Stay out of trouble.” She grins.
“Thanks. I mean it.”
She smiles at me, and I can imagine what she must’ve been like when she was young. I’m sure that if I held her suitcase a little longer, I could see her and her husband, dressed like Bonnie and Clyde, giggling over the one-armed bandits.
I jam the tokens into my pocket. The old ladies retire to their rooms, and Carl and I walk down the hallway.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Can’t get anything past those old gals.”
“No kidding.” I’m beginning to realize that everyone older than me has been there, done that...no matter what it is I think I’m doing.
We head back to the elevators and punch the button for the casino level. We stand still, trying not to fidget. I’m sure there’s a camera in here. The elevator stops three times, letting on a group of men in college T-shirts, and a stunningly beautiful woman in a sequined dress.