Dancing with the Dead (26 page)

Mary studied the shoes and decided she liked them even better in leather. She worked her right shoe off her foot. Standing on her left leg and leaning on the table for balance, she bent over and tried on one of the dance shoes.

It seemed to fit. She put on the other and shifted her weight, swiveled her feet. The shoes were definitely more comfortable than the pair Jake had ruined. What luck! Was fate finally swinging over to her side?

Mary reached into her purse and closed her hand around Helen’s MasterCard. “How much are they?”

“Eighty dollars,” Spangle said. “But since you had bad luck with the last pair, for you they’re sixty.” He was beaming at her, his blue eyes alive with light. “Fair enough?”

“More than fair. Really. Thank you.” She removed the shoes from her feet and slipped back into her street shoes. Spangle took the new shoes from her and inserted them noisily back among crinkled white tissue in their box. “You take credit cards?” Mary asked.

He laughed. “Who don’t?”

She handed him Helen’s card, then realized Spangle knew her name and might notice it wasn’t on the card. “This actually belongs to my friend over there. If you want, I can go get her and she’ll sign for the shoes.”

“Naw, that’s okay. You can sign for her. I already dealt with you and know you’re really who you say.”

Mary wondered how he could know, since she hadn’t shown him any identification, but she didn’t argue.

“I mean,” Spangle said, “unless you’re making up a pretty good story, you gotta be the Mary that bought the white Latins. You’re from Detroit, right?”

“St. Louis!” Mary said, surprised.

“See.” Spangle seemed unfazed. “That’s how I run an instant credit check. If you’d have said Detroit, no shoes. Anyway, in this business you gotta have a certain amount of faith. And the years have taught me that ballroom dancers are by and large honest folks.” He chuckled. “Well, maybe not some of the instructors.”

He bent down and got a credit-card machine from beneath the table and ran Helen’s MasterCard through it, then filled out the charge form and handed it to Mary to sign. “Tell your friend if she needs a pair of shoes, this here’s the place. No special deals for her, though, unless she buys two pairs like you did.”

Mary signed Helen’s name. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell lots of people this is the table if they need shoes.”

Spangle laughed, gave her the customer’s copy and carbons, then limped back toward the stepladder. “No substitute for good will, no matter what you’re selling,” he said. “Thanks for the business, Mary, and I hope you knock ’em dead in the competition.”

As she walked away carrying the shoes, he was again lurching up the ladder, his box of Velcro stars tucked beneath his arm. He seemed unaware that he’d salvaged her dreams.

She waved the shoe box above her head when she caught sight of Helen. Oh-oh! Helen was wearing a green gown with a feathered bodice and hem. It made her look twenty pounds heavier.

“Great!” Helen said. “You got your shoes!”

“Not only that, the man over there remembered my name and gave me a discount.”

Helen hoisted the bodice of the green dress, but it still showed an alarming amount of cleavage. Helen, Helen. “Hey, this is used, but how’s it look?” She raised her arms in dance position and did a few tight waltz steps. The flab on her upper arms jiggled, but the dress was gauzy and stiff. “It’s marked down,” Helen said, not seeing in the mirror the image that Mary saw. She had her own dreams.

Mary said, “It looks terrific,” and handed her the MasterCard.

H
E WATCHED HER WALK
up to a heavyset woman in a green dress and hand her a credit card. They talked for a while, but he wasn’t close enough to know what they were saying. The vending area was crowded and voices he didn’t know clashed and merged and ran over each other.

One voice, however, was familiar and clear, and though he was sure no one else could be aware of it, he heard it with his entire body.

“She’s the one,” it pronounced with the calm certainty he knew so well. His expression didn’t change, but he closed his eyes for a moment as the warm anticipation spiraled through his center. “She’s the one.”

Mary was awake at five o’clock, lying rigidly in bed and staring at the ceiling. Eventually morning sun filtered through the drapes and washed the darkness from the pale white plaster. Her eyes focused on a sprinkler system head that seemed to cling like a huge spider near a corner. She lay motionless until the alarm sounded at seven o’clock, then she immediately climbed out of bed.

In the opposite bed, Helen stirred.

“You awake?” Mary asked.

“Halfway,” Helen moaned sleepily.

“I gotta turn on the light and start getting dressed. Mel wants me down in the ballroom two hours before the competition so we can go through our steps.”

Sheets rustled as Helen propped herself up on one elbow and stared at the luminous numerals of the clock on the table between the beds. “You got lotsa time, Mary.”

“Well, I’ll shower first, so I can be outa your way when you get up. Afterwards I’ll turn on the light out here. It’s almost full daylight anyway.”

“Sure, fine,” Helen groaned, and settled back down in bed. Her breathing got louder and evened out. Now and then a hint of a snore. Mary wished she could sleep so soundly.

She rubbed a hand over her eyes and winced from the pain, suddenly remembering how her face looked. Then she saw again the overwhelming vastness of the glittering ballroom. Oh, God! She hurried into the bathroom, switched on the light, and stood before the mirror with her eyes closed.

Gradually she opened them, like a newborn testing a strange world.

No, no! Horrible bruises, and bags beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. She staggered back to the bed and slumped on the edge of the mattress, sobbing quietly.

But not so quietly she didn’t wake Helen, who sat up in bed and switched on the lamp. “Wha, Mary? Whazza matter?”

“My bruises are worse.”

Helen scooted around and sat facing her. “Couldn’t be.” She stood up and stretched, then bent over with her hands on her knees and unblinkingly studied Mary’s face. “Naw, you don’t look any worse to me. Look better. C’mon in where there’s more light.” She gripped Mary’s elbow and led her back into the bathroom. The tiles were cold on Mary’s bare feet; she’d been too upset to notice before.

She and Helen stood side by side before the mirror. Two middle-aged women, never beauties, in a strange city to dance against people who really knew how to dance, who were almost professionals. What in heaven’s name had they been thinking? What was a tango and how was it done?

And those glaring Technicolor bruises!

“We got fluorescent lighting in here that’d make anybody look a hundred and ten,” Helen said. “Notice I look like I been dead five days.”

Mary had to admit the pale light glaring harshly down from above the mirror cruelly exposed every flaw. Fine veins just beneath the surface of the skin on her forehead had a greenish tint, like the bruises around her eyes and on the bridge of her nose.

“Bruises are definitely fainter,” Helen said. “Believe me, the right makeup job and you’ll be better’n just passable. How’s the rest of you feel?”

“Nervous.”

“Well, so’m I. I mean, physically how do you feel?”

Mary knew she hadn’t convinced Helen yesterday. “There’s a little pain in my side, but I can move okay.”

“You go see a doctor after Jake beat you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not hurt that bad. I know. I’ve got experience. Just bruises, nothing busted.”

“Sure?”

“Honest. Anyway, Jake knows how to hit so he doesn’t break anything.”

Helen’s jaw muscles flexed. “So take your shower while I go back to bed, and we’ll both feel better. Then we can help each other get made up and fit ourselves into those dresses.”

Mary did feel much better after her shower. She toweled dry, peeled off the hotel’s complimentary plastic shower cap, and stood nude before the mirror. Yes, not too bad. And the bruises
did
seem fainter. Or maybe she was getting used to them. A nasty purple bruise had developed on her left side, but that wouldn’t be visible when she was dressed. She raised her arms and tried a rumba step with plenty of Cuban motion. The ribs ached as her hips swayed, but not enough to bother her in competition if she didn’t let the pain show on her face. And she wouldn’t let it show. Everything was on the line here; a little pain wasn’t going to stop her from dancing with destiny.

She woke Helen again, then stood before the dresser mirror and applied her makeup while Helen showered. She dabbed foundation over the bruises and blended it with a brush. Then she applied flesh-colored cover makeup, carefully blending that with a tongue-moistened fingertip. She sat back and tried to decide how successful she’d been.

She looked like a woman with two black eyes.

“I bought some stuff at the pharmacy downstairs that might work,” Helen said, suddenly standing behind her in a pink robe.

She went to her cosmetic kit on the dresser and got out several small tubes and jars, then returned and showed them to Mary. They were expensive brands of makeup.

“When’d you buy these?”

“Yesterday. Bought them for me, but you can use them. That is, if you wanna give this stuff a try.”

“Well, there’s nothing to lose, with the way I look now.”

Helen dragged the desk chair over and told Mary to sit facing the mirror. She tilted the lampshade, then opened the various containers and stood over her, working gently on her face with the practiced skill of a professional. “I used to have a job at one of those department store counters that give free makeovers,” she explained. “Years ago, but I still got the knack. You’re no problem, after some of the disasters I’ve made presentable. Be sure’n let me know if I hurt you.”

“You’re doing fine,” Mary said, and sat perfectly still, trying not to think or to feel the relentless hammering of her heart.

Twenty minutes later, they studied her reflection in the mirror. The other Mary stared back at them wonderingly, then smiled.

“Hardly be noticeable from a distance,” Helen said, grinning.

She was right. “It’s amazing,” Mary said. “
You’re
amazing!” She gave Helen a hug. “What you are is an artist!”

“Oh, no, just a miracle worker. You can put on that fake tan stuff you brought so Mel’ll be happy, then let’s finish getting dressed.” Helen began replacing lids on jars, caps on tubes and bottles. “And for God’s sake don’t look at yourself in that bathroom mirror. The damned thing belongs in a carnival fun house.”

Helen was such a good friend. For a moment Mary considered telling her about Rene, but this wasn’t the time to talk or even think about Rene and the murders. Or about Angie. Important as they were, right now they represented distractions, and Mary had come too far to defeat herself by agonizing over what she was helpless to change. She was finished wandering into that sort of trap. She hoped.

The competition was scheduled to begin with American-style rhythm. Mary would dance in the first heat, a cha-cha. She struggled into tan panty hose, then got her black Latin dress down from its hanger and worked it over her head without mussing her hair. She adjusted it and extended her elbows awkwardly to zip it halfway up the back, causing a stitch of pain in her side that for a few seconds left her breathless and light-headed.

“Terrific!” Helen said, looking at her with approval. “With that dress, put on your glitzy earrings and barrette and nobody’d notice your face if you were Frankenstein’s bride.”

She zipped Mary’s dress the rest of the way and fastened the clasp. Then she wriggled into her own Latin outfit, a red dress with a ruffled skirt.

“With or without the gloves?” she asked, and worked her hands and arms into elbow-length red satin gloves. She did some arm styling, then peeled off the gloves and extended a bare arm gracefully in an identical gesture.

“Looks great either way,” Mary said, “really.” Seeing the dress on Helen instead of on the hanger was a startling improvement.

“Then I’ll go with the gloves,” Helen said decisively.

Mary arranged and sprayed her hair, then she fastened it in back with her curved silver-glitter barrette and put on her dangling silver earrings.

She stepped into her new Latin shoes and snapped the straps, then stood up straight and appraised herself in the full-length mirror.

She looked put together and professional, she really did. Helen, too, all of a sudden
looked
like a dancer. Maybe Howard the bellhop hadn’t simply been bucking for a bigger tip with his compliment. Maybe he’d actually seen something in 1011’s new occupants. Well, what the hell, they
were
dancers. Hadn’t they taken lessons for years?

“Satisfied with how you look?” Helen asked.

“With how we both look.”

“So, it’s finally crunch time.”

“I guess it is.”

“Ready to go after ’em?” Helen swiveled on a high heel before the mirror, jutting out a hip and sneaking a glance over her shoulder like a wary coquette.

“Right now, yeah. But I can’t swear how I’ll feel down in the ballroom.”

Helen said, “Let’s find out.” She started toward the door, skirt rustling. “Don’t forget your key. In these dresses, we might wanna dash back upstairs and use the bathroom.”

Mary said, “I’m sure I will.” She felt to make sure her perforated-card room key was in her purse, then followed.

As the door clicked shut behind her, her mouth went dry and her heart took flight like a bird.

T
HE BALLROOM SEEMED
even more vast and intimidating this morning. Towering arches of red, pink, and white balloons had been constructed to soar from each corner and intersect over the center of the dance floor. Mary felt small, clumsy, and out of place. Her body forgot how to dance and wanted only to bolt and run for miles. And it was possible. She didn’t
have
to stay here. There was no law.

Suddenly Mel was there, in his black slacks and baggy-sleeved white shirt for rhythm dances, not the all-black outfit he’d worn at the studio and in Mary’s dream dances.