The Thorndyke Trilogy 2: Dancing at Midnight (8 page)

Too many applicants, too few jobs.

Her heart plummeted, the familiar words iced her very soul. Kristen went to every audition with hope and a certainty that she would get this one, that this was the break she needed. But before she’d come, she’d known this was it. At her age, she wouldn’t get many more chances. If she’d gotten in to the corps de ballet, the job might have led to solos, and it would’ve been regular work. Something she could build on.

With those few words, her career in ballet was effectively over. There were too many kids coming up through the ranks, too many talented dancers vying for the same jobs. She’d done her best, and it wasn’t good enough.

She did as always, smiled, thanked the bastard, and left.

Time for a rethink.

She left the theater via the stage door. Probably the last time she’d ever use a stage door as a potential performer. If she came back, it would be as a dresser or wardrobe assistant. She couldn’t even think about it right now.

Kristen needed her brother. Her family. She could tell Stu, cry on his shoulder, and he wouldn’t tell anybody. Ten years lay between them, and that had made them close when her brother’s many childhood illnesses had meant she had done a lot of reading and playing computer games with him. Thankfully he had mostly grown out of the illnesses, with just a touch of asthma left, but the friendship remained. They’d discovered what they needed in each other and continued to do so.

Her failure would grieve her parents, who had always been excited by her choice of career. She wouldn’t tell them yet. She’d let them come to terms with it gradually. The jolt that had pierced her heart when she’d heard the inevitable words shouldn’t be transmitted to anyone else with that kind of brutality.

A heavy dullness invaded her mind, spreading through her heart and numbing her senses. Perhaps she’d always known. But when she’d received the audition call, the usual exhilaration had filled her. This time she’d make it in the world she loved, the one she’d worked for all her life. She’d sacrificed school grades for it, gone to dance classes when she should have been studying. The only thing she’d done well at in school was music.

There was an outside chance she’d find a job somewhere, but she couldn’t kid herself with dreams of stardom or even a steady job at a good dance theater. Times were tight all around, and people who had the jobs were hanging on to them. Companies were cutting down on staff, presenting smaller, more “intimate” work that needed fewer dancers.

She had no idea what she’d do now. Fall back on her secondary career. Get a waitressing or bar job. Just until she worked something out. Because in many ways she was starting anew. Twenty-eight wasn’t too late to start a career in many fields. Maybe she could do theater admin, something like that. Watch others accomplish what she’d failed to do.

A bitter taste filled her mouth.

She stopped, looked around. Somehow, she’d found her way to the Bean. The big silver creation was supposed to be a cloud, but the Chicagoans had taken one look at it and rechristened it. It looked more like a bean than a cloud to her too.

Reflected in the shiny surface of the sculpture, her figure, a small blue shape, blended with all the others. Tourists took photos of their friends and snapped innumerable selfies with the Bean. They’d have her on there too. A disappointed dancer in incongruous waterproof boots. She’d borrowed the boots from one of the students in the house that morning because hers were completely ruined after her trek through the snow to Nathan’s estate. The promised snowstorm hadn’t appeared, and already the snow was turning to slush under the hard work of the snowplows.

She’d go see Stu. He was working today. Maybe she’d have a few drinks to drown her sorrows and take the bar job he said he could get for her.

She caught a bus to take her up Michigan Avenue.

The bus passed the stores, their windows filled with tempting items she couldn’t afford. Then they passed the Water Tower. Then farther until the vehicle reached the small clubs, the blues district where other people had come to Chicago with big ideas. For every Muddy Waters, there must have been someone like her, someone who had dreams and ideas, may have been as good as Muddy but didn’t get the breaks.

No, she couldn’t think that way. If she did, she’d end up embittered and sour. Fame hadn’t happened for her, that was all. Nobody was to blame. But she could tell herself that until she was blue in the face. She still resented every ballerina who’d ever danced Princess Aurora, every Odette, because that ballerina wasn’t her.

Time to disembark. A shame. She liked the bus, shiny and modern and full of chattering people.

She pausing to check her phone and take stock of her surroundings. The afternoon was just beginning to lengthen, the shadows deepening. She had nothing else to do; she might as well go see her brother. Then get the L back to his place. No reason she shouldn’t pack up and go home, but if she did, her mother would know she’d given up. Besides, she had more chance of getting something going here than at home.

River North had some interesting stores too. They might be looking for someone to help out. She lingered to peer into a few windows before she reached the street where Stu worked. It led off a main street, and she paused, gazing at a tray of jewelry in an exclusive store. Beautifully designed items winked back at her, taunting her.

Sighing, she turned away and nearly collided with a man coming straight for her. He was as pale-faced as she’d ever seen in her life, his hair black, his clothes matte black and deliberately creased. He sported a few studs on his clothes and his face, and he stared at her in challenge.

“Sorry,” she mumbled and moved on, but the distraction had put her off her stride, and she looked up to get her bearings.

The MASKERADE sign told her where she was. That chain was making some impact these days. It was a group of strip-cum-dance clubs, the dance adding respectability so women could go there.

While a strip club might only attract men, adding the dance, plus some hunky male dancers, made it a mixed-sex venue. Clever, but although she’d read about the place, she’d never considered them as potential employers. She was too concentrated on ballet and contemporary dance.

She peered at the photographs outside. Just two, one of a couple discreetly in shadow but obviously naked, posed in what looked like a flamenco step. And the others more flamboyant, the woman barely clothed, the skirts of her salsa dress flung high.

They appeared stylish. She paused. The entrance was discreet, marble and unsmudged smoked glass. The man who stood just inside the door was dressed not in the obvious tux or flashy uniform but in a smart lounge suit. The very
big
man, obviously one of the club’s bouncers.

She shifted the bag containing her dance gear to her other hand and took a step away from the photos.

The man beckoned, crooking his finger at her.

A sense of fatalism filled her. What did he think she was? Before she could push the door, he opened it for her, smiled, and gave her a once-over. “Are you here for the auditions?”

“I—” He had to be joking.

He tilted his head to one side. “Come on, you’re a dancer, aren’t you? I can spot you people a mile off.” He nodded at her bag—a sports bag with her shoes and dance gear in it. “You looked like you were going to run. There’s no need. The auditions are open, first come first served. You’ll probably be last, but I can put you in there.”

That sounded suspiciously like he was looking for a favor. “Thank you, but—”

“What’s wrong?”

What was she thinking? She couldn’t work at one of these clubs. They’d never let her in a ballet theater again. Then again, they weren’t letting her in now…

His brown eyes shrewdly took in her appearance. “This is the first Maskerade club. The first and the best.” He puffed out his chest and threw his shoulders back. “We lead the way.”

She’d bet they paid more than union rates, and a place like this would want bar and waitstaff as well as dancers. That would work for a while. Maybe she’d look into taking a job here, if they’d have her. This was a new market than the one she was used to and a completely different circuit, but it was all dance. She could do this.

The dancers weren’t entirely naked, and she was used to exposing her body. She’d done some contemporary dance in an effort to broaden her range. As long as it wasn’t explicit. Erotic, sure, but pornographic? Not a chance. At least, she didn’t think so, although the difference between the two escaped her. She was no expert, as she’d proved to Nathan the night before last. Already her experience with Nathan seemed so long ago, as if it had happened to somebody else.

After he returned to Chicago, he’d have forgotten her. He’d have women falling over themselves to get to him. And she’d have recovered from their affair. It would be a pleasant memory, and they could meet as friends. Distant acquaintances, more like.

This was the best offer she’d had all day. Apart from that, she wanted to prove herself, to show she could do something. “What’s your name?”

“Smokey,” the man said. “On account of me being as big as a bear and my first name being Joe.” He shrugged when she frowned. “You don’t know Smokey the Bear? Or Smokin’ Joe Frasier, the boxer?”

For the first time that day, she smiled. “That’s going back some.”

“People remember. What can I say?” Smokey gave a sweet smile, his teeth flashing with the whiteness of the cosmetically enhanced or the fake. Probably the latter, if his battered ear was any guide. Instinctively she liked him, trusted him, and when he touched her elbow to guide her in the right direction, she didn’t flinch back.

Why the fuck not go for the audition?

What did another rejection matter in a long line of them?

* * * *

Nathan glanced out the window that overlooked the main floor of the club.

Even by day it didn’t look sleazy, more like an exclusive dining room.

Which was what he meant it to be, one day. He was considering using the clubs by day as well. It seemed criminal to let the time between the cleaners leaving and the club opening go to waste. A dinner or lunch club seemed ideal. That would give them time to clean up and rearrange the tables for the evening session.

He’d dropped by to discuss the matter with his manager Vella, another Talent.

In appearance, she was middle-aged because she’d kept her daughter with her. She had to look like the mother of a young adult. Children were rare and precious commodities to Talents, so Vella would have given up her youthful appearance gladly. Vella gave the appearance of well-maintained, mature woman, from her shiny brunette bob to the tip of her stilettoed feet and everywhere in between. And it was obvious she knew what she was up to. The books were well kept, and the club’s profits were maintained. But not increased.

A spike of—arousal, awareness?—lanced through his thoughts. It wasn’t Vella. He spun around and stared in disbelief at the woman sitting on a chair waiting her turn to audition.

There she was—Kristen Lowe—sitting in the club with the other dancers, legs primly crossed. She wore a peacock-blue leotard with a skirt over the top. At least she didn’t have the dreaded ballet dancer’s legwarmers. She’d removed her boots, which stood carefully lined up by her chair, and had donned a pair of practice shoes.

The other dancers wore an assortment of costumes. Some had come dressed to kill in miniskirts and tight tops, which would no doubt come off when they auditioned. Others were dressed similarly to Kristen, but all were ready to strip. The manager wouldn’t employ them if their bodies weren’t up to scratch.

Recalling Kristen’s small though beautiful breasts, Nathan knew she didn’t have much of a chance. She had to present something really special to make up for the lack of a boob job. This wasn’t a ballet audition. The attendees needed spectacular bodies, something to flash at the men as well as dancing ability to please the women guests.

Some of them had stood around and jiggled. Until he’d put a stop to it. He wanted dancers, not strippers.

A few had come with partners, men who lolled around waiting their turn, watching the others with the predatory stares of hunters.

Nathan couldn’t blame them. His instincts told him to race downstairs, scoop Kristen up, and bring her here, where nobody would reject her. Because he knew she must have been rejected at her audition earlier. Why else would she come? Unless she told them to shove their job up their asses and was finished with the dance world. Ballet was a hard career. Even the successful ended with ruined bodies and exhausted souls.

She’d found him. Of course she had. All it took was an Internet search. Disappointment lanced through him. He was sure she hadn’t sought him out in the country, but maybe she was hoping to cash in on her luck. Who wouldn’t? Except he wouldn’t show himself. Absolutely not. He’d let his manager deal with her. She need never know he was here.

Nobody could see him up here. The gallery was lined with one-way glass so the staff could keep an eye on the patrons when the club was open without being too obvious. Only a few staff remained, the ones who’d served his and Vella’s lunch and some of the office staff working on their laptops. Except for the view, it could be an office anywhere.

Downstairs, another woman climbed on to the stage and began her act. Some people didn’t realize what the club was about, and this woman was one of them. She stripped, posing with a practiced routine that should have been retired years ago, plenty of bump and grind, but no dance steps. He prayed she didn’t have a snake. Snakes were so last century. No snake, just a boa and an attempt at fifties glamor.

She was a stripper, and he didn’t employ those. Couldn’t afford to, because if they went too far, he’d lose his license to sell liquor. Chicago laws said they could either make money with scantily clad women exposing their bodies or by selling liquor. Nathan had added the men, the dance, and called it a dinner and dance club. Perfectly respectable.
Not
. That and liberally greasing a few palms got him what he needed.