Franny Futura listened for a noise to tell him that he was not alone. At last, he was satisfied that all the chorus boys and stagehands had left for their lunch break.
He laughed out loud and did a little dance across the floorboards, tapping his feet and whirling in his own arms, hugging himself tightly, as if this might contain his joy. It did not. His grin was wide as he paused and bowed to the empty theater seats.
„Broadway.“ He spoke this name, holy of holies, as he was rising on his toes. Then, soft as a prayer, „Thank you, Oliver.“
True, this patch of the road was far uptown, but he had never expected to come so close to an old dream, the Great White Way. Franny knew his place among magicians. They had dubbed him a living museum, a compendium of tired old tricks that amazed no one. However, come Friday night, he would perform a Max Candle illusion to a sold-out crowd. In this theater, he would be the headliner. On the marquee outside, his name was writ larger than all the other magic men on the bill.
He walked over to the long black table supporting his glass coffin. The transparent panels were edged in dark lines of lead. And lead molding marked the midsection where the two halves of the coffin joined together.
Holding on to the pewter handles, he separated these independent boxes, and they slid back easily along metal tracks embedded in the table. He patted the large pumpkin at the center of the bed. It was held in place by a metal brace so the razor would not knock it to the floor with the first swing. He had chosen this seasonal fruit over Max’s burlap dummy because it would bleed. Though the juice was pale in comparison to blood, it was miles better than sawdust.
Four feet behind the table, a narrow rectangle of black wood rose from the floorboards to the catwalk. It was decorated with functional springs and toothy wheels that resembled bright clockworks strung out along a giant velvet jeweler’s box. At the top of this mechanical base, two metal arms reached out to support the pendulum, a thin stalk of steel ending in a crescent razor.
He tap-danced toward the wings with a soft-shoe shuffle and climbed the ladder to the catwalk. When he walked across the narrow wood planks of the suspension bridge, it even swayed the same way Faustine’s had done. He gripped the rails and smiled. Just like the old days.
This theater was no mere re-creation; it was Faustine’s revisited. He had come full circle – home again.
Franny looked down and imagined Max Candle lying in the glass coffin, bound hand and foot, screaming well-rehearsed lines to tell the audience that something had gone wrong with the pendulum, that the machine was going to kill him – night after night.
From the dark of the wings stage right, smoke was curling forward into the footlights. „Emile?“
The only reply was a knock on wood, and now he knew his visitor. How many years must he put behind him before that sound would cease to make him afraid?
Nick Prado said, in a badly disguised sotto voce, „Suddenly there came a tapping.“
Franny’s hands tightened on the rail as the man walked into the light of center stage. Nick stood beneath the catwalk and looked up as he slaughtered the poet’s line. „Who’s that rapping at my door? Franny, you must try to work something of Poe into the act.“ Nick’s gaze traveled down the long stalk of the pendulum to the razor-sharp crescent. „I heard a rumor that you hired six chorus boys.“ He looked up again. „Say it isn’t so.“
Franny leaned over the rail. He could hear a shrill note in his voice, too high, too loud. „It’s a slow buildup. I didn’t think the act would hold the attention of a modern audience. The dance routine is really very good.“
Nick made a stagy shiver of distaste. „Are you coming down? Or must I keep shouting?“
It was an effort for Franny to loosen his grip on the rails. He felt safe on the catwalk, but what reason could he give for remaining here?
None.
He dragged his feet to the end of the suspension bridge and slowly descended the ladder. Perhaps there were no safe places. He had not found one yet, not in all the years of a lifelong quest.
Nick ran his hand along the top of the coffin. „A pity you can’t do it Max Candle’s way. You’re competing with big spectacles downtown. Lots of high-tech acts. Now if the public thought there was a chance to see you die – “ He walked over to the base and pressed the lever to set the pendulum in motion. „It was such a beautiful illusion.“
Now the men stood side by side and watched the gears mesh, wheels spinning wheels, setting springs in motion, ticking, ticking. Nick flashed him an evil grin. „I hope this isn’t the apparatus Oliver made.“
„No,“ said Franny. „I was afraid he might’ve botched that one too. Charles loaned me Max’s old props.“
Nick watched the pendulum swing in a small arc. „Any problems calibrating the mechanism? It would be a crime to shatter the original coffin. It belongs in a museum.“
„No, Emile helped me. Well, he did it all, really. It swings between the boxes, very precise. Never varies more than half an inch.“
Nick looked up again as the pendulum gathered momentum and its razor described a wider arc. „Lovely machine. All Swiss gears and balance, you know. Only millionaires like Max and Oliver could’ve built them. I can’t persuade you to do it Max’s way?“
Franny said nothing. He only watched the pendulum. It was dropping lower, swinging over the divided glass coffin.
Nick clapped him on the back. „Forget I mentioned it, old man. The original machinery would make it too chancy. It’s so old. Do you really trust it?“
„Emile says it’s in perfect condition.“ Franny watched the razor drop a little lower to slice through the partitions of the box. „What on earth is that doing there?“ Nick pointed to the bright orange fruit inside the coffin.
„The pumpkin? It’s a variation on Max’s dummy. I want the audience to see that it really does cut into – Oh, no!“ Franny’s head moved in sync with the pendulum swing. Seeds and slop were stuck to the crescent razor. Pale yellow pumpkin blood was dripping on the floor and spreading over the interior of the coffin. More drops of liquid flew out over the footlights with the widening of the arc.
„Brilliant.“ Nick took out his glasses and put them on to survey the mess. „Shot in the dark – is this your first rehearsal with the pumpkin?“
Franny ran to the backstage room where the cleaning supplies kept company with his sound equipment. When he returned to the stage, Nick was standing at one end of the coffin, staring at the interior. He looked up at Franny. „No pumpkin guts on the microphone, but you probably should test it again. If it’s ruined, the audience won’t hear the screams from the box. That is what you’re planning, right?“
Nick walked around the back of the coffin and shook his head as he examined the somewhat clumsy cable outlet leading under the hinged side. „There’ll be critics in the audience on opening night. I went to a lot of trouble to make that happen, Franny. You don’t want to screw it up, do you?“ He glanced at the cloth squares neatly folded on the floor beside the coffin. „So you’re going to cover the boxes while you make your exit.“
„Of course. There’s no other way.“
„Well, there’s Max’s way. He stayed in the coffin, screaming for help, watching the pendulum drop lower and lower. I could tell you how he pulled it off.“
Franny shook his head slowly as he mopped the inside of the coffin with a towel.
Nick smiled. „You’re using breakaway cuffs, right? We can adjust the pendulum so the lowest part of the arc swings in front of the coffin.“ He gestured to the panel of gears. „That’s why the table and the base are painted black. You couldn’t see where Max’s tuxedo cummerbund left off and the backdrop began. Of course there’s a risk with every mechanical thing. But you could perform the best trick of the festival.“
After cleaning the seeds and juice on the coffin bed, Franny looked at the microphone, dry as a bone. „I don’t think so, Nick.“
„They’d talk about it for years and years if you risked your life – just a little.“
Franny looked at the seeds on the floor. The cleaning crew would take care of the rest of this mess. He wadded up the towel and threw it into the wings.
„I’d give my eyes,“ said Nick, „for the chance to see it done right, just one more time. It was so hypnotic – and terrifying.“ He walked all around the coffin, inspecting the lead-rimmed holes at both ends. „I can improve on your version. Nothing risky. We could put a mechanism in the box where your legs are supposed to be. Something to break the glass so it looks like you’re in there trying to kick your way out. Max kicked out a pane in every performance. Just a touch of violence to startle the audience. That’s all you need. I’ll take care of the preparations for you.“
„No – sorry. I mean – thank you, but Emile is giving me a hand. He’s coming back. In fact, he’ll be here any minute.“ Why had he said that?
„We have to go now, Franny. We’ll leave Emile a polite note at the front office.“
„Where? Go where?“
Nick rapped on the wooden table. „Maybe – just before you go on stage – we could have a raven fly out. He could perch on the platform. And the knocking.“ He rapped on the wood again. „Oh, definitely. We must have knocking. New York has a literate theater crowd. I know they’d get it.“
Franny shook his head.
Nick shrugged. „Overkill? I suppose it would be a bit much. But we should definitely have a talk about those chorus boys. You need help with this act.“
„Emile will – “
„Emile can’t help you now, Franny. He’s doing Max’s hanged man illusion downtown, remember? I hope Oliver didn’t botch that one too. When I left Emile, he was still testing his props. I don’t think he’ll make it up this way for quite a while.“
Franny pressed the lever to raise the pendulum again. „My assistants are coming back soon. I should – “
Nick shook his head slowly. „We had an agreement, Franny.“
„I never told Mallory anything.“
„Because I had Faustine’s death to give her.“ He looked up at the razor hanging in the air. „My sources tell me Mallory’s in charge of the case now. It’s an official inquiry into Oliver’s death.“ He stopped a moment to listen to the ticking of the gears.
Franny turned his eyes toward the catwalk where he had been safe.
„Maybe we can amplify that sound with a small microphone,“ said Nick. „Tick, tick, tick. More suspense, don’t you think?“ He turned around to look at the lobby door, then glanced at his watch. „Mallory will come for you soon, Franny. Relentless child. She’ll drag you into the police station. You know what happens in those places. You won’t get out again until you fold and tell her everything.“
Would she come at night?
„Ah, what a creature,“ said Nick. „She has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen – on a living woman.“
„Did you really think Oliver was – “
„Oliver is dead. He’s not the problem, Franny. Now what shall we do with you? Can’t leave you here.“ He stood up and waved toward the exit light. „Shall we?“
„What about Malakhai? He’s already talked to her.“
„What of it? He’s the best documented lunatic on the planet.“
Though there was no gun, no raised fist, not even the hint of force, Franny walked toward the exit sign. He was not a willing companion, yet he offered no resistance. In his own private world, the storm troopers had never left. Shadow soldiers marched behind him as he passed through the stage door and into the street. He could almost hear marching footsteps traveling along with them as he and Nick walked down Broadway. Franny squinted in the noonday sunlight. There were pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Two policemen rolled by in a patrol car. There were many people he might have cried out to. But he went quietly, crying only a little – afraid to make a scene in public.
Every old thing was new again.
The walls echoed that theme with murals depicting the Prohibition era of speakeasy flappers and bathtub gin. On the low stage, musicians were playing vintage jazz. And best of all, there were ashtrays on the tables. Detective Riker sat in his own cloud of smoke and stared at the gardenia on the windowsill. He could swear it had not been there a moment ago.
The bar crowd was very young, except for the few gray heads of magicians he recognized. He had avoided them for the past half hour, not wanting to begin the interviews until Mallory arrived. She was late again, and this worried him. There was a time when he could have set a watch by her appearance.
Charles Butler was rushing the door, and this was Riker’s first clue that Mallory had arrived, for he could only see her blond curls and bits of white satin between the bodies of other patrons.
Wait. Satin?
And now he caught the flash of golden strappy heels where running shoes should be. His only good view of her was the reflection in the window. A white tuxedo floated in the night-dark glass. Elegant lines of material flowed over her body and threw off sparks of reflected light. She was carrying a purse instead of her knapsack.
He had been robbed; this was not his Mallory. She was late, the way a woman is late, and she was even dressed like a woman. There was no blouse worn beneath her jacket, and he had a vague feeling that it would be wrong to stare at that reckless neckline – almost incest. He had never mistaken NYPD for real family, but Mallory had always been a source of confusion. And now the kid was changing her rigid patterns and her style.
He hated change.
Riker put the blame on her new habit of sharing wine with suspects. Well, that would have to stop. This was what happened when amateur drinkers were set loose in bars and liquor stores.
She draped her leather trench coat over Charles’s arm, as though he were a living coat tree – not that he appeared to mind. His face was so happy and hopeful. Now Charles raised his empty hands, perhaps as a prelude to peacemaking, assurance that he came to her unarmed. Suddenly, a gardenia appeared in his right hand.
Mallory’s smile was strained, and Riker guessed that she was damn sick of tricks.
She slipped the flower stem through the boutonniere slit in her lapel. And now the black leather coat was flying Riker’s way. He caught it in midair and watched Charles lead Mallory toward the musicians. He held her in a slow dance to an old blues tune from the forties.
Mallory was humoring Charles, dropping the pretense that she could have any reason to be angry with the poor bastard. So she was on best behavior tonight, and this also worried Riker. His only consolation was the familiar bulge that the gun made in the line of her white satin suit.
Nick Prado was standing at the bar, lifting a glass with Emile St. John. Malakhai had not arrived yet, but both men had assured him that he would know when this man walked into the room.
The band abruptly ended their set to have a few words with the harried-looking manager. Charles and Mallory walked back toward the table. Prado intercepted them and touched the flower in her lapel, pretending interest in it, as if there were not fifty identical blooms appearing all around the room. „The gardenia was Louisa’s favorite. Oliver’s too. He left funeral instructions for a carload to be – “
Prado was distracted by the entrance of two uniformed police officers. Every head was turning toward the door. „Oh, good! It’s a raid.“
Riker recognized one of the uniforms, a man his own age who had not yet been forced out in NYPD’s rush to replace all the gray men with kids fresh from school. Officer Estrada was standing with the manager when Riker joined them. „What’s the problem?“
Estrada pointed to a young couple sitting at a table a few yards away. „Those two called in a complaint about the smoke.“
The manager chimed in, „Right. But smoking is legal here. This is a bar, not a restaurant. We only serve hors d’oeuvres. So now they’re changing their complaint to dancing.“
„What?“ Nick Prado had joined them. „No dancing?“
The manager rolled his eyes back, showing all the classic symptoms of a New York mugging victim. „We don’t have a cabaret license, sir. The mayor says no – “
„Right.“ Riker never had the patience to listen to the backstory. „No smoking in the restaurants, no dancing in the bars.“
Officer Estrada grinned. „It gets worse, Riker. The mayor shut down your favorite strip joint today.“
Riker winced as he amended his list. „And no more sex in New York City.“ He looked down at the gun belts of Estrada and his young partner. Both were sprouting gardenias. „Okay, you guys are with me.“
As the three policemen walked toward the complaining couple, Riker noticed a flower growing from his breast pocket. He swatted it to the floor, as if this might be a visitation of the delirium tremens that had once covered him with crawling spiders.
„Good evening, sir, ma’am,“ said Riker. „You wanna press charges, right?“
The couple said, „Yes,“ in unison, as if this were a response at a prayer meeting. And Riker supposed it was. He was becoming accustomed to the religious fervor in a taxpayer’s exercise of power.
„We need a written statement, folks. These two officers are gonna run you down to the South Bronx. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.“
„You’re kidding!“ The man looked up at Riker with an expression of shock. The woman was shaking her head, saying, „Not the Bronx.“ But her tone of voice said, Not the thumbscrews.
Riker pegged them as Manhattanites, and he could even roughly guess their address on the Upper East Side. They would regard the outer boroughs of New York City as remote satellites, faraway planets requiring visas and vaccinations.
The woman pulled a gardenia from her hair and held it up to her startled eyes, truly mystified in the absence of an identifying price tag.
„Sorry, folks,“ Riker was saying. „That’s the law. All the dancing statements go to the South Bronx. But I really appreciate you screwing up your whole evening to do the right thing.“
The uniformed cops were looking elsewhere, hiding smiles, as the couple gathered up their coats, heads shaking in deep denial. And now they were marching toward the door.
Riker pursued them. „Hey, where are you going? If you won’t do the paperwork, how’re we gonna shut this place down?“
As the door swung shut behind them, Riker turned to the silent assembly and shouted, „Resume dancing!“
The band and the crowd obeyed.
In the middle of cheers for the hero of the evening, Riker’s thunder was suddenly stolen. As promised by Prado and St. John, he recognized Malakhai the moment the magician walked into the room.
Every pair of eyes was on him, this genetic celebrity of natural grace and form, unconsciously moving in time to the music as he crossed the floor. Or perhaps the band was playing to the tempo of the man.
Though he had never used the word beauty to describe another male, it was in his mind. Malakhai’s dark blue eyes were young and incongruous with the long mane of white hair. Riker had seen this phenomenon before in the faces of ballplayers from another era, boys of eternal summer, and he called it magic.
Mallory’s eyes were drawn to the bar, where Malakhai was drinking alone. He had not looked her way since his arrival, but she was constantly aware of him. And so were other women. She was not the only predator in this room.
Emile St. John stood alone on the bandstand, his hands waving to conduct a floating black silk scarf across the small stage. The material was rounded out in the shape of a globe. When he pulled away the silk, the audience gasped to see a dove flapping its wings against the interior wall of a clear balloon. St. John lit a cigar and touched it to the rubber. The balloon popped with a bang, and the dove vanished.
Charles leaned across the table so Riker could hear him above the sound of applause. „My cousin Max got a thousand doves for his funeral.“
„Well,“ said Prado, „Oliver botched the trick, so he only gets one. And if he hadn’t died in the act, he wouldn’t have gotten that much.“
„So that was good timing on Oliver’s part?“ Riker’s smile was wry.
„Timing is everything,“ said Prado, missing the sarcasm. „Oliver bailed out before life went sour. Now me – I plan to die when the world has exactly six minutes of joy left. And that can’t be far off.“ He raised his glass in a toast. „Many die too late and some die too early. Still the doctrine sounds strange – “
„Die at the right time,“ said Riker, completing the line. „Nietzsche, right?“
Three heads turned to stare at the shaggy detective. Startled, Charles looked up through the wide front window, craning his neck to catch the moon over Columbus Avenue, perhaps to reassure himself that it remained in orbit and at least one aspect of the universe was in normal working order.
Nick Prado smiled over the rim of his wineglass. „So, Riker, what brings you out tonight?“
„Police business.“ Riker nodded to Emile St. John as the man pulled up a chair to sit beside Prado.
„What’s happened now?“ asked St. John.
„Oliver Tree’s death was reopened as a homicide case.“ Riker turned to Nick Prado. „But you already knew that, sir. The mayor’s publicist told you this afternoon.“
Judging by Emile St. John’s expression, this was obviously news to him. And now St. John’s wary eyes settled on Prado, who was grinning in an attitude of touche.
„Oh, call me Nick. So you’re investigating Oliver’s death.“
„Mallory’s the primary on this case.“ Riker lifted his glass, not a stickler for police regulations against drinking on duty. „But you knew that too, sir – Nick.“ Riker was searching the faces lined up at the bar. „I thought Franny Futura might be here tonight. He left his hotel in a big hurry. A gypsy cabdriver settled the bill, and a bellhop loaded the bags into the trunk of an empty junker.“
Prado sighed. „Ah, poor Franny. Not a stylish exit.“
„Well, his credit rating wouldn’t support a stretch limo,“ said Riker. „Any idea where he went?“
Mallory watched the magicians trade looks. St. John was hearing this story for the first time, but Nick Prado was not.
„No? Okay, next question. That name of his.“ Riker bent over his notebook and flipped through the pages. „Franny Futura. It doesn’t go with the French accent. He made it up, right?“
„No, Oliver made it up,“ said St. John. „Franny was just sixteen years old when Oliver rechristened him.“
„What’s the guy’s real name?“ Riker’s pencil hovered over the page.
„Francois something,“ said St. John. „Nick, his last name was close to Futura, wasn’t it?“
Prado shook his head. „I only remember that Futura was the worst possible way to mangle the original pronunciation. Oliver renamed him in a stage introduction. It was a joke, a little revenge. Franny was always correcting Oliver’s bad French. But then, Franny got a nice write-up in the morning paper and decided to keep his new name – so as not to waste the review.“
Riker turned to a clean page in his notebook. „So those two didn’t like each other much?“
„Oh, but they did,“ said Emile St. John. „They were best friends. I’m not sure they kept in touch after the war. Franny never played New York. He’s been waiting for this chance all his life. Don’t worry. He’ll turn up for the performance.“ St. John spoke to Riker but he was looking at Nick Prado, and the message was clear: Franny Futura would appear on opening night. And as if a silent bargain had been struck, the other man made a barely perceptible nod.
Riker caught that. He was also staring at Prado. „Is this a publicity stunt? I don’t like to waste my time.“
„No,“ said Prado. „But I might be able to do something with it. Another witness to the balloon assassination disappears under mysterious circumstances. You’re a genius, Riker.“
Mallory turned toward the bar. Malakhai was gone, and a row of gardenias grew in a straight line along the mahogany surface. She spotted him at a table on the other side of the bandstand. He was in conversation with a young brunette one third his age, and she was clearly the aggressor in this flirtation. Mallory watched the woman go through stages of the mating dance, leaning forward as she played with a strand of her hair, then lightly touching his arm as she laughed.
Malakhai turned to catch Mallory’s eyes on them. He smiled and rose from the table. As he walked across the dance floor, Prado was rising from his chair and moving away, quickly crossing the room.
Mallory reached up to her hair and pulled out another unwanted flower as she kept track of the magician. In his wake, all the women he passed on the dance floor sprouted flowers. When he was standing by her chair Charles introduced him to Riker, then excused himself to fetch another glass and a fresh bottle of wine from the bar.
Emile St. John was out on the dance floor, twirling a partner close to his own age. They were moving to a swing tune from the forties with dance steps half a century old. Malakhai sat down at the table and nodded toward the dancers. „I could teach you how to do that.“
„My father taught me how to dance,“ said Mallory. „It seems I have less and less to learn from you. And I’m tired of all the lies.“
„I never lied to you – not outright.“ Malakhai rested one hand on her arm. She looked down at it. He took her point, and his hand pulled back. „I think the best lies are told with the truth, and maybe a bit of distortion and misdirection.“
Across the table, Riker was unconsciously nodding, recogni2ing his partner’s own style of deception.
„Right,“ said Mallory. „A conventional liar needs a good memory. You don’t have that anymore.“
Now she was aware of the young brunette closing in on their table. The woman bent down to show Malakhai all the cleavage of a low-cut blouse. Her voice was breathy as she invited him to dance. The moment Malakhai left the table, Nick Prado came running back.
Mallory exchanged glances with Riker, and he nodded. There was another weakness in the ranks of the magic men.
When the music ended, Emile St. John pulled up a chair and sat down. „I still can’t get over the dancing laws. What’s happened to this town?“
Prado tilted his head to one side, considering this. „I think I like it better this way. More laws to break.“ He smiled at Mallory, who was the law. „Did the mounted policeman cancel his litigation? I understand you were cleared of the balloon shooting.“
„Naw,“ said Riker, speaking for his partner. „The lawsuit is still on, but the wording keeps changing. Now Henderson blames the mayor for letting dangerous cartoons run loose in the streets. So the mayor ordered Macy’s to retire all the big balloons. If they don’t, he’s gonna cancel their parade permit.“ He lifted his glass. „And then the city will be safe for Henderson – idiot-proof.“
Emile St. John clinked glasses with Riker. „To the last parade.“ And now he held up Mallory’s gold watch, but her hand was still attached to the fob at the end of the chain.
Her face was icy as she put her pocket watch away.
Prado sighed. „You’re getting slow, Emile. Time to call it an evening. I’ll pick up this round. I think your wallet is getting a bit light.“
„Nonsense,“ said the Frenchman, reaching into his breast pocket. When he opened his wallet, there was nothing inside but bits of paper.
Nick was nodding in approval. „Nicely done, my dear.“
Mallory held up a handful of folding money and credit cards. Grudgingly, she laid them on the table.
St. John seemed a bit subdued as he settled the tab with a waiter, but Prado was laughing. The two men said their good nights and walked toward the door, which was now framed in garlands of flowers.
Riker turned to Mallory. „And what else have you got, kid? That little item from Nick’s side pocket? Were you gonna share that?“
She pulled another flower from her hair and tossed it over one shoulder. Next she drew out a folded prescription sheet and spread it on the table. „I’ll run it by Slope in the morning. Probably harmless, but you never know what can kill in the right dosage. What do you bet the doctor’s signature is a forgery?“
„Ah, bless him,“ said Riker, watching Nick Prado’s back as the door swung shut. „I hope I’m up to bumping people off when I’m his age. But poison’s too tame. No bet – I won’t take your money, kid. Or is it St. John’s money?“
The band was playing the opening bars of a tune for slow dancing. Malakhai appeared at the table and took her by the hand. She didn’t resist as he led her onto the floor.
„I’m going to teach you one remarkable trick.“ When they stood in the center of the dancing crowd, he released her. Other partners swirled around them. „I’ve never done this illusion with a live woman before.“
He held up his right hand in the posture of a dancing partner. As her hand was rising to meet his, he said, „Now don’t touch me. Keep your palm flat and in front of mine. Hold your left hand about an inch above my shoulder. Don’t let it drop. Don’t ever forget to keep your distance.“ He smiled. „As if you could.“
His arm reached around her, and she sensed a hand at the small of her back, though there was no physical contact. Her own left hand rode in the air above the material of his suit, her fingers curling to the shape of his shoulder.
„Close your eyes, Mallory, or you won’t sense the next move. This thing can only be done in the dark.“
The scent of flowers was stronger when her eyes were shut. She felt the warmth of his raised hand pressing the air. Mallory stepped back, and his heat followed with her.
„Very good,“ he said, moving toward her again as she retreated to keep the distance between them. He moved to the right and she with him, not following his lead this time, but moving in anticipation. A clarinet was melding into the velvet saxophone.
They turned in a circle, revolving to the music, never touching flesh to flesh. One tune blended into another with a faster tempo. She felt lighter as the music speeded up. The trumpet was rippling. Quick notes ran round and round in the dark to the heartbeat of drums. Mallory’s face was suddenly warm with a rush of blood beneath her skin. The music was zooming. And then it slowed, swaying her body with mirror movements to the partner she could not see or touch. Downy hairs at the nape of her neck were standing out and away.
She was turning and turning, eyes closed, blindly chasing the tease of heat. The music mellowed into a luscious basso, sweet and thick, notes dripping like slow honey. There was a sensuous rhythm in the strings of the bass, endlessly drawing out this prelude, this thrumming expectation of bodies not yet meeting. It was close to pain as they moved nearer to one another. The music was slowing, so soft now.
Whispers of reeds.
A sigh.
In the last sweet extended notes of the horns, Malakhai’s left arm was warm and solid against her back. Her right hand was folded into his. She had not yet opened her eyes. The sweet scent of flowers mingled with wine and smoke. His hand lightly touched her hair, and Mallory’s head tilted back. Eyes shut, stone blind, she was staring into the blue eyes of a boy’s un-lined face. The large spread hand at the small of her back pressed her body close to his. Closer still. The saxophone moaned in the thrall of sex at the peak, at the top of the act, warm and liquid. It was 1942 – it was Paris.
Mallory had made an error in timing and distance.
She stepped back quickly, one hand rising, as if she meant to ward off an arrow. Malakhai stared at her with a boy’s blue eyes – so cold now that their dance was done.
He turned around and walked away.
She had not expected that.
Suddenly absent the guidance of heat and music, Mallory stood alone at the center of the floor, not knowing whether to move right or left. She looked down at the white satin tuxedo – inspecting it for what? Blood?