Prelude to a Hit
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or situations created for TGAH; I am borrowing them purely for entertainment purposes and am making no profit from their use. Thank you to Stephen J. Cannell, the cast, producers, writers, directors, and crew for giving us this wonderful, timeless show and the characters that bring it to life.
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Author's Note: This story takes place prior to the series, in August 1980. It's in answer to the "Seascapes on Black Velvet" challenge posted at "Culpalicious" (the world's greatest web site and the only living Robert Culp fan page) and an attempt to answer two questions. 1 – What was Bill doing in Starlet's apartment (as referenced in The Hit Car) and 2 – Why shouldn't Bill have a "pulling on the boots" scene ala James T. Kirk? Both questions are addressed here. The answer to the second question happens to be, because it's Bill and he's not the world's luckiest guy. Sexy, yes. Lucky, no. Read on…
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CHAPTER 1: Full House
It was the big closing number and the dinner theatre at the Desert Dunes Casino was, literally, jumping.
Ice cubes rattled in short old-fashioned glasses and tall tumblers on every table as some three dozen long-legged showgirls on silver-tipped pumps clattered up the mirrored staircase at the center of the stage. Their white feathered skirts swirled and their breasts bobbed beguilingly behind silver spangled pasties.
Down on the stage, so as not to distract from the main event, half as many earnest looking male dancers in silver and white striped tights struck attentive poses, their oiled torsos heaving.
At one end of the stage, three young women in gray and white costumes gazed up in wonder. They were supposed to be mice. It was plain from the matching white bibs and gloves and the little round ears perched on their heads. The rodent illusion was challenged by their bare breasts, jouncing in syncopated time to their excited bounces.
The mouse-girls were an interesting counterpoint to the three young women in fright wigs and black and red merry widows on the other end of the sweeping semi-circle of the stage. Their breasts bounced just as fetchingly, but they were jumping in dramatic irritation.
No matter the motivation, no matter the species, the important thing, the very most important thing as the show's director had shouted just that afternoon as he tossed the trailing end of his cerise satin scarf over his shoulder, was that every pair of bare breasts on the stage had to be bouncing at the end of the big finale. After all, that's what the people paid for when they came to see, "Oh! Sinderella."
The cast was doing their best to oblige. Even the dancers who, out of insecurity or a burning desire to gain an edge in the competitive world of the Las Vegas showgirl, had decided to enhance their natural assets with silicone so firm that bouncing would take a 7.5 earthquake and hydraulic lifters, were managing to get a generous sway from their miracles of modern elective medicine.
The brass section blared a cascading riff as halfway up the staircase a towering brunette in a black sequined gown (severely cut except for the complete absence of material at the front of the bodice) stamped her foot, not incidentally causing her ample breasts to bounce dramatically.
The horns hit a tremulous high note, cymbals clashed, and a cloudbank of dry ice fog tumbled down the staircase as the silver chased doors at the top parted and a young man with a tiny coronet stepped out. His ermine cape swirled around his ankles as he turned back to the door, holding out his hand.
And Starlet Wild stepped out into the spotlight. Her golden mane of hair gleamed. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled. Her perfect teeth shone. And her perfect breasts bounced behind her transparent "glass" bustier.
The audience lining the tables at the Desert Dunes show bar erupted in wild applause as the band hit a final piercing crescendo and four air cannons blew a cyclone of sparkling silver confetti over the stage with a blast that rattled glasses a hundred feet away on the keno tables.
Starlet and her dazzling smile beamed down at the exultant dancers, the frantic orchestra, and the blissful patrons of the Desert Dunes dinner show.
On a banquette seat of red velveteen at the back of the cavernous room, Bill Maxwell sat alone at a table for two, staring up at Starlet with the rest of the yahoos and forty-dollar-a-day tourists and wondered if she was as bored as she looked.
If she was, she was the only one in the room. Everyone in the audience, every man anyway, had all the focus of a dog who's just seen his first soup bone. Maxwell himself was shifting in his seat as he tested the give in the slacks of his new gray suit.
A paunchy businessman with a three-hair comb-over at the next table leaned over and shouted above the din. Maxwell assumed he was shouting. The man's lips were moving and his face was turning red.
Maxwell rolled his eyes and reached up to tug the wadded piece of bar napkin from his ear.
"-ing she wouldn't forget, right?" the man finished, flashing a devious grin Maxwell was willing to bet the man's wife back in Biloxi or Boise, or wherever salesmen in plaid slacks came from, hadn't seen since six months before their wedding.
"Right," he said, opting for the path of least insistence. Predictably, the Plaid Slacks King of Boise wasn't deterred.
He nodded at the wadded napkin scrap Maxwell had tossed on the tablecloth.
"Sensitive ears?" he shouted over the dying applause.
"Sensitive stomach," Maxwell corrected.
That bought him a few seconds of distraction to watch the heavy brocade drape gliding across the stage to conclude Starlet's second curtain call.
Mr. Plaid Slacks was back on his game a moment later. A traveling salesman had to be adaptable Maxwell reasoned wearily. And persistent.
Kinda like a Fed, he thought, right down to the company car.
"I hear her boyfriend's a mobster," Plaid Slacks said.
"Gangster," Maxwell said, reaching for his drink. Somehow most of his scotch had vanished, he thought with a twinge of irritation. Probably evaporated by the shock waves from the air cannons.
"Gangsters and mobsters are different?" said Plaid Slacks. "How so?"
"Mobsters got rules," Maxwell said. He downed the last long swallow from his drink, enjoying the feeling as the warmth spread out from his belly.
"Mobster's got somebody to answer to. They got standards," he went on easing back against the plush velveteen bench. "But your basic gangster, well, he's just a dime store hood with steady pay."
"No kidding," Plaid Slacks said slowly and, Maxwell noticed, from slightly farther away on the banquette.
"You, uh, sure know a lot about criminals, pal," Plaid Slacks said. "You must be a cop or something, right?"
"Nah," Maxwell said "Just watch a lotta Dragnet."
The grinning crowd, most in clothes so loud Maxwell was surprised they hadn't drowned out the band, was surging toward the doors.
He turned the empty glass in his hand, staring at the play of the brightening house lights on the melting ice. There was persistence and then there was good sense, Maxwell thought. It was time to admit the meeting wasn't going to happen tonight. He'd rolled the dice and crapped out.
Might as well go find the bar, he reasoned. The night didn't have to be a total loss.
He leaned forward to plant his empty glass on the table and a shadow fell across his hand.
He blinked up into the serene face of the best-dressed gorilla he'd ever seen outside of the Carson show.
"William Maxwell?" the gorilla rumbled.
Maxwell nodded.
"Miss Wild will see you in her dressing room," the gorilla said in a way that made it sound like a strong suggestion.
Maxwell planted his hands on the table and levered himself to his feet. He moved fast. Sometimes a quick movement would catch the bulkier ones off guard. It was always worth knowing if the 250-pound slab of beef at your elbow was the kind that needed thirty seconds and a note from his Mommy to adjust to a surprise.
This guy wasn't that kind. His bland expression didn't flicker, but one massive hand was inside his jacket at holster height almost before Maxwell saw it move.
The Plaid Slacks King of Boise missed the gesture, but not the words.
"You're going to meet Starlet Wild?" he said, his chins bobbing with excitement.
"Looks that way," Maxwell said, turning his palms out in the universal sign for "save your ammo, pal." The gorilla gave a barely perceptible shrug and let his hand fall to his side. He turned and started down the aisle toward a plain door set in the wall.
"So tell me, Mister," Plaid Slacks said as Maxwell paused to tug out his wallet. "Which one are you? Mobster or gangster?"
Maxwell stared down at the little man with his shiny scalp and shining eyes. The guy was in Plaid Slacks heaven. Vegas, half-naked showgirls, Starlet Wild, and now underworld connections. He'd be the hero of the Elks Club Lodge for this story.
"Fedster," Maxwell said, straightening the hang of his suit jacket, "One of J. Edgar's finest."
He pulled three rumpled dollar bills from his wallet and tossed them on the tablecloth by his empty glass.
"Tell the folks back home," he said. "We're on the case."
He turned and started after the retreating back of the tuxedo-clad hood. Time to earn his keep, he thought.
His job was to make the world a safer place for Girl Scouts, puppy dogs, and salesmen in plaid slacks. And one way to do that might be through a Vegas showgirl named Starlet Wild.
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- continued-
"Prelude to a Hit"