CHAPTER 2: Stage Door
Maxwell's guide stopped outside a red door with a shining silver star painted in the center. Two showgirls in white feathered headdresses and very little else brushed past in the narrow hallway.
A trailing streamer of white marabou tickled Maxwell's cheek. He flicked at his skin and looked after the retreating dancers. One had long, chestnut brown hair that cascaded in a curling mass down her bare back.
She looked over her shoulder. Her aster blue eyes sparkled as they traced down his frame and back up again. She paused and half-turned.
"That one's taken, honey," she said in a throaty purr. "But I'm not. How about you and me-"
"Beat it, Lana," the goon rumbled as he raised one huge fist to the door and gave a sharp rap.
"Mr. Maxwell to see Ms. Wild," he called through the door.
The dark-haired beauty shrugged. Maxwell focused all his powers of concentration to keep from noticing the affect the gesture had on her generously proportioned breasts. He noticed anyway.
"I'll be in the bar," the dancer mouthed. She turned away as her friend tugged at her elbow. Maxwell heard a whisper and a low laugh as they turned the corner at the end of the hall, but the sound was drowned out by a high-pitched voice from behind the door.
"Well, bring him in, Tino," the voice shouted. "Johnny don't pay you guys to stand around in the hall."
Maxwell had an idea that was exactly what Johnny paid guys like Tino for about seventy-five percent of the time. That is, when they weren't being paid to play the bongos on some guy's face.
Tino didn't seem to think the argument was worth making. He pushed open the red door and stepped back.
Time to go into his own song and dance, Maxwell thought as he slipped into the dressing room.
The first thing Maxwell noticed was the pink. Everything was pink. From the wallpaper on the walls to the shag carpet on the floor to the pink shade on the lamp that stood redundantly in front of the brightly lit makeup mirror.
The second thing he noticed, once his eyes had time to adjust to the onslaught, was the middle-aged woman sitting at the edge of the pink chaise lounge. Her graying hair was bound up in a loose knot at the back of her neck and her head was bent over a trailing piece of shimmering silver fabric.
She glanced up as Maxwell moved to the center of the room. Her eyes followed the same path the showgirl's had a few moments earlier. The straight pins held between her lips shifted as the woman's mouth moved in a slow smile.
Maxwell cleared his throat and held out his hand.
"William Maxwell," he said. "Delighted to meet you."
The seamstress raised one hand to take the pins from between her lips. She held the other and out and took his in a firm grip.
"Same here, Maxwell," she said, inclining her head to the huge bouquet of white roses spilling from their vase on the dressing table. "Nice flowers."
He heard the door close behind him and knew without looking that Tino was still inside the room.
"Yeah, they're real beautiful," the high-pitched voice chimed in. "How'd you know roses was my favorite?"
Maxwell turned toward the voice and found it was coming from behind a screen in the corner of the room.
"I just looked for something as beautiful as you are, Starlet" Maxwell said to the screen.
He heard a stifled cough from the chaise lounge but didn't turn around.
"Aw, that's so sweet!" Starlet called back. "I'll be right out, Mr. Maxwell. You just get comfortable."
Maxwell glanced around. The only seats in the room were a wicker stool with a fluffy pink cushion in front of the dressing table and the chaise lounge. The seamstress gathered her sliver fabric and slid sideways as he turned.
He found himself chewing on his upper lip as he nodded and settled down on the cushion beside her. This routine was always tougher in front of an audience, and from the seamstress's broad smile, he had a feeling she'd be sticking around for the full show. He needed to clear the room if he was going to give Starlet his best pitch for truth, justice and the American way.
There was a rustle of silky fabric and Starlet Wild stepped from behind the screen, making her own convincing argument for the American way.
Her shining gold hair fell in loose waves to her shoulders, spilling over the robin's egg blue of her satin robe. It matched her wide, blue eyes. They grew wider still as Maxwell stood to greet her. He was beginning to think it was a Vegas thing as her glance made a calculating sweep along his frame. Starlet's perfectly curved lips quirked in a smile.
"You must be Mr. Maxwell," she said, stepping toward him and holding out one beautifully manicured hand. "Charmed, I'm sure."
"Call me Bill," he said, giving her his best and brightest smile as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "And the pleasure's mine. I enjoyed your show."
"Oh, that," she said rolling her eyes as she turned away. She sat down on the wicker stool and picked up a paddle-shaped hairbrush. "You know, that show would be a lot better if they'd just listen to me. I got lotsa suggestions, but do they care?"
"What kind of suggestions?" Maxwell asked attentively, watching as Starlet pulled the brush through her hair.
"Well, lettin' me sing, for starters," she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. She put down her brush.
"Don't you think the star of a musical revue oughta get to sing?" she said.
"Well," he said slowly.
"Of course, she should," Starlet agreed. "And dance. But no, I gotta just stand there like a lump."
She snatched up the brush and began to pull it through her hair with new vigor.
"I'm gonna get Johnny to talk to 'em again," she said. "They gotta listen to him. After all, he's the producer, ain't he?"
She raised her voice and Maxwell was unpleasantly surprised to learn it got even higher when she was upset.
"Tino," she said. "Why don't you do something useful, 'stead of taking up half the room. Go find that director. Tell him Johnny's gonna come see him first thing when he gets back from LA. Johnny'll show those clowns who's boss around here."
"Ms. Wild," Tino rumbled, "I'm supposed to stay around when you've got company."
"Yeah?" Starlet said, slapping her brush down on the dresser and turning to glare at Tino. "Well, there's a lotta things you're supposed to do. And one of 'em is listen to me when I tell you do something."
"But, Ms. Wild-"
"Get outta here already, Tino, and don't come back. I don't need you anymore tonight."
"I've got to drive you to your apartment, Ms. Wild," Tino said evenly.
Starlet looked momentarily dismayed, but she rallied quickly. She looked at Maxwell.
"You got a car, don't you, Bill?"
"Well, sure," Maxwell said, shooting a glance at Tino. The hood did not look happy.
"Ms. Wild, Johnny won't like it-"
"You let me worry about what Johnny likes," Starlet said. "Now get outta here. You too, Maggie. Finish that tomorrow."
Maxwell glanced at the seamstress on the lounge. Her mocha brown eyes were taking it all in. She raised an eyebrow, then bundled the silver fabric in her hands into the quilted bag at her feet.
"Don't forget the photographer for People Magazine is coming in the morning, Starlet," she said. She looked up at Maxwell as she bent to gather up her bag.
"And Johnny said he'd pick you up to take you to the shoot," she said, watching him closely. "You might want to be ready."
"Everybody's tellin' me what to do today!"
Starlet jumped up from the dressing table and stomped back to the screen.
"I'm getting' dressed," she said. "If everybody but Bill Maxwell ain't outta here in thirty seconds, there's gonna be trouble."
Maxwell kept his place in the middle of the room as Tino reluctantly pulled open the door and shuffled into the hallway. Maggie stood and moved to follow him. The sounds of rustling fabric from behind the screen almost drowned out her hushed words as she passed.
"Don't stay for breakfast," Maggie murmurred. "What Johnny will do to you is not worth scrambled eggs."
The door had closed behind her before Maxwell could come up with a reply. No one had to tell him Johnny "The Dancer" Damanti had a temper like a snake with indigestion.
Temper or no, guys like Johnny held little fear for Bill Maxwell. They were all just dime store hoods underneath. Besides, he'd say his piece to Starlet, get the nod or the brush off, and be on his way back to LA before Johnny the Dancer had his last cocktail in whatever disco he was polluting tonight.
Scrambled eggs didn't enter into this scenario.
He was still telling himself that two hours later when Starlet strolled out of the bedroom of her penthouse apartment in her second satin robe of the evening.
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- continued-
"Prelude to a Hit"