"Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a good little girl. And they called her... Elle," Ophelia watched as Elle Maddox strutted up and down the makeshift aisles of the dressing room, "a stunner with impossibly long lashes, loud as hell makeup, and a sequined, skin-tight band-aid of a dress," Elle paused, holding for whistles from the girls as they dressed, "She works the tight stage of the club, toying with the audience. Burlesque!" Elle struck up her best jazz hands, throwing her hair back and fluttering her artificial eyelashes.
Vince appeared from behind a curtain, throwing a poof of glitter into the air, as if he had been instructed to do so. Then he disappeared again, as the girls laughed, though their corsets and tiny dresses would have them do otherwise.
Elle continued, "Some say she died of neglect. Abandonment. Old age," some of the girls booed, "But like I say... no matter how hard you try, you can't keep a good girl down! And I've got a load of 'em."
Sixteen gorgeous, leggy girls broke into cheers as they fought over mirrors, hairspray, and boxes of stage glitter. Fishnet stockings and oceans upon oceans of feather boas covered the dressing room above the stage. It was completely decadent, and completely cabaret.
"Come to think of it," Vince reappeared, carrying an armful of accessories and corsets, divvying out his wares to the girls, "none of them are all that good... which isn't all that bad." Ophelia laughed as one of the girls, Lindsay, tried to lasso Vince with a garter.
"Eight shows a week," Elle narrated as the girls put the finishing touches on their outfits and scuttled toward the stage in impossibly high heels, "sixteen fabulous girls, and thirty two towers of luscious legs! You go work that stage, you bastions of bodacious elegance!" She spanked Vince on the behind as he passed, heading for the bar to keep the bartenders in line. They were a rowdy bunch of twenty-somethings, and Vince couldn't help but hang around them.
"Here, Nora," a small, plump blonde pushed a long mirror over to Ophelia, nearly knocking her lipstick and mascara from the table, "It'll help." The mirror was lined with rows of white powder, which seemed to glow almost ethereally under the lights of the dressing room. The girls seemed to worship the stuff, using it every night before a show, and even more often at the parties that followed.
Ophelia grinned, "Thanks, Georgie." She leaned down to the mirror and plugged one nostril. Inhaling deeply, she felt the white powder shoot up into her nose and leave a tingling sensation running up and down her spine. It was a habit she had been forced into, but it had taken ahold of her. And Georgie was right. It did help. She immediately felt as if she could take on the world, conquering one man at a time with her ridiculously high heels and her glaringly bright lipstick.
"Places, girls, we start in two!" Elle called, her theatricality replaced with business, "Nora, you ready for your first show?"
"You bet!" Ophelia leapt to her feet and strutted to Elle, who held her arms outstretched, "Do I look alright?" She felt oddly confident in her blue corset, paired with fishnets and sky-high heels. Normally, she would be mortified to appear in front of people in such a getup, but the risque wardrobe of the Black Cat had grown on her. In fact, the darkly glamorous life had never been so appealing. Sleeping all day, dancing at night both onstage and in the dark apartments of the other girls; it felt as if she had truly been allowed to come out of her shell. Now, she felt as if she was never fully dressed without her corset.
"You look fabulous, darling," Elle fluffed Ophelia's newly dyed and done up hair, "I knew that was the color for you. Assets, assets." She had taken Ophelia, just days before, to a salon, where she had prohibited her from looking in the mirror until they were finished tinkering away at her head. Within an hour, Ophelia had been given a full head of bright ombre hair, that was red at the roots, turned an orange hue the color of embers, and then blonde again. The other girls had compared it to fire, and Ophelia could not complain.
After months of rehearsal, Elle had deemed Ophelia ready to perform, and they had spent the entire day rearranging the lineup so that she would be a featured performer. Most of the girls had been rather impressed with Ophelia's dance ability, but others had been perturbed by Elle's budding favoritism. She had earned a nickname almost immediately, a privilege that the most seasoned employees earned. Ophelia had just figured it was because she was something new, but she could not complain. The spotlight had always been her place. She had been dubbed "Firecracker" within the first week of rehearsals, and the name had changed her for the better. It made her fierce, sensual, and exciting. She had never felt so desired, so wanted.
And now it was time for Ophelia to put all her work to the test.
Convincing Will of the legitimacy of her job had been a challenge. Naturally, he had an aversion to the whole atmosphere of the place. The words "stripper" and "exploited" had been tossed around, but Ophelia had stood fast. She was convinced that it was not nearly as awful as people made it out to be. They were really dancing, and they were really entertaining people, even if it was through the medium of corsets, glitter, and the occasional uninvited ass-grab.
"Welcome to The Black Cat," Elle's voice floated through the packed lounge and she slunk across the stage as, behind her, the girls all gathered at the end of the catwalk, lit by footlights, moving in place to the beat of the music played by the bawdy quartet on the opposite end of the room, "Say hello to Scarlett, Coco, Lindsay, Gigi, Georgie..." she rattled off the list of names, ending with, "and the newest addition to the family, our little American firecracker... Nora!" Ophelia struck a pose and the crowd, mostly male, roared and thumped on their tables as the spotlight illuminated her. She felt the oh-so-familiar pump of adrenaline begin to build in her chest.
The footlights flared as Elle sashayed from the stage. The girls were all suddenly bathed in pink and red light as they hit each beat with sharp, risqué movements as they moved downstage toward the audience. Each of them, standing in a line, kicked their legs into the air, shimmied, and spun to the beat, the audience cheering and whistling. Waiters and waitresses hurried back and forth from the bar, to the tables, to the booths, and back again. The show flowed without a hitch, number after number, Ophelia staying with the rhythm of the process with poise that oozed magnetic confidence. She truly hit her stride, and before she knew it, the last number had ended and the curtain had closed. Though the music had returned to a slow, jazzy candor, Ophelia's head still pounded and her entire body vibrated.
"Oh... my... GOD!" Ophelia cried, throwing her hands into the air and shimmying as she and the rest of the girls rushed back into the dressing room. Feathers, glitter, and sequins flew through the air; the show had been their biggest and most successful yet.
"Fantastic job, girls, just absolutely brilliant!" Elle appeared at the door to the dressing room, her cheeks flushed pink from her frequent visits to the bar during the show, "now get on out there and unwind with the clients! You've earned it! And cocktails on me!"
The girls cheered and began to disperse, some pulling out cigarettes and lighting them. Ophelia bent down to fix herself in the mirror.
"Hey, Nora," Elle clapped her on the back, "There's someone here who asked for you personally. He's in the roped-off booth in the back." She wiggled her eyebrows and bit her lip, but Ophelia's stomach dropped.
"Who is it?" she stood and turned to face Elle, who towered over her in platform boots. Her mind swam with blood-red images of Hannibal's face.
"Some guy," Elle shrugged, "He's American, though. I think he's some big businessman in New York, or something. Big, burly guy. Go talk to him! Maybe he'll invest."
Ophelia gulped, "Okay. Okay, sure." And with that, Elle was off, dancing and shimmying toward Vince, who had appeared in the doorway with a tray of shot glasses filled with pink liquid.
Before she entered the jungle of people, surely walking to her demise, Ophelia leaned back against the table, her hand fumbling over pallets of eyeshadow and tubes of lipstick. She took a deep breath. If Hannibal had found her here, what would she do? What would Will do? Perhaps he had already gotten to Will. Hannibal would at least have to spare Will. He had done nothing wrong.
Ophelia sucked in a deep breath, puffing out her chest against the restraints of the corset. She strutted through the curtain to the main room, an air of false confidence about her. The room was pounding with the music of the band onstage, and the sound of alcohol-induced revelry nearly drowned it all out. Ophelia slipped through the maze of tables, waving and smiling at club patrons who called out to her. She felt the tips of her fingers tingle, and she could not discern whether it was from anticipation or the drugs she had partaken in before the show.
The red booth reserved for people of some importance was roped off at the back of the room and was surrounded by a velvet curtain for privacy. Usually it was occupied by business tycoons keen on escaping the monotony of their daily lives. But tonight, Ophelia knew not what awaited her there. And she truly did not want to know.
But, when she pulled back the red curtain, she did not find Hannibal Lecter there. She exhaled heavily as she took in the large, bulky man who sat observing her as well. He was one of the most enormous men she had ever seen, with tattoos covering much of his skin, even on his bald head.
"Nora Spencer, the American firecracker," the man greeted her with a rough voice befitting his appearance, "I am so glad you made time to come see me. The show was just spectacular, I have to say."
"Well, thank you, Mister..." Ophelia's speech trailed off.
"Vegas," the man extended a hand, "Believe it or not, my surname is Vegas. It's a curse, really, despite what you may think. Sit, sit! Let me buy you a drink." As Ophelia slid into the booth beside him, a waiter appeared, taking Vegas's order, which was quite a hefty one.
"So," Ophelia crossed her legs under the table as she took a sip of the drink that appeared before her, "a fellow American. What brings you to London? And to The Black Cat?" She flipped her ombre hair over her shoulder and sniffed, subtly rubbing the underside of her nose.
Vegas shrugged, "A bit of culture, I suppose. I do business in New York, see, and believe it or not, it can get a bit boring. The nightlife falls into a pattern of repetition; you can't get much like this in New York. Less taste in the States, I think. A friend recommended the shows here, and I have to say I am not disappointed in the least."
Ophelia had already begun to feel the drinks taking an effect on her, "I am so, so glad you chose The Black Cat, Mister Vegas. It's great to see a fellow red, white, and blue once in a while, and I don't see many of them." Ophelia took another large drink, at the prompting of Vegas. A few of her fellow dancers waved to her from across the room and she leaned out of the booth and waved enthusiastically, not noticing as Vegas popped a small pink pill into the already fizzing cocktail.
"So, tell me," Vegas said slowly, deliberately, as Ophelia took another giant swig of the fizzing drink, "How did you come to find yourself in London? You're, what, twenty one? Twenty two? You should be in college on a beach somewhere."
Ophelia squinted, the drink immediately taking her thoughts and turning them to meaningless mush. She took a deep breath, trying her best to be coherent, "Moved here with my brother. He's a teacher. Real, real smart. Yeah, that's it pretty much."
Vegas hummed noncommittally, watching for a long while as Ophelia sipped her drink. He could immediately see that the drink was going straight to her head, and with the drugs that she had obviously taken, she was completely slurred. His demeanor suddenly turned brusque and businesslike, and much less charmingly charismatic.
"Tell me, Nora," Vegas leaned into her, taking and holding her attention on his face, "Why are you really here? Open up to me. I'm a friend now."
Ophelia sighed, "It's a complicated story, Mister Vegas. Not exactly fun talk."
He sat in silence, watching her think, as the music shook the next round of drinks that had been brought to the table.
"Were you... running from something?" Vegas suggested, "Perhaps you were coerced into coming here."
"Yeah, yeah I was," Ophelia looked at Vegas through her blurred eyes as if they were as clear as crystal, "There was this... guy. That's how all the stories go, right? Guy and girl can't be together so girl leaves, blah, blah, blah... My story is funny because the guy I'm in love with wants to kill me!" Ophelia burst into loud, almost manic laughter, "Isn't that just messed up? I thought that he felt the same way, but he wants to fucking murder me! And I love him. Messed up. But that's me. Just messed up." Ophelia's words were becoming more and more slurred, less and less intelligible.
"It gives you depth of character," Vegas assured her with a sugar-coated falseness, "You said you came here with your brother?"
Ophelia snorted, shaking her head, "We don't even look alike!"
"So... not your brother?"
"Nah," Ophelia leaned back, trying desperately to regain control of the words that were spilling from her mouth, "I mean... no. Yeah. No."
Vegas took a deep breath, then abruptly changed the subject, "You have very green eyes, Nora. Any Irish relatives down the line?"
Ophelia shrugged, "I think maybe."
"Good girl," Vegas began to slide out of the booth, "Come with me, alright? I'm going to get you home safe. Wait right here, I've got a check to write for your boss."
Ophelia waited as Vegas weaved through the tables toward Elle, who was in the midst of schmoozing a group of elderly, wealthy-looking women. He pulled Elle away from the gaggle, reaching into his pocket and extracting a rather thick check book. Elle's eyes widened and flicked over to where Ophelia sat. She took the check from Vegas's hands as if it would explode, then scurried off, presumably to find Vince. Vegas returned to Ophelia immediately, leading her to the door and out into the street. He covered her with his jacket; she had still not changed out of her costume. She began to protest, suggesting she return to collect her things, but Vegas nearly shoved her in the direction of the train.
After a bit of digging, he managed to get her to reveal where she would be going: to Cambridge. Vegas bought her a ticket and, after receiving quite a few dirty looks, helped her board the train. He sat beside her, latching onto her as she stumbled around in the compartment as the train began to move. She babbled to him about The Black Cat and about the girls there, her head resting on his shoulder as they chugged along, and soon they found themselves at the dark Cambridge station. Vegas looked down at his watch; it was nearly two in the morning.
Will Graham stood on the platform, waiting, when the doors slid open. Below his glasses, his eyes burned with anger, and his mouth curled downward in a frown. He looked as if he had just rolled out of bed.
"Jack!" Ophelia threw herself forward, landing squarely in Will's arms, "What are you doing here?" She hiccuped, and Will pulled her upright, though she towered over him in her heels.
"I got a call from Elle," he glared at Vegas, "She was worried about Nora."
"Hey, no worries," Vegas held his hands up in surrender, "I just wanted to help our mutual friend here get home safe."
"I could have taken care of that," Will stepped in front of Ophelia, who had grown entirely focused on a single curl that hung before her eyes.
"Sure," Vegas smiled, "I guess I should be going, then. I got what I came for." He turned and stepped back onto the train, just as the doors closed behind him.
"Bye, bye!" Ophelia called, waving her hand in the general direction of where Vegas had disappeared.
Will grabbed Ophelia's wrist and began to cart her toward where his car was parked, "Come on. What the hell happened to you? What are you wearing? You reek of booze and smoke."
Ophelia sniffed and rubbed the bottom of her nose, "I was at work, bro."
"I don't like that place," Will nearly shoved her down into the car, "especially when it involves guys like that. Who was that, anyway?"
"His last name is Vegas. How cool is that?" Ophelia struggled to buckle her seatbelt; her vision was beginning to blur and her head was beginning to pound. She knew she would need a fix in the morning.
"You could have been hurt," Will muttered, "Or found out." He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and stared straight ahead. Time and time again, he had made it clear that he did not approve of her job. It was dangerous. It was provocative. And most of all it was stupid. Ophelia had come home in this state before, but this was the first time that her boss had even feared for her safety. Clearly, something was different about this instance.
The moonlight shone in beams through the window and illuminated the harsh, greenish pallor of her skin. Ophelia had lost considerable weight and luster, and she tried her best to cover it up with layers of makeup and outrageous attire. She was miserable; that much was clear to Will, no matter how hard she tried to hide it for his sake. Her job was a miserable excuse for a living and a miserable excuse for dance, as she tried so hard to pass it off as. The Black Cat might as well have been a meat auction. And if the past weeks had gone to show anything, she would be back in this state within twenty-four hours.
Will knew why she did it, though. He knew why she had taken to drinking, to partying with her "friends", and to the illegal substances that she clearly was hooked on. She talked in her sleep. Ophelia had conversations with an invisible presence about the most trivial things, as if sitting with an old friend. Sometimes the conversations would end with her in a frenzy though, crying and sweating through her pajamas. Will would shake her awake, only to have her not remember what her dream had concerned. Will was sure, though, of what she dreamt.
In her dreams, she was with Hannibal. In her dreams she was not afraid of him. But Will knew that could never be a reality, as did Ophelia. Instead, she had replaced Hannibal with promiscuity and drug abuse.
Will did not know which would kill her first.