Blue Angel (6 page)

Allison flipped through her menu. “If your boyfriend is bringing you to burlesque clubs on your birthday, maybe you should start.”

The Blue Angel was transformed. Glittering, plastic snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Fluffy, fake snow dusted the floor; holly and tinsel lined the bar; and the dwarf Mallory had noticed the week before was now dressed like an elf.

The clipboard woman at the door was dressed like the sexiest Santa’s helper imaginable, in a tight, short red dress cinched at the waist by a wide, black belt with a heavy brass buckle; white fur trim and bells hung off the quarter-length sleeves.

“I think we’re on the list,” Alec said, giving their names.

“How many people are you?” A woman with long white hair appeared from behind the curtain.

“Three,” Alec said.

“Who put you on list?” The woman’s accent was thick Eastern European. Russian? Polish?

“Bette.”

“She never listens. Only two guests per person. So one of you has to pay,” the woman said, then disappeared.

Alec handed the door girl a twenty.

“Enjoy the show,” she said.

“I think you guys have a reserved table,” a woman said to them as they entered the main room. Mallory recognized her as the girl who picked up all the discarded clothing after each performer’s set. The MC had introduced her as “Kitty Klitty.” Tonight, she wore green sparkly antlers on her head, was topless, and wore a green garter that framed the largest bush of pubic hair Mallory had ever seen. “You’re Mallory, right?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Bette saved you guys seats. Over there—in front of the stage.” She walked off, and Mallory tried not to stare at her bare ass.

“Interesting,” Allison said. “Andrew is going to be kicking himself for not coming. And I think I need a drink.”

“Me too. I’ll get a round. But Mal, I want to prep you for backstage. Just take note of what everyone’s wearing, what they’re talking about, if there’s any debate about who performs in what order . . . any fighting over costumes . . . Are they drinking alcohol? Any details that make the culture come alive.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Alec kissed her on the forehead and left for the bar. Mallory read the one-sheet program on her table. It was green poster board with the drawing of a woman wearing a short elf costume, bending over far enough to reveal her ass, and pressing what looked like a flyswatter against one cheek. It read,
Ho, Ho, Ho . . . Blue Angel Burlesque presents its third annual Holiday Spanktacular. Featuring: Bette Noir, Cookies ’n’ Cream, Scarlett Letter, Missy Pink, Poppy LaRue, Kitty Klitty, Dustin the Dwarf . . . and hosted by your favorite MC: Rude Ralph.

“Glad you could make it. Ready to come backstage?”

Bette stood next to the table in the leopard coat she had been wearing the first time Mallory saw her. Her lips were bright red and impossibly glossy, shiny like the pottery Mallory used to make in arts and crafts and coat with shellac. She thought how odd it was that Bette’s mouth had touched her own, but shook the memory away.

“Yes. Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Absolutely. Hi, I’m Bette,” she said, extending a hand to Allison.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Allison Delmar, Bette Noir.” Mallory felt a little ridiculous introducing Bette with her stage name, and she wondered what her real name could possibly be. She couldn’t imagine any “real” name suiting her.

“Have fun,” Bette said. “It will be a great show.”

Bette took her by the hand. She felt the other patrons staring at her, and she glanced at the bar to try to catch Alec’s eye, but he was talking to the white-haired Polish woman.

“Who is that older woman?” Mallory asked.

“Agnieszka Wieczorek. She’s the owner. And ballbuster extraordinaire. She used to be a ballet dancer and is very into the art of performance—which is what I love about the Blue Angel versus some of the other clubs in town. But she doesn’t like a lot of the modern music the neo-burlesquers use. She has to loosen up about that because I think the audience enjoys it more than traditional stuff.”

Mallory didn’t understand what Bette was talking about but nodded anyway. Still knowing the club was owned by a former ballerina gave her a heightened respect for it.

The dressing room was smaller than Mallory had imagined it would be. She had anticipated something like what she saw on E! or NY1 News during Fashion Week, backstage areas at fashion shows with rows of mirrors and organized racks of clothes and maybe a bottle of champagne or two. But the space was smaller than Mallory’s living room, and looked like a drag queen’s closet had exploded. Shoes, boas, makeup kits, wigs, bottles and aerosol cans, and undergarments the likes of which she had never seen before were strewn
everywhere.

“Hey, everyone—this is Mallory Dale,” Bette said. “She’s here to observe us in our natural habitat. Her boyfriend is writing an article for
Gruff
.”

Mallory got a few half-interested hellos—and a death glance from a blonde standing in the corner. Mallory recognized her as the dancer who’d opened the show last week.

“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” Mallory said to Bette.

“It’s fine. Just sit over there.” She pulled a folding chair from against the wall and Mallory sat quickly, wishing she could turn invisible.

“Where’s the airbrush?” a well-endowed blonde with a Mohawk asked the room. Someone handed her an aerosol can, and she proceeded to spray her legs.

“What is that?” Mallory asked Bette.

“It’s like panty hose—in a can. Makes your legs look flawless.”

“Really? That’s amazing.”

Bette looked at her like she was from another planet. Mallory reminded herself to stop talking and just observe. She watched the women apply false eyelashes, body glitter, and feathers in their hair, watched them fasten wigs on their heads, climb into shoes that seemed more like stilts, fasten stockings with clips and hooks, and pull their bodies into tight corsets. It was as if these women were a different species, one that knew how to use plumage and pots of glitter and paint and delicate garments to make themselves something greater than women—they were the physical embodiment of the very
idea
of womanhood.

And they seemed to have no problem displaying their womanhood; even with Mallory, the interloper, in the room, no one seemed to think twice about walking around in just underwear and bare breasts, or in the case of one curvy brunette, nothing at all but red patent leather heels. She supposed nudity was not a big deal to them since it was their job to take their clothes off on stage every night. But just hanging out with their coworkers like that? And a random stranger?

She was even more surprised when the MC, Rude Ralph, entered the room carrying a bucket of Stella Artois, and no one made any effort to cover up.

“Missy, you’re changing your number to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’?”

“Yes—and Scarlett is going to go before me.” Missy Pink was dressed like a giant snowflake.

“Okay, but that’s it—no more changes. I’m getting the music queue set.”

“No more changes,” the curvy brunette said, making a cross my heart gesture. Ralph handed out the beer.

“And for you?” he said to Mallory, offering her a bottle.

“Oh—thanks,” she said.

“Are you being reprimanded? Sent to the corner for a timeout?” he teased.

“Um . . .”

“Yes—she’s been very naughty. I just might need to spank her. Now go,” Bette ordered, and ushered him out the door. Mallory waited for Bette to glance her way, but she didn’t. As soon as Ralph was out of sight, the dancer turned her attention to applying false eyelashes one by one. Mallory thought of the time she’d tried false eyelashes on Halloween, and she just glued the whole set on at once—like a fan of lashes stuck on the rim of her eyelid. It had looked terrible, and she took them off before she even left the apartment.

Mallory didn’t feel that she was gathering any useful information for Alec. She doubted the readers of
Gruff
were eager for false eyelash application tips or the secret to long lasting body glitter. Maybe she should be writing the article for
Allure
or
Glamour
. She could become a writer, too—and forget this whole bar exam debacle.

“I’m going on last—I might go out and watch the show from the side of the stage. Feel free to stay back here. But I want you to try to catch my act,” Bette said, and gave Mallory a wink.

“How did it go?” Alec asked, squeezing her hand.

Mallory made her way back to the table just as Dustin the Dwarf’s stand-up routine ended. She knew from the set list posted backstage that he was the last performer before Bette Noir.

“Great. I’ll tell you all about it.” Alec looked so handsome—she felt a surge of love for him and thought of what Allison had said to her at lunch about buying better lingerie. Maybe she was right. They lived in a city full of beautiful women—she should probably step it up a notch. Maybe it was her fault their sex life had hit a plateau—or what did Jennifer Aniston call it in that Ed Burns movie? A “downcycle.” Except in that movie Jennifer Aniston’s husband was leaving her for Cameron Diaz. This, years before her real-life husband would leave her for Angelina Jolie.

Note to self: get better underwear.

“What do you think of the show?” she asked Allison.

“Amazing! Absolutely beyond. In an alternate universe, I would
so
do this!”

“Um, don’t quit your day job,” Alec teased.

Allison punched his arm. “Ugh! You are such an asshole. How do you put up with him?”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for—the tassel queen, pinup dream, and mistress of the night . . . Put your hands together for Bette Noir.”

The room erupted, the stage curtain rose, and the stage was set with four boxes in a row, arranged in increasing size. Each was wrapped with a thick red bow. Bette appeared to the opening strains of the song “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” wearing a candy cane-striped minidress, long white gloves, red high-heeled half-boots curled up at the toe like elf boots, and a red velvet Santa hat.

She gyrated toward the first small box, undid the ribbon, opened it, and turned it upside down to reveal it was empty. She shrugged, pushed the box aside, and slowly pulled off her gloves. The crowed yelled encouragement.

She untied the ribbon on the second box, and revealed that it, too, was empty. With a pout, she threw the box behind her, then angrily tugged off her dress, revealing sequined candy cane-shaped pasties covering her nipples. The crowd whistled and yelled. She turned her attention to the third box, and pulled off the lid to once again find nothing. She tossed the box into the audience, and someone stood to catch it.

She stood facing the audience, hands on her hips, frowning like a petulant child. She stomped her foot and pulled off her pasties, standing there in only red lace panties. The crowd went ballistic. Alec and Mallory looked at each other.

“Omfg,” Allison said.

Mallory couldn’t believe the perfection of Bette’s body. She was skinny with curves; her breasts were large but had small, delicate nipples.

Bette opened the final, largest box. She faced the audience with a huge grin, and pulled out a wide strip of red velvet fabric. The crowd laughed and applauded as she proceeded to wrap herself in the fabric as if it were a giant bow. She crossed it between her legs, over each breast, and tied it behind her shoulder blades. When she turned her back to the audience to exit the stage, the only thing visible was a giant red bow atop a perfect ass.

Rude Ralph returned to the stage.

“How do you top perfection? Clearly, you can’t. So that’s the end of our show for tonight.”

The audience let out a collective, “Aaww!”

“I know, it’s hard,” Ralph said. “I know
I’m
hard. And something tells me I’m not alone. Right, my friend?” He pointed to a guy at the table next to theirs. The guy clapped. “Easy, fella. It’s not that kind of show. Okay, ladies and gentlemen, our stagehand Kitty Klitty will be coming around with the tip jar. Give generously. Support nudity in your neighborhood.”

When Kitty Klitty made her appearance at their table holding a Christmas stocking, Alec handed her a few twenties.

“Great show,” he said.

“Thanks! Oh, and Bette wants to see you backstage,” Kitty told Mallory.

“Me?”

Kitty nodded.

“Be right back,” Mallory said.

“Meet us out front when you’re done. See if she wants to go have a drink,” Alec suggested. Mallory rolled her eyes.

“What? I’m sure they’re all going out somewhere.”

Mallory ignored him and made her way to the back of the club. The blonde with the sharp bob was sitting on the steps that led to the backstage area.

“Where are you going? It’s not a show backstage, you know,” she said.

“Oh—I’m sorry. Someone told me Bette asked me to come back.”

“Who told you?”

“Um. . .” Mallory couldn’t bring herself to say the name
Kitty Klitty.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The curtain rustled, and Bette strode out. She wore a black silk robe cinched high, under her breasts.

“You’re such a flirt, Poppy! Don’t mind her,” she said to Mallory. “She’s always cock-blocking me.”

Bette laughed a quicksilver laugh, and Mallory could have sworn the blonde went pale under her stage makeup.

“I should go, anyway. Thanks for having me backstage. I’m sure it will be useful for the article,” she lied.

“Really? Then it will be a pretty boring article.” Again, the laugh. “What did you think of the show?”

“Amazing.”

“Yeah, the holidays get us all sentimental. Last year Scarlett Letter wore an assless reindeer costume. It was very cute. Anyway, I’m going to my friend’s show in a half hour. You should really see it—quite a different burlesque experience.”

“Let me check with Alec. . . .”

“No, don’t bring him. I don’t want him writing about another club’s show. Keep him focused on the Blue Angel, okay?”

“Thanks, anyway, but I’ll have to do it another night.”

Bette turned to Poppy. “She drives a hard bargain. Fine, bring Alec. But this is strictly off the record!”