Bone Dance (17 page)

Several hours later, I pulled into the underground parking of the big Delta Chelsea Hotel downtown. I knew better than to go home right at the moment. No way to know who might be sitting in my kitchen.

I'd left Travelle full of assurances and numbers where he could reach me. He was getting on the phone with his insurance people when I left. I wondered what they'd say. The police had given me no trouble. I had
ID
up to the eyebrows, my phone numbers were all legit, and I'd even obtained a permit to allow us to film on a public thoroughfare. By the time they figured out only the permit was real, my little documentary director would be long gone.

I pulled into a parking space next to a vintage Aston Martin.

Tommy was keeping the space empty for me, looking like a mechanic in his dirty coveralls. His insurance clothes were in a suit bag, ready to sling into my car.

He had the biggest grin I'd seen in days, and somehow his lips didn't look thin at all.

“This is a great car,” he said, giving me a hug. “You sure we can't keep it? Nobody's expecting us.”

“Are you insane?”

“Hey, even the cops think somebody stole it. How's the Boss going to know any different? Worse comes to worst, we blame the son-in-law.”

Like I said, Tommy gets good ideas, but he never seems to see what the worst might come to. I'd figured out that the Boss could protect me if I pissed off the son-in-law, but who was going to protect me if I pissed off the Boss? I plucked the keys out of Tommy's hand.

“Move over honey,” I said. “Let me drive.”

Violette Malan
's published fiction includes mystery, romance, fantasy and erotica. Violette won the inaugural short story contest at the 1999 Bloody Words Crime Writer's Conference. Her mystery fiction is included in the noir anthology
Crime Spree,
the Ladies' Killing Circle's
Fit to Die,
and the all-Canadian issue of
Over My Dead Body.

You always notice the pretty ones.

It was at Rye's Pavilion in Peterborough, during our Glenn Miller medley, that I first spotted her. A gorgeous little number, with long, wavy, chestnut hair, glossy red lips and smouldering eyes. The Ava Gardner type, dark and sultry. And she had a body to match—all dangerous curves.

But she was young. Very young.

Playing the same songs night after night, you don't need to watch the music every minute. You have plenty of time to check out the dancers. Actually, that's probably why it took me as long as it did to notice her—she wasn't dancing. Just standing by herself, watching the band all evening.

I saw her again a week later, at the dance hall in Dunsfield this time. Again alone, not dancing. During a rest in “I'll Get By”, I let my eyes wander. When my gaze swung her way, we made contact. It was like a shock to the system—those big dark eyes staring at me unwaveringly. Though disconcerted, I managed a smile. It wasn't returned.

A kick from Bill Dinsmore beside me made me jump. I had missed my cue. Leaping in, I blew a clinker, earning a glare from Sammy, our bandleader. Those big eyes had done more than make me forget my place, they had made me forget to
breathe. With a bit of concentration, and no further glances in her direction, I played through the rest of the piece without any mistakes. But it was a struggle—I could feel her staring at me, studying me.

Then suddenly she was out on the floor. Some lucky guy had coaxed her to dance. I watched, mesmerized, as she surrendered herself to the music, skirt fanning out, revealing long shapely dancer's legs even Betty Grable would have envied. Her lithe body swayed and twirled like nothing I'd ever seen. She had to be a professional, but what was she doing here, I wondered? I also wondered what it took to get more than a dance from her.

That was the only time I ever saw her dance. After that display, the guys lined up to ask her, but she shot them all down. And for the rest of the set, whenever I glanced her way, I found her eyes upon me.

I made up my mind to approach her at the break. I didn't dwell too long on the question of why I'd caught her eye when she could have any guy in the place at her feet. I didn't want to think about it. Not then. I ignored the fact that being in this business for over twenty years had taken its toll, and I didn't have much to attract a dish like that. I put it down to luck and convinced myself that some girls just had a thing for seasoned trumpet players.

When the set finished, and I bent to put my horn on its stand, Bill nudged me. “Who's the doll with the big eyes? I wish she'd give me the once over like that.”

I grinned. “Don't know, but I'm gonna find out.”

Pushing past, I stepped down from the stage, only to find she wasn't where my appreciative gaze had left her. I scanned that room from top to bottom, but she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Disappointed, I shrugged and turned back, following the
last of the boys out through a side door for a breath of fresh air and a smoke. She'd probably gone to the ladies room to freshen up. Provided one of the young guys that buzzed around her didn't get too lucky, there'd be time later to catch up with her.

But not that night. I watched until it was time to pack my horn away; she never returned. By the time our last set ended, I was disappointed and feeling deflated. Girls like that didn't come around often. When Bill asked if I wanted to join some of the boys for a drink and suggested we might get some female company, I hesitated at first.

“All right. Sure. Why not?”

I packed up and threw my jacket over my shoulder, but didn't escape quick enough.

“Pretty sloppy tonight, Finley.”

“Sorry, Sammy, I had something on my mind.”

“Well, you'd better get it off your mind quick. We're playing Dunn's in three days, and I don't want any screw ups.”

“Sure, Sammy.”

The next day five of us, our instruments and our luggage piled into Bill's old '43 DeSoto and headed west to Bala. The tiny resort town, a jewel set in the Muskoka Lakes, where every summer the rich came to play, boasted Dunn's Pavilion, one of the swankiest dance halls in the province. Playing Dunn's was always a highlight of the summer tour. When I stepped through those doors, my mind couldn't help but conjure up all the greats that had played there over the years—the Dorsey Brothers, Les Brown, Glenn Miller, Guy Lombardo, Count Basie.

Dunn's had a house band, of course—this summer it was Ozzie Williams' Band—but almost every week a big headliner would play a night or two. This week it was us. We weren't the Dorseys, but we could assure just a big enough draw to get the booking.

One of the reasons I had hooked up with Sammy's band was because of the touring we did every summer. We were always on the move, sometimes playing two or three halls in a week. Some of the fellas preferred getting a steady booking at a resort like Bala for the whole summer. They'd bring their wives and families north and rent a cottage, spending their days fishing or lazing in the sun. Me, I needed to move around. I tried settling down, even marriage once, but I wasn't good at it. I got itchy.

When we took to the Dunn's stage, I couldn't help but scan the crowd, searching for those red lips and luminous eyes. She wasn't there, of course. Bala was a long way from Dunsfield. I ignored the little pang of disappointment and breathed a sigh of relief that I could concentrate on my playing. It was all smooth sailing, and I really hit a groove. Until the final set.

I was blowing my way through “Swinging on a Star” when I got a funny feeling I was being watched. Now, of course, being on stage, someone was always watching me, but this was different. It sent a chill down my spine. I scanned the dancers crowding the floor and then the onlookers beyond. There she was, standing just inside one of the doorways leading to the wrap-around veranda, with those beautiful eyes fastened on me. I shot Sammy a glance to see if he had noticed the little squeak my trumpet made at the sight of her. When I looked back, she was gone. I spent the rest of the evening searching for her. A couple of times I thought I caught glimpses, but it was so crowded, I couldn't be sure.

After a couple of days' rest, the tour moved on again. The Dardanella in Wasaga Beach was next on our list. It didn't have the same stature as Dunn's, but it was always fun. Surrounded by an amusement park and the longest freshwater beach in the world, it couldn't help but have a carnival atmosphere. This year, when I took my trumpet out of its case, I didn't feel quite so festive. You see, I was beginning to feel spooked.

Most guys would have thought me damn lucky to have a doll like that showing such interest. Part of me was, I guess; you know, flattered and wondering if I was going to get a chance with her. But the other part was spooked. It was disconcerting to see that girl popping up in dance halls across the province. Don't get me wrong, we have fans that will catch our show a couple of times during the summer at different halls, but this girl was trailing us. Or, I should say, me. I do play a pretty mean trumpet, but nothing that should persuade a dish like that to traipse around after me just to see me blow. And if she was interested in more than just the way I handled a horn, why the disappearing acts?

I waited all evening in Wasaga, never easing up enough to get into the swing of things. She never showed.

We played a few smaller beach towns along Lake Huron, but I didn't see her. By the time we reached Grand Bend, I had begun to relax and believe maybe it had all been in my imagination. I allowed myself the pleasure again of letting my eyes wander over the dancers in search of pretty girls and shapely legs, without fear of seeing those eyes upon me.

“Don't look now, lover boy, but your mystery girl's back.”

That feeling of unease returned as I followed Bill's gaze. There she was. As gorgeous as ever. She strolled in, turning
heads, and once she found a spot for herself, swung her attention immediately to the band. Her eyes sought me out, and when she saw me watching her, one brow arched gracefully, as if she were amused she had caught my attention. It was the first time I'd received any acknowledgement. It should have pleased me, but instead it made the hairs on the back of my neck quiver.

“Boy, she must have it bad for you. When you gonna land her?”

The look I gave Bill shut him up quickly, and he left me alone for the rest of the night. I finished out the set, of course, but my heart wasn't in it. All the fun had gone out of playing.

The last note had barely finished when I jumped off the stage, horn in hand, and struck out for her table. She started to get to her feet to make her escape. I was determined to catch her this time. I would have made it too if some guy hadn't stepped in my way.

“Hey, I saw you play with Trump Davidson and Bobby Gimby too, didn't I?”

“Yeah, I've been around.” I tried to brush past him, but he called in the recruits, and I was suddenly swarmed by his pals. Past them, I could see my quarry heading for the door.

“See, I told you I knew him.” He smiled broadly at his friends. “These are my friends, Mike and Al and Tony.”

“Nice to meet you guys, but I'm kinda in a hurry.”

“Sure, sure. By the way, what's your name?”

“Harry Finley. Look, I've really got to go.”

They finally released me, their enthusiasm cooled by my chilly manner. I knew I'd put them off, and Sammy wouldn't be pleased if he found I'd been less than friendly to some fans, but I didn't care. I needed to catch that girl.

I couldn't see her, but I ran as best I could through the
crowd and out into the night. She had vanished. I hunted amongst the cars that were beginning to pull away and peered down the lane at couples strolling back to their cottages and motels, but without success.

“Lookin' for something?” came a husky, feminine voice behind me.

I swung about frantically.

The girl sauntered into the light cast by the parking lamp. She was long-legged, curvaceous and inviting; the type any sane man would be grateful to find.