The Homicide Hustle (21 page)

Chapter 29

Saturday night. Showtime.

The celebs and pros and crew were all gathered in Club Nitro, which was closed to
the public for the night. It looked like chaos to me, but the crew seemed used to
it. Technicians tested lights and sound systems. The band, wedged into a small space
beside the bar, played phrases from the night’s songs, trumpets and saxes clashing
with each other. A vocalist warmed up with “mi-mi-mis.” Invited guests filed in, their
IDs checked at the door by members of Nigel’s staff, and crowded into the booths and
makeshift seating that ringed the dance floor. Kim Savage, Tav, and Danielle were
seated side by side, with Mickey Hazzard’s ex-wife to Danielle’s right. Why in the
world was she here? I recognized her from the news stories; she was much prettier
in person, although a bit older looking. Mickey almost tripped when he caught sight
of her, so he hadn’t known she was coming. I suspected Nigel had something planned
and had arranged for ex-Mrs. Mickey to be here.

Since arriving at Club Nitro, I’d been shuttled from wardrobe to makeup to preshow
rehearsal, and hadn’t had two seconds alone to think about my new idea. What if Esteban
was naming someone he’d seen at the accident site—Dakota—only he was using a character’s
name, and not the actor’s name? Kristen had denied ever playing a character named
Dakota, and hadn’t even asked why I wanted to know. I gazed around the room, wishing
I’d spent more time watching TV and movies so I might know if Kim Savage, who used
to act, had ever been a Dakota, or if Calista or Zane had, or even Phoebe who stood
beside me, fidgeting with the fringe of her brown jumpsuit.

“I almost hope me and Nikolai get kicked off,” she whispered, “so I won’t have to
dance in this lame outfit tonight.”

The stage manager hushed her as the band started playing the theme music and the audience
applauded on cue. Kristen glided into the center of the dance floor, stunning in a
periwinkle lace gown slit almost to her crotch, and read from the teleprompter. She
was very smooth and connected well with the audience; I didn’t know why Nigel and
Tessa wanted to replace her. She introduced the b-listers and their partners and Zane
and I smiled and struck a pose on cue. “After the break, we’ll reveal which couple
will be going home tonight, never to dance again on
Dancing with the B-Listers
,” she said in thrilling accents.

We were hustled to our spots during the commercial, the places we stood to hear our
fate announced. Zane was jittery beside me, doing shoulder rolls, tapping his foot,
and looking around. “Why so nervous?” I asked in a low voice.

“The viewers, the voters, have to think I care,” he whispered. His gaze landed on
his mother, who nodded at him and glared at me. Beside her, Danielle gave me two thumbs
up and Tav smiled. I wanted to stay in the competition, wanted to win the prize money,
but my world wouldn’t come crashing down if we got eliminated tonight.

The band played a bridge, the lights came down, and Kristen went into the long, teasing
drill of “Will this couple dance for us tonight?” or “Will they be packing their bags?”
The first “retained” couple she announced was Vitaly and Calista. Calista smiled smugly,
but Vitaly went wild with joy, pumping his fist and lifting Calista off her feet.
The audience cheered. I clapped as hard as I could, beaming at Vitaly.

Next, Kristen announced that Mickey and Solange were “in danger” and then told Nanette
Fleaston, the pet psychic, and Marco Ingelido that they would dance again tonight.
Nanette said, “I knew it. Jezebel shook herself after her bath today and I thought
how much it looked like she was doing the salsa, and I knew right then that Marco
and I would be performing our salsa for all of America tonight.” She kissed both hands
and flung them out to the audience. I concentrated on not rolling my eyes.

The spotlight landed on Zane and me and I fixed a smile on my face, determined not
to look worried or show disappointment if the audience had voted us off. An overhead
screen showed snippets of our performance last week and a few of the judges’ comments,
and then Kristen announced, “Zane Savage and Stacy are . . .” She drew it out. “Still
in danger!”

Zane let his shoulders slump as if devastated at the thought of going home, and I
gave his hand an encouraging conspiratorial squeeze as we moved to stand next to Mickey
and Solange. Kristen quickly announced that Phoebe and the reality show runner-up
guy and their partners would dance for everyone tonight. As Kristen wound up for the
big reveal, I caught sight of Nigel behind one of the cameras, and wondered at the
intense look on his face. Since he must already know which of us was hanging up our
dance shoes, I didn’t know why he looked so interested.

Thinking about Nigel, I missed part of Kristen’s lead-in, but tuned back in in time
to hear her announce, “. . . will dance for us tonight!” Damn, I hadn’t heard her
say who.

When Zane picked me up and whirled me around, I realized she’d said our names. Zane
set me down, grinning broadly, and I saw Solange sag with disappointment as Mickey
Hazzard dropped to his knees. For a moment I thought he had collapsed, but then I
realized he was praying. Against the backdrop of the clapping audience, Angela Hazzard
suddenly stood up and lunged across the dance floor, sinking gracefully to kneel beside
Mickey. Her demure dress of cream silk puddled around her.

“My husband has suffered enough,” she declared in dramatic accents. “He has been punished
and he has repented. Mickey,” she said, cupping his bewildered face in her hands,
“I want to reconcile with you. We can be married again, live out our lives together.”
She threw her arms around him. Mechanically, he put his arms around her, his jaw dropping
slightly. His eyes scanned the audience. It crossed my mind that Mickey was not over
the moon about his ex-wife wanting to get back together. Perhaps he’d already moved
on to a young girlfriend or two who would not be pleased with tonight’s developments.
I wondered cynically what Nigel had paid Angela to stage this affecting scene.

Mickey finally got into the spirit of it, kissing Angela’s lips, and saying, “My prayers
have been answered.”

“What?” A young brunette, no more than eighteen, stood up in the back row. “You said
you loved
me
, Mickey, that we were meant to be together for all eternity.” All eyes were riveted
on the slender girl in a peach, one-shoulder dress she’d probably worn to her prom
last month as she wiggled through the crowd to the dance floor. Nigel looked delighted
at this turn of events; he was practically dancing a jig.

“Ivy, honey,” Mickey started, struggling to stand.

Angela, eyes turning to slits, said, “I should’ve known.” Still on her knees, she
thrust her shoulder against Mickey’s legs as he was rising, and sent him sprawling.

“Don’t you hurt my Mickey,” Ivy shouted, balling her hands into fists.

“Fight, fight, fight,” the crowd started to chant.

Kristen looked to Nigel for guidance and sputtered, “We’ll be right back after a word
from—” The show went to commercial and crew members hustled Mickey, Angela, and Ivy
offstage before blood could be drawn. Nigel, rubbing his hands together with glee,
approached Kristen and whispered in her ear for twenty seconds. The band played a
lively tune to distract the crowd and drown out the sounds of Mickey and his harem
arguing behind the panel that separated backstage from the dance floor.

“How much of that do you think was scripted?” Zane asked as we followed the remaining
pairs to the room set aside for us to wait in.

“Freakin’ all of it,” Phoebe said from two paces in front of us. “That Nigel.” She
shook her head and I couldn’t tell if she was admiring or deploring him.

“I don’t think he knew about Ivy,” I said. “I was watching him and he seemed surprised.”

“She must have looked like so much ratings manna from heaven,” Zane said.

“I’m not sure how much heaven has to do with any of it,” I said dryly.

Entering the room, we found the other couples already seated and drinking water or
energy drinks. The room was intended as a private party room for the nightclub, and
boasted comfy seating for ten, a low table, and mirror-tiled walls that were giving
me a headache with the way they reflected everyone to make the room seem like it held
dozens more people than it did. Nanette Fleaston was bent over, patting the small
pig. Jezebel snorted contented little snorts and then nudged Nanette’s leg when the
psychic stopped stroking her and straightened.

“She’s cute,” I said. Hoover would probably see her as a tasty hors d’oeuvre, but
she
was
cute. Apparently sensing my appreciation, Jezebel trotted to me and wrinkled her
nose. I patted her head gingerly, surprised by how rough her coat was.

Nanette clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, she likes you. Jezebel is very discerning.
She wouldn’t go near Solange, for instance.”

At the mention of the name, we all looked around the room, as if expecting to see
the kicked-off pair of Mickey and Solange. I was sorry Solange wasn’t there to hear
that Jezebel preferred me to her. On second thought, maybe it was just as well since
my rating higher on a pig’s preference list probably would only make Solange say something
about pigs liking muck or swill.

“Nanette, Marco, on deck.” A crew member poked her head in to summon the pair.

“Stacy, make sure Jezebel doesn’t follow me, okay?” Nanette said as she flitted out
the door. The pig made a move to follow her mistress, but I grabbed her by the collar.
She let out a squeal that made Vitaly jump, but then settled down by my feet.

“You should adopt a pig next, Vitaly,” I told him. “She’d be good company for Lulu.”

Vitaly eyed the pig and curled his lip. “Lulu is not liking pig.”

I thought Vitaly was not liking pig, but I didn’t say anything, only exchanged an
amused glance with Phoebe. With everyone gathered together, it seemed like a good
time to test my “Dakota” theory. I wished I had access to my cell phone and could
look it up, but the stage manager confiscated everyone’s phones before the show went
live to ensure someone’s ringtone didn’t interrupt the broadcast.

“Hey,” I said casually, “did any of you ever play a character named Dakota?”

“What a funny question,” Calista said. “I played a Cheyenne once, does that count?”
She didn’t look up from the Tweet she was composing.

“Don’t think so,” Zane said, clearly not interested.

“Uh-uh. I knew a Dakota in high school,” Phoebe said.

The television in the corner played the opening bars of Nanette and Marco’s music,
and someone hissed, “Ssh.” We watched as they danced a clean performance. Nanette
had very precise footwork, but Marco had apparently overemphasized the fun, “party”
feel of the salsa because she kept throwing her head back and smiling like she’d had
three too many appletinis. The judges scored them a point higher than last week. Marco
and Nanette bounced back into the room, sweaty and smiling. Jezebel ran to greet Nanette.

“They looked good,” Zane murmured.

“We look better.”

A stagehand appeared at the door and beckoned to us. Zane pulled me to my feet. “Did
I mention I like that outfit?” he said, peering down my cleavage. I bumped his hip
with mine, and said, “Keep your mind on the hustle.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

“Good luck,” the others called. Vitaly and Phoebe might actually mean it.

The show was still in commercial as Zane and I positioned ourselves on the dance floor.
Ariel blotted the sheen off Zane’s forehead and whisked a little more sparkly powder
across my collarbone. “You guys look great,” she said. “Show ’em how it’s done.”

We did our best. I counted “
And
one, two, three,” under my breath as the music started. With the band doing an enthusiastic
version of “Funkytown,” we hustled our hearts out. We had incorporated some popular
disco moves from the 1970s, along with some harder elements, and I was thrilled when
Zane managed to swing me around the world in a layback position without stumbling.
Bracing my hands on his hips, I arced back, feeling the strength in his arms where
they were locked across my back. My feet left the ground as we spun.

“Great,” I murmured. The mirror ball spun shards of colored light across the floor
and the harsh TV lights kept me from seeing anything beyond the dance floor. The music
rose to a climax.

Zane smiled fiercely and readied himself for the lift. We finished with me sinking
into the splits at his feet. The crowd gave us a standing ovation and the judges,
famous for their poker faces, even smiled. Zane gave me a hand up and we glided over
to where Kristen waited for us. Tav and Danielle applauded wildly while Kim Savage
looked strangely disgruntled. The judges liked our energy and athleticism and thought
Zane got into the character of the hustle. They scored us a full three points higher
than last week and we practically bounced into the wings. Zane pumped his fist jubilantly
for the camera that preceded us down the narrow, makeshift passageway.

“I am going out to celebrate tonight,” Zane said. “Champagne for everyone. You’ll
drive me home, right? Oh, I forgot. Maybe Danielle will be my designated driver.”
He grinned and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.

Designated driver
 . . . The words opened up new possibilities in my mind, but before I could think
through the scenario that presented itself, a hand on my upper arm wrenched me around.
“Keep your mind on dancing and your hands off my son.” Kim Savage, dressed in a black
and white outfit she might have stolen from Cruella DeVil’s closet, stood glaring
at me. The camera guy moved in closer and I realized that this is what Nigel had meant
when he said Kim would do it. Kim would cause a scene. Kim would act up.

“Fine,” I said lightly. “You got it.” I wasn’t going to follow Nigel’s script and
get into it with Kim.