Under the Lights

by Tia Louise

  Lara’s eyes move to each of us as we’re introduced, briefly widening when I’m introduced by my title. She never meets my gaze. Does my profession bother you, beautiful? They pause on a fuming Aleister, waiting for further explanation, which isn’t forthcoming.

  I know the baron despises him. They’re still wrangling about a past business deal gone sour, but I’ve never dug deeper into that. I monitor these men once a year when I make the trip from the Yukon Territory to Juneau for my annual police association’s conference. Aleister is returning from making purchases for his retail store, and Esterhaus is inspecting his holdings along the Alaskan coastline.

  It’s always the same… until now.

  “How do you do,” she says with a slight nod. “I’m Lia and this is my… sister. Molly.”

  It’s a lie.

  Perhaps that’s too harsh.

  Perhaps “Lia” has a sister named Molly.

  Lara does not.

  The younger girl’s eyes stay on her plate, and her fingers return to her necklace.

  “That’s an interesting chain,” the baron says to her. “It’s early Romanov. Are you traveling from Russia?”

  “How did you know that?” Lara’s eyes fly to his, and she seems almost frightened. Interesting.

  “I collect antiquities,” Esterhaus explains. “It’s one of my hobbies. Almost all of the Romanov collection was melted down following the revolution. Is it an imitation?”

  “I don’t know,” Molly says without looking up. “It was a gift.”

  “I’d love to examine it further if possible. You might stop by my stateroom—”

  Just then the doors open and another traveler joins us. He captures all of our attention, an African-American gentleman dressed in a dark plum coat with thin grey pinstripes. He doesn’t speak to anyone, and goes to a table in the farthest corner of the room, turning his back on us.

  I know Esterhaus well enough to know he won’t let this behavior pass. He presides over the dining car like a lord in his castle, but before he can launch his investigation, Ustinov returns with several additional waiters carrying our dinner.

  The young porter directs them on who gets which items before going to the new guest. They speak quietly, and he exits behind the bar, I assume to get another serving.

  For a little while we don’t speak. The Duck l’Orange is deliciously rich with a touch of sweetness. The dark-brown meat melts like butter in my mouth, and the corn and avocado provide the perfect accompaniment, crisp and fresh.

  The bartender uncorks a bottle of Chardonnay and serves the baron and myself. The diners having the roast duck are given a light pinot. I notice Molly doesn’t eat her meat, sticking instead to the risotto and mushroom side. She also isn’t served wine.

  Aleister is subdued, but I see him glancing at Lara. The women don’t speak during the meal. Lara takes several bites of everything on her plate, but she finishes none of it. She does, however, have a second glass of wine.

  Our new guest in the back places a tablet on the table and appears to read while having his own serving of the roast duck and red wine.

  When Ustinov and his crew return to collect our plates, the baron stands and joins me at the bar, taking out a fat cigar and clipping the end. He holds the leather pouch toward me, but I wave him away.

  “Every year I offer, and every year you decline,” he chuckles.

  “Never developed a taste for them.” I lean back as the bartender pours the old man a scotch.

  “You prefer a pipe,” Esterhaus says, and I shake my head.

  “No tobacco for me. Not worth the risk.”

  “Life is all about risk,” the baron says.

  “Life is about avoiding risk,” Aleister argues. “Detecting it early and doing everything you can to get out of its way.”

  Ustinov returns for dessert orders. The other men and I decline. Lara holds up a hand in a no gesture, but indicates she’d like another glass of wine. Molly is the only one who does a little nod.

  “I’d like the tiramisu,” she says.

  “An excellent choice!” Ustinov exclaims, pleased someone is taking his offer. “The lady fingers are imported from Vienna, the espresso is made fresh, and the mascarpone is light as air.”

  He oversells every item on the menu, but I don’t comment. Aleister rises from his seat and gestures to Lara. “Would you join us at the bar?”

  She shakes her head, causing her silky brown hair to shimmer in the light. It smells like springtime if I remember correctly, or perhaps Lia prefers another scent. “The smoke gets in my eyes.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the baron moves his cigar further toward the end of the bar away from her table.

  The bartender flips a switch hidden under the counter and a quiet whirring joins the background noise. “That should help,” he says.

  I see Robert preparing to address our strange companion, when the man rises and takes his tablet. He places a few dollars on the table and abruptly leaves the dining car, rendering us all momentarily silent in his wake.

  I’ve decided it’s time for coffee when Lara speaks. “You’re from New Orleans, Baron?”

  Her pointed question surprises me. Perhaps she does know him after all… But how?

  Esterhaus straightens, seeming uncomfortable. “Why no. Calgary.”

  “But you spent time there,” she insists.

  “Many years ago.” He clears his throat. “Many, many years ago. How do you know about that?”

  “I’m from New Orleans,” she says. “I thought I recognized your face. It just came to me.”

  The older man shifts on his stool, and I’m intrigued by this turn of events. I’ve never seen Esterhaus put on guard.

  My skin prickles. Perhaps this is the trip I’ve been waiting for. I only need her.

  I’ve always needed her.

  He squints over his small glasses at Lara. “How would you recognize my face? Have we met?”

  “When I was in the city, I worked at a theater. It operated a private club, which I believe you had an interest in.”

  The older man’s expression goes from startled to stony in the flicker of an eyelash, and I shift forward in my seat. What she’s saying is true, and I’ve often wondered how he doesn’t recognize me from that… interest. I suppose he was drunk or stoned each time he visited the city. I wonder if tonight will be the night I place this gentleman under arrest…

  “I was briefly involved in a nightclub establishment,” he grumbles crossly. “I divested myself after a very short time.”

  “Is that so?” Lara’s voice drips with innocence. “I can’t understand why. It was such a vibrant and active place when I lived there.”

  “I was too far away to have an active hand in the business decisions. I didn’t have a voice in what went on. I wasn’t aware—”

  His tone makes me think of a large snow crab backing up from a predator, front claws snapping. Lara is on her feet, sweeping toward him at once.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft and endearing. “You must think I’m terribly rude to pry into your affairs. I simply love my hometown so much. So many years have passed since I was there. I enjoy finding others who can remember it with me.”

  Robert shifts on his leather stool, and I notice Molly has silently joined them. She stands at his arm, and holds out the chunky gold chain.

  “You wanted to look at my necklace?” Her innocent tone seems to relax him further. “I’ve had it so long. It might be fun to learn about its history. Can you tell me?”

  The cigar returns to his mouth, and Lara drifts away. I’m sure she would say it’s to avoid the smoke, but my eyes follow her. My chest is tight, and a pain moves into my temple as Aleister acts quickly to provide her with company. I signal the bartender for another scotch and lean on my forearms, fixing my eyes on the glossy wood in front of me.

  “A New Orleans lady…” I hear him say. I imagine his lips curling beneath his oily mustache to reveal his tobacco-stained teeth. “I det
ected your French heritage the moment I saw you. The Acadian connection.”

  “I’m not Acadian,” she says.

  Aleister lights a cigarette, and my mind snaps back, across the miles, to a closet-sized room hidden down a dark passage in the back of an enormous theater.

  Whispers in the shadows.

  Cigarette smoke in velvet curtains.

  Rooms covered in black wallpaper embossed with ornate velvet wreaths…

  Five years ago…

  I’m barely twenty-one. I’m not a policeman. I’m an errand boy, and tonight I’m running back to the theater from the drugstore on Rampart Street, a small white bag clutched in my fist. I say running, but I’m actually speeding in a borrowed Fiat, block after rain-soaked block.

  A strawberry blonde named Tanya is the falling star of this burlesque show. On the posters she is Jezebel, Queen of the Angels, but behind the scenes, she spends her life strung out on fentanyl-laced heroin.

  “Move…” Gavin’s voice is stern. He stands over her with his hands on his hips. “Get up, I said!”

  He’s shouting, but Tanya only rolls onto her side.

  I stand in the doorway behind Roland, who is also twenty-one. His hands are on his hips, and as I struggle to catch my breath, I look through the space between his arm and his lean torso.

  “She’s not coming out of it tonight,” he says, taking a long draw from his ever-present cigarette. “She’s done.”

  Gavin lets out a growl. As owner of the theater, he’s responsible for ensuring the show goes on. He shoves meaty hands into his ginger hair and looks around the room.

  Washed-out blue eyes land on me. “There you are! Where the fuck have you been? Give it to me!”

  I rush forward and hand him the bag. It’s Narcan, which he’ll use to try and bring her around quickly. It’s possible she could still perform tonight. I stand back, looking at her pale, clammy skin.

  Her skeletal body is covered with a sheen of perspiration, and the hair on her head sticks to her face in stringy waves. She reminds me of a sick baby I saw in the street. Her pink lips are parted, and she makes gurgling sounds. Rosa, the costume mistress, holds her chin and slaps her, and she only does a little laugh.

  It makes my stomach sick.

  Roland, the pianist and conductor, makes a disgusted noise. “See if Larissa can perform.”

  “I’m not moving her to the lead yet,” Gavin argues. “She’s too young.”

  They continue to argue, but I back out of the stale, smoke-filled room and make my way down the narrow hall to another little closet. It’s only big enough for a narrow cot, a changing screen, and a lighted makeup mirror. Still, she’s lucky to have her own room.

  “Can I come in?” My voice is soft. It’s deep, but it doesn’t have Gavin’s edge yet. That won’t come for another few years. I knock lightly.

  The door falls open, and my body goes rigid. All the blood leaves my head, going straight to my cock, and I’m breathing faster.

  Larisa stands in front of the mirror. Her long brown hair is pinned up on one side with a sparkling barrette, and a few pieces fall in waves around her face. With her olive complexion and bright blue eyes, she’s dramatically beautiful. The Dark Angel.

  A red robe hangs from her shoulders, and her waist is bound in a deep-red velvet corset. Skinny black straps hold up her thigh-high black fishnet stockings. Her legs are long and slender, and in her tall heels she is even taller, even more willowy.

  Her beautiful breasts are bare, and even though I’ve seen her in this costume before, I get a hard-on every single fucking time.

  I’m in love with her.

  She’s the rising star, and while she appears older than nineteen, she’s not. She’s innocent and sweet… and I should keep my hands off her.

  I never do what I should.

  “What’s happening?” Her voice is soft, and smooth as silk.

  She pulls the sides of the robe around her, and I tear my eyes off her body to meet her gaze.

  “Tanya’s not waking up.” I step forward into her dressing room-slash-bedroom. “Rosa is trying, but Roland thinks it’s your night to take the lead.”

  “Fuck!” she hisses, and my cock jumps. I love when she swears. It makes her polished beauty edgy and raw.

  “What’s wrong?” I want to touch her, wrap my arms around her, and feel her warmth against my body.

  Long lashes frame her cat-eyes. They blink rapidly, fanning my desire. Her lips are pale pink. She hasn’t applied her lipstick, and it’s how I like her. It’s how I want to kiss her, bruise her pillow lips with my mouth.

  “I don’t know the choreography…”

  “But you know all the songs.”

  She crosses the room to me and puts a hand on my chest. It’s electric, and I wonder if she can feel my heart beating. We’ve been together a few times, and it’s like a little piece of heaven, never enough.

  “There’s more to it than that. I can’t just stand there singing.”

  Covering her slim hand, I close my fingers over her cool skin. “It’s your big chance. Don’t be afraid.” I give her a warm smile, softening my tone and urging her. “Walk through the door and own it.”

  Her dark eyes rise to mine, and she looks at me with so much emotion. My chest swells at the sight. She looks at me as if she wants me to kiss her. My eyes go to her lips. They’re full and slightly parted, dewy and soft. My own lips feel heavy with need. I’m leaning forward, a little closer…

  Her door bursts open as if on cue, and we both jump apart. Roland stands in the empty space, and his dark eyes move back and forth over us rapidly. I can’t help thinking he sees what I want.

  “Tanya’s awake,” he says. “You’re off the hook. Get dressed for your regular number. Come with me, boy.”

  I bristle at his words. I’m not a boy, and I don’t like his proprietary attitude when it comes to Lara. Still, I’m the low man in this chain of command, and I have to do as I’m told for now.

  I give her a tight smile. “Don’t worry. Your time is coming.”

  I turn to follow Roland out, down the dark, narrow backstage corridors to whatever errand he has for me.

  We run into Gavin in the hallway. “Where are you going?”

  “Roland said—”

  “I need you to go to Tanya’s room and be sure she gets dressed and on that stage. If you see her even look at a drug, you’d better carry her out of there.” He leans closer, furious eyes cutting into mine. “And don’t come back.”

  “Yes, sir.” I nod and change directions, heading to Tanya’s dressing room.

  I don’t want to watch Tanya dress. Her body makes me ill. I can count her ribs through the skin stretched taut across her back. Her chest is flat as a boy’s, and her hair is tissue thin and frizzled. Everything about her is like a toy doll left in the rain and snow, abandoned and forgotten.

  “Out of the way, boy!” Rosa pushes past me. She’s thick and bossy, and she has costumes over her arm.

  I step back and hold the door, looking at my fingernails as the two of them wrap and fasten and tie and apply wigs and headdresses and fans. By the time the stocky woman is finished, Tanya is Jezebel. Up close she’s clearly a malnourished drug addict, but from afar, she’s pink cheeks and soft breasts pushed up into little peaks. She’s a queen.

  They pass me in a cloud of starchy powder and antique perfume, and I walk slowly after them, following the narrow hallway toward Lara’s room. I’m sure she’s gone as well, out to the wings to wait for her moment to descend to the stage as the dark angel. I need to head up as well.

  These halls are deserted when they’re performing. The skeleton crew is moving scenery and operating lights and equipment, and everyone else is standing in the darkness watching for anything that might go wrong. I’m surprised to see Gavin at her door. He’s speaking softly, urgently, and she’s blinking rapidly. I step to the side and creep closer hoping to overhear their conversation.

  “I won’t let that happen.” Her v
oice is panicky. “I’ll take her place.”

  The fear in Lara’s voice shoots fire through my veins. Why is she afraid?

  Gavin’s voice is low. “I’ll pass that along.”

  My fists clench, and I’m prepared to charge forward and slam one into his choleric nose. It’s several days before I discover the bargain she made, before I chase after her down those dark halls…

  That night I find her on her knees in one of the hidden rooms below the theater. The walls are papered in red velvet, and a row of doors lines the passage. It’s like something out of a David Lynch film, surreal and unsettling.

  I stop at the corner, carefully picking my way closer, looking for anyone who might be lurking in the shadows.

  A knot of possessive anger is in my throat. I know what goes on down here. I’m ashamed that I’ve played a part in covering it up and allowing it to happen. That time I made a vow, I’ll never Lara be hurt here.

  I wait a bit longer to see if someone is planning to join us right away. After minutes that feel like hours, I head around the corner and down the second red velvet hallway.

  A diamond-studded crown embellishes the door, and a small black plaque reads Private. I reach forward and turn the handle, allowing it to fall open, allowing the narrow shaft of bright light from the hallway to illuminate the interior.

  My voice catches, and my semi is back when I see her.

  Lara kneels on the floor, her legs bent under her. Her palms are flat on her thighs, and her chin is down. A black satin mask is over her eyes, and she’s breathing so fast, her full breasts rise and fall above the top of her corset.

  “Lara?” I say softly, taking a step toward her.

  She jumps and stretches her back toward me, but her movements are wrong. She seems fuzzy, drugged out somehow, and her neck is red like someone tried to strangle her.

  I go to her and lift the mask off her eyes. “What are you doing? Why are you kneeling here?”

  Her eyes widen and she reaches for me. “You’re here!”

  “What are you doing?” My hands are on her upper arms, and I attempt to lift her to her feet.