by M. L. Huie
They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. But Livy felt what the woman had said. The way Kostin looked at her, the way his arm touched hers now. This was more than just a dead drop. The Russian wanted to see her. She knew when a man was interested in her, of course. Every woman could tell that. After the war, when they’d met in London, Livy never imagined she’d see him more than a few times. She’d been right. Kostin moved on to someone else. He wasn’t the type to make lasting connections, and for Livy, at that particular moment in her life, that alone was a big part of his attraction. But the sense she got from him today—the same sense the mother beside her had felt—felt very different.
The streetcar’s bell rang and the last passengers took their places in the aisle. Every seat, every inch of space teemed with people headed to Georgetown.
Kostin took off his hat and looked down. He spoke quietly.
“You have something?”
“I do.”
“With you?”
Livy nodded.
He fanned himself with the fedora, speaking quietly. “Not here. Tonight. I need to see you, Livy.”
She heard it in his voice now. A longing. His leg touched her thigh. She felt his desire for her even in the heat of the packed streetcar. She’d felt it in the hotel room two nights ago, but in a different way. Kostin needed to be in control then. Today he seemed almost vulnerable.
He put his hat on and looked at her, smiled, nodded. “Excuse me,” he said. He reached across her toward a window at her shoulder. His fingers grazed her cheek briefly. She could smell his scent, a strong dark cologne that replaced the reek of the packed car.
Kostin opened the window, withdrawing his hand. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
Livy looked down. The folded city section of the newspaper now lay in her lap. She put her hand over it and said, “It’s bloody hot in here.”
Kostin nodded and turned away.
The streetcar began to slow. Passengers shifted toward the doors. Kostin stood to join them. The microphone squawked on. “Georgetown, Dumbarton Avenue.” The Russian did not look back at her as he exited the car.
Livy waited. The streetcar’s bell dinged again. Her stop was next. She unfolded the city section Kostin left with her and scanned the front. A message in black ink had been written in the bottom right corner. It said, Gayety Theatre, Ninth Street. Nine o’clock. Do not walk alone.
Chapter Eighteen
“You sure that’s where you wanna go, miss?”
The cab driver swung the big car around another turn. Livy looked at her watch. Almost nine. She wondered how far away it was. Would she be late?
The driver looked to be in his late fifties with steel-gray hair kept in a military buzz cut. He wore a gray button-up shirt. Through the rearview mirror, Livy could see the cab company’s logo on his chest.
“I mean it’s none of my business, but if you was my daughter, I wouldn’t take you to this particular street at this particular time of day.”
“It’s really all right. I’m meeting a friend.”
The cab turned right on Ninth Street. Around the corner stood Ford’s Theatre, where she’d waited for the contact only the day before. But a few blocks east from the historic location, it was a very different atmosphere.
The cab turned onto a block that felt like a world unto itself. Bright flickering lights gave the darkness deep blue and red hues. Men stood on street corners, fistfuls of tickets in their hands, calling out to passers-by. An electric sign on the right flashed “Peep Show.” The cab slowed as it approached a crowd of mostly men standing in line in front of what looked like a box office. What kind of theatre exactly was this, she wondered?
The driver found a spot across the street, and Livy looked at the marquee above the line of men. The words “Gayety Theatre—Burlesque” flashed over a smaller sign, which promised “Stella Mills. The One and Only. Onstage Tonight.”
Livy had been to her fair share of shady spots over the years. The Pigalle in Paris had a similar ambience, but this part of Ninth Street had the feeling of steep decline. Storefronts offering “Adult Pictures” had broken windows. A man staggered out into the street from the front doors of the Port Arthur Chinese Restaurant next door to the Gayety Burlesque. A passing car blasted its horn in anger at the drunk. The man tried kicking the car but missed and fell down in the street. No one came to help him.
The cabbie turned around. “Listen, I can wait until you see your friend, if you want.”
Livy put a hand on his arm and smiled. “I can see after myself.” She paid him the thirty-cent fare and an extra couple of dimes.
Stepping outside the car, she smoothed her black pencil skirt down. It felt a bit too tight, but then it needed to be tonight. Her button-up blouse and short jacket felt equally snug. She couldn’t wait to be back in her room, out of these clothes, and in a hot bath. She’d purposefully dressed for Kostin. Using her body, she hoped, to strengthen their connection and deepen his trust. Still, Livy couldn’t but wonder what exactly she might be getting herself into. The words of the mother on the bus rang in her ears.
Livy crossed the street to the theatre. The drunken man had pulled himself up and kept calling after her. “Hey! Hey, honey. I said hey! I’m talking to you!” Livy ignored him, and hoped he wouldn’t walk up to her. If he touched her, she’d break his windpipe. This wasn’t the right time for that. There was work to be done now.
More than a few of the men in line turned as she stepped up on the sidewalk. A few leered, running their eyes over her exposed calves and tight skirt. A few others looked embarrassed, trying to see if they recognized her or, more importantly perhaps, if she recognized them.
Livy’s watch put the time at five after nine. Had Kostin left? She looked south on the street, which appeared seamier still. The lights dimmer. Shadows moved in and out of doorways. She didn’t see the Russian. She decided to run the gauntlet of men standing in line at the Gayety. Perhaps Kostin had gone inside. She walked quickly, trying to ignore the comments as she passed. Some more vulgar than she could have imagined. And she could imagine a helluva lot. Still, Livy couldn’t afford to stop and put one of the pathetic in his place as a lesson to the rest.
As she reached the other side, near a bar called the Gayety Buffet, she heard footsteps behind her. Instinctively, her right fist stiffened. She pivoted, her hand ready to strike.
“Come with me.” Kostin took her by the arm and led her into the next-door bar. He didn’t speak as they pushed past tables of loud drunken men and the women for which they bought drinks. The thick cloud of smoke in the bar penetrated the back of her throat. Kostin turned past the counter, nodding at the bartender, and opened a wooden door.
They stepped into the lobby of the Gayety Burlesque Theatre. Kostin led her up a flight of stairs to the balcony. The interior of the Gayety matched the disrepair of its exterior. It looked like it had been years since the place had a coat of paint. The thick red carpet, which at one time must have seemed velvety and decadent, peeled up at the side of several steps, revealing dirty wooden floorboards underneath.
At the top of the stairs, Kostin led her down a circular hallway with several doors, all numbered. A few of the letters had cracked and hung at an angle. The Russian opened the door for number 14, ushering Livy into a private box that overlooked the stage below.
Despite its state of disrepair, Livy could tell the Gayety had once been quite the place to be. It reminded her of a few of the great theatres in London—that is, if Mae West had designed them. Everything, from the great proscenium that framed the stage to the sculpture around the three tiers of balconies, was overdone. Gaudy gold figures carved into the walls stood watch over the balcony seats. Onstage the thick red curtain with its golden frayed fringe sagged from the rafters. A drop, one Livy reckoned must have been painted in the twenties, depicted a blonde nymph wearing a sheer gown, lying provocatively in a lime-green field.
Livy understood now why Kostin had chosen to meet here. It w
as the sort of place no one wanted to be seen.
A tired quartet played a lazy waltz as the rest of the audience filed in. The men pushed and prodded one another, vying for the best seats closest to the stage. Livy reckoned the theatre might hold more than a thousand, but even counting the people out on the sidewalk tonight, they’d be lucky to have two hundred.
“You brought the documents?” Kostin asked as soon as they’d taken their seats on two bentwood chairs in the less than opulent box.
Livy opened her smaller dress handbag, pulled out the folded papers, and handed them over.
“In the 1920s, they say this theatre rivaled the great music halls in London and the Moulin Rouge in Paris,” he said. Kostin made no attempt to conceal the documents as he pored over them. “But now it’s lost its—what’s the word?—shine?”
“Luster.”
A wide grin split Kostin’s face. “I love how you say that word. Loostuh. I do not know that word, but I don’t care when you say it. They say presidents once came here. Now? No loostuh.”
“Maybe the boys just want to stay home with their families and not pay top dollar to see some bird in her knickers.”
Kostin laughed. He seemed more relaxed than he had the last two meetings, although the dark circles under his eyes told a different story.
Kostin held up the documents. “You can get more of this?”
“I can try. It depends, though.”
Below them the quartet ended their final number. Almost all the players remained in the same key for the last chord. A tall, thin man with a mustache, which curled unfashionably at the ends, took center stage. He wore a tuxedo that might have fit someone else but hung loose around the emcee’s skeletal frame.
“Good evening, good evening, and welcome to the world-famous Gayety Burlesque Theatre!” The line begged for applause. It received only a smattering. Most of the men filing into their seats didn’t even stop to listen.
“Tonight, the renowned beauty, Miss Stella Mills, concludes her run at the Gayety,” the emcee continued, “but first—”
“Bring ’er out now!” someone shouted.
“I paid to see her tits!” another called, which created a wave of laughter from the back of the house that rolled all the way to the front. The emcee didn’t flinch. He gave the impression of a man who’d heard it all before. Onstage, the emcee poked his head behind the curtain, gesturing wildly as the audience noise level grew.
“Why exactly did you bring me to this place?” Livy leaned forward to be heard over the din.
“I like it here,” Kostin smiled. “No pretension. You understand? Besides, this is the last place anyone from my embassy would ever be seen.” The Russian folded the documents and put them in his pocket. “I have to tell you, Livy, you made a bad mistake yesterday.”
Onstage, the emcee gestured behind the curtain. The quartet began an off-key vamp.
Livy feigned nonchalance. “Did I now?”
“At the hotel. You embarrassed the man sent to watch you.”
Livy’s mind flashed back to the Gray Man at the Mayflower. Not FBI, but a Russian. Now she remembered. She’d seen him with Kostin at the National Theatre the night of Oklahoma. His presence at the Mayflower must mean she was still in what Keller called “the testing phase.”
“Maybe he should’ve been less obvious. Isn’t that the whole point of surveillance?”
“Okay. You can see him. Know he is there. But you went far beyond that.”
“I thought we were supposed to trust each other, Yuri.”
The Russian turned on her sharply. “These days no one trusts anyone.”
The emcee walked downstage again to address the rowdy crowd. “Ladies and gents, please. I have just this very moment sent word back to Miss Stella Mills’s dressing room and have asked her to come out now and entertain you, our fine and loyal customers.”
The announcement brought a chorus of wolf whistles.
The quartet switched from vamping to a pulsing, grinding jazz number. The lights dimmed, and the whistlers renewed their call. The drop with the painting of the blond nymph slowly began to rise, revealing a woman standing center stage in a spotlight.
Despite the peeling paint and the general feeling of dissolution of the Gayety, Miss Stella Mills did not disappoint. She wore an outfit that seemed to be layer upon layer of large feathers encasing her body while still allowing her to move. Her hair was shockingly red, and the fullness of her pink lips stood out even to Livy in the upper balcony. She quieted the audience with her presence alone. Taking each step very deliberately, she sashayed downstage, scanning the audience like a tiger stalking prey. Then, with a flick of her hips so intentional it must’ve been felt on the back row, she turned and strutted away.
The boys went wild.
The Gayety may have fallen on hard times, but Miss Stella Mills had star quality to spare.
Of course, she took her clothes off. Livy expected nothing less. Each feather that came off had its moment. Even if it only partially revealed a shoulder, Miss Stella Mills gave it life. Each part of her costume that floated to the stage, each toss of her thick red hair, each step she took seemed like an act of defiance. She commanded the stage and battered the libidinous rabble into submission.
Livy admired the performance. At one point, Kostin leaned over and whispered in her ear. “She is from your Manchester,” he said. His lips lingered ever so slightly before pulling away. His touch felt at once arousing and, frankly, repulsive. Her palms felt wet at the same time her ear lobe tingled. Livy figured this place was supposed to make her lose herself and eventually give in to Kostin. She felt his desire for her. This whole dance they’d been doing since the night at the National Theatre had been building to this. Livy wondered how much she would have to lose herself in order to succumb to him.
But like Miss Stella Mills, whose finely tuned hips kept her audience in thrall, Livy also was a performer. She knew what Yuri Kostin needed her to be tonight. Just as she knew what she needed from him.
As the act ended onstage and the quarter-full house rose as one to celebrate the burlesque queen of Manchester, Livy knew she had to have Kostin’s trust to have any hope of learning what happened to Margot and who might be holding her now. Kostin kept himself in the shadows, more than most people she’d known in the secret world. But he had revealed a hint of himself on that streetcar—so clearly that even a bystander could see it. Livy knew she had to dive into this role in order to exploit Kostin’s vulnerability. She needed his trust above all else. She just hoped the journey didn’t take her so deep she couldn’t come back.
“I need a drink,” the Russian said. He stood and held out his hand to her.
She took it.
* * *
“Gin and tonic is a very English drink, yes?”
Livy lifted her second of the night and sipped. In a place like the Gayety Buffet, she expected the liquor to be watered down, but this tasted like top-shelf gin with a mere splash of tonic. Kostin must have pull with the bartender.
“Who knows?” Livy said. “We drink vodka in England. You drink gin. Americans drink German beer. Alcohol is the great peacemaker.”
Kostin smiled and drank, but the gin burned Livy’s throat. She wanted to find a loo and vomit. She wanted to drink all night. Only one of those options was open to her.
“We have given you a code name now,” Kostin said.
“Well, I bloody well hope it’s a cracker.” The moment called for her to lay on the English charm a bit thick.
“Chaika.”
“Sorry, don’t speak the language, comrade.”
“It means seagull.”
“Ah yes. Like the Chekhov play.”
Kostin shook his head. “Prerevolution. They wouldn’t dare name it after such a work. Besides I prefer The Cherry Orchard. So tragic.”
“Never seen that one. ’Course, he’s no Shakespeare, but then who is?”
“Shakespeare is always the same. Kings. Fairies. Love gone bad.
No, your greatest writer is Conan Doyle.”
Livy nearly did a spit take. “Greatest writer? Are you joking? Sherlock Holmes is nothing but an insufferable know-it-all. That whole business where he can tell what school you went to by the dirt on your shoe—what a load of rubbish. No, no, you pull out your copy of King Lear—or, even better, Hamlet—and you’ll find some real profundities there, Mister Kostin.”
The Russian took her hand. It surprised her.
“I’ve never known a woman like you, Lee-vye.”
She rolled her eyes. “Listen, luv, this is hardly the sort of place where you propose to a woman.”
“Stop. No, no, you misunderstand. Listen to me. Another drink? Yes?” He lifted two fingers to the bar.
How many other girls has he brought here? she wondered.
“This—what we are doing together now—could end very, very badly. I don’t want that to happen. That is why I had to warn you about the man that followed you. You must be careful. It is … complicated.”
“The whole bloody world’s complicated, Yuri. Been like that for years.”
The drinks appeared at the end of the bar, and Kostin brought them back to the table. He went on. “I thought that after the war it would be changed. Peacetime, yes? We could live the life we all dreamed of during the war. But there is no peace. It’s just more war. Maybe we are not killing each other in the snow. Yet. I don’t know.”
Livy recognized this moment. The confession. She could use this later. She tightened her grip on his hand.
“You’re tired, luv. We all are.”
“Sometimes I wonder if this is all we will ever really know. That the life most people live can never be ours because we are forever at war.” His shoulders sagged as he spoke, as if a literal weight pushed him down, drained his voice, and aged him.
“We’re both tired of it. Sometimes it feels like we fought the Nazis just so we could start fighting each other.”
Kostin nodded. “Do you ever think about something different? You know maybe … a husband? A child? A little Livy?”
