Shadow Dance

by Susan Andersen

  Well, then. He’d have to stop being such a miser, is all. But he’d bloody well not apologize for the thriftiness that was too ingrained in him to discard a perfectly good set of weights in one town, when he knew damn well he would be needing them in another.

  Packing Ace in one hand and his cases in the other, Tristan nearly tromped on Joe’s heels, lost in a fog of angry confusion. What the hell was this town doing to him? He had never felt a need to apologize for himself before he’d come here. He had always figured he was who he flaming well was, and if others didn’t like it, then that was their problem. It was much the same attitude that had prevented him from correcting his speech to sound more Americanized. As long as people could understand him well enough without straining themselves, he didn’t see the point in trying to sound like someone he wasn’t.

  But since his arrival in Reno, he could feel himself changing. He suddenly wanted things he had never wanted before—things he had never allowed himself to want. And he was suddenly discontented as well with other aspects of his life that had never upset him before. Worst of all, his career was no longer enough in itself to occupy his mind day and night. He didn’t like this new turn of events at all.

  Amanda met the two policemen at her front door. Between the time she had agreed to rent the apartment to Lieutenant MacLaughlin and his reappearance with his possessions, she had done some thinking, and she had decided to make the best of the situation. Rhonda was undoubtedly right when she’d said they would all be much safer with the very large MacLaughlin in residence—gun and all, Amanda admitted grudgingly. And maybe once she had gotten to know him a bit, he wouldn’t seem so remote and cold. After all, he had acted pretty human with the puppy, hadn’t he? And anyone with a smile like his couldn’t be totally robotic.

  Twenty minutes later, Amanda was convinced MacLaughlin’s smile had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. With sheer force of will, she prevented herself from slamming the door behind her when she left Maryanne’s—MacLaughlin’s—apartment. Her heart was thumping. She knew her color was high—she could feel the heat pulsating in her cheeks—and she felt as wrung out as if she had just completed a brand new routine.

  The man didn’t have one human emotion in his entire body. He was aloof, and uncommunicative, and cold, and hard, and unfriendly, and…and a giant pain in the butt! Amanda let herself into her own apartment, stalked over to the couch, and flopped down in a huff, picking up a pillow, which she clutched to her chest.

  She had really gone out of her way to be cordial—fat lot of good it had done her. “Huh!” Amanda huffed in disgust. When she had smiled at him, had he smiled back?

  He had not.

  She had pointed out features in his new apartment, and he had just looked at her with those cool, analytical eyes of his. He hadn’t indicated by so much as a word or a look whether or not he was pleased with them. He had ripped off his jacket and hung it neatly in the closet, then he’d looked at her as if daring her to say something about the ugly gun snugged up under his armpit. Damn the man. That look—God, she could see it still. He had all but put his hands on his head and spread his elbows wide to flaunt the deadly weapon in her face. She didn’t understand why he had suddenly seemed so determined to irritate her, but the temptation had been sugar-sweet for a brief moment to make use of the hassock to Maryanne’s leather chair, which had been positioned right behind MacLaughlin’s knees. Every old Three Stooges episode she had ever seen had flashed through her mind, and that old hassock had beckoned madly. She could almost swear she had heard a little voice whispering, “Do it, do it: push him over.”

  Somehow, she had managed to resist the impulse, mostly because she’d figured MacLaughlin was just cold-bloodedly mean enough to retaliate in a way she wouldn’t like. Charlie would skin her alive if she went and got herself shot.

  But she would sure like to know what made him so damn wonderful that he couldn’t even respond to a simple friendly overture. She’d tried. No one could say she hadn’t tried. But obviously, the big, dumb cop didn’t care to be neighborly, and that was his less-than-subtle way of telling her to keep her distance.

  Well, that was just dandy with her. It wasn’t as though she’d had any burning desire to be his good buddy in the first place.

  Except, dammit, for a brief space of time this afternoon, she had sort of hoped it would be different. Lord help her, but there was something about the way he smiled—like a window suddenly opening to shed light into what had been impenetrable darkness.

  Amanda tossed the pillow aside and stood up. Well, snap out of it, girl, she ordered herself. Obviously, you were dreaming, and that’s not like you. The much-vaunted smile is plainly a fluke, totally wasted on a guy with all the emotion of a computer.

  The man had discovered that it was not that difficult to glean information, since gossip ran just as rampant here as it had in Atlantic City. The dimly lighted downtown bar was a favored gathering place for dancers from most of the main lounges in the surrounding big hotels, and the only thing required of him was to spend a portion of each day there. He only had to slouch on a stool at the bar, curve his mouth up in an easy smile, stand a round of drinks occasionally, and keep his mouth shut and his ears open.

  When unforseen events forced him to vary his routine, and he was obliged to do some talking of his own, he simply passed along a little gossip heard from a source other than the one he was currently speaking to. He only resorted to Plan B when it was absolutely necessary to maintain an even keel, but sometimes the occasion just called for it. After all, it wouldn’t do for someone to notice that he never contributed, merely listened.

  For the most part, however, he lingered on the edges of small groups or gatherings. He had perfected the ability to appear a natural part of nearly any crowd he chose. It had only failed him once, when he had tried to blend into the fringes of a party made up of a group of longtime friends celebrating one of their number’s last days of freedom as an unmarried man. Nobody knew him, and a few had wondered out loud who he was and what he was doing hanging around, before he had quickly moved on.

  But this afternoon, most of the men who were gathered around the bar were just your usual mix of dancers from several different lounges. Many were casually acquainted with one another, but no one seemed to know anyone else real well. The man gazed at the television mounted on the wall behind the bar, pretending an interest in the early news. So far, nothing had been said that was remotely useful—mostly it was a lot of talk about women, and which ones would do what.

  Suddenly, his eyes focused in on the screen and he went on full alert. He had to concentrate to recapture his indolent slouch. He picked up his drink, and spread his elbows wide on the bar as he cradled the lowball glass in both hands, holding it before his face. Reaching for the battered pack of cigarettes on the bar, he fished one out. It was a rare occasion when he befouled the temple that was his body with noxious fumes. Mostly, he just carried them as a prop. They came in handy as an icebreaker to be offered to whomever he was sitting closest, or to ask for a light for himself as a means of opening a conversation. But at this moment he felt in need of the camouflage that a cloud of smoke would provide.

  It was him, up there on the screen. His adversary. The media liked to make a big production out of his coming to Reno, but the man sitting at the bar knew that in the final analysis, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Because he was invincible.

  “Say, isn’t that MacLaughlin?” asked a dancer two stools down. “Harry, turn that up for a minute, will ya?”

  The bartender turned up the volume, and the conversations in the bar petered out for the few moments the broadcast was on. When it was finished, the television’s volume was decreased once again and conversations resumed.

  “I saw him at a party at Pete Schriber’s once,” the dancer two stools down said. “A few weeks back. Heard he was invited there by Rhonda Smith. Leastwise, he was dirty dancing with her.” He took a sip of his drink. “Wasn’t h
alf bad, either…for a cop.”

  “Hell, man,” said a man farther down the bar. “Rhonda Smith’d make anyone look good. Wouldn’t mind a little horizontal dirty dancing with that one, myself. Heard she’s real good.”

  “Isn’t she the blonde,” the man asked, “dances at…”

  “Nah, you’re probably thinking of Amanda Charles,” the dancer down at the end of the bar replied. “They’re friends. But ya might as well roll up your tongue and tuck it back in your mouth, cuz they’re about as different as night and day. Amanda’s savin’ it. Nobody knows quite what for, but there’s about a hundred guys out there wouldn’t mind finding out. Rhonda’s got dark hair, about yea long. They both dance for the Cabaret, which I wouldn’t mind doing myself, I can tell ya. Lately Rhonda’s been dating Chad Steerwhiler, who dances for Bally’s. I’ve got a buddy who’s a friend of his, and according to him, Chad says that Rhonda…”

  The conversation died a natural death about five minutes later. The man at the bar ostensibly maintained his end of the next few exchanges to eliminate the possibility of someone, somewhere down the road, linking him with the names Rhonda Smith and Amanda Charles.

  He was smiling triumphantly when he finally scooped up his change, picked up his cigarettes and stuffed them into a jacket pocket, then turned and walked away.

  “Stop the music, Lennie! Now, dammit! Stop the frigging music!”

  Lennie raised his fingers from the keys mid-note, and silence descended over the rehearsal hall as the dancers stumbled to a halt. Charlie strode up to the stage and stood, hands on hips, glaring up across the footlights.

  “Amanda, are you having trouble staying awake?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you coulda fooled me, sister,” he snarled. “Dammit to hell! What’s the matter with you? If this is just too, too boring for you, if dancing is just too much work, then go find yourself a nice waitressing job! Do something, because you’re screwing up the rest of the line!” He turned and stomped back to his table, arrogantly snapping his fingers over his shoulder to resume the music.

  Amanda blinked back tears. This was the third time in less than half an hour that Charlie had screamed at her. Her energy level was zilch today and her extensions had been halfhearted at best, so she could understand his exasperation. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept the verbal abuse he took such delight in heaping upon anyone foolish enough to make mistakes on his time.

  June, standing next to her in line, surreptitiously touched her arm in sympathy, and Amanda grimaced ruefully before she doggedly directed all her concentration on getting through rehearsal with her job intact. It felt like hours before Charlie finally called it a day.

  The dressing room was steamy with the sudden preponderance of sweaty, overheated bodies. Rhonda slumped down on the stool next to where Amanda stood stuffing her exercise clothes into her bag. She rested her elbows back on the dressing table shelf and swung her hips gently from side to side on the plastic-upholstered stool anchored in front of the mirror. “You really stunk today, kiddo.”

  “What a rotten thing to say!” June protested hotly from three places down. She set down her eyeliner brush and glared at Rhonda. “Amanda’s the best darn dancer in the troupe!”

  “Usually,” Rhonda amended. “Usually she is, June. But she wasn’t today. You know it, too, even if you don’t want to admit it. But just ask Mandy Rose here if she thought she was any good.”

  “Rhonda’s right,” Amanda admitted. “I was really lousy today, June. A first-year student could’ve danced rings around me.”

  “You’re damn straight they could’ve,” Rhonda agreed. “And I want to know why, Amanda. I’ve seen you dance when you have your period and your iron level is next to nonexistent. I’ve seen you dance when you’re sick, when you’re blue, when you’re dead on your feet from being without sleep for too long. Kiddo, all you gotta do is name it—you’ve had it and still danced better than most of us do on our best days. So, what the hell gives today?”

  Amanda had been pulling on her clothes during Rhonda’s tirade. She was aware that everyone but June had drifted out of the dressing room singly or in pairs, and, avoiding the eyes of the two remaining women, she sat on the floor and fiddled with the soft leather straps of her skimpy red shoes. One refused to fasten properly, and finally she gave up and looked up at Rhonda. Her eyes were bleak. “I haven’t been sleeping too well lately.”

  “Do tell,” Rhonda snapped. “A blind idiot could see that. Tell me something I don’t already know, Amanda Rose. Tell me how come?”

  “I guess because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Teddy, and it’s hard to get to sleep. Then, when I do sleep, I dream all the time.”

  “Oh, hell. I should’ve known,” Rhonda snarled, and June asked, “Who’s Teddy?”

  “My sister,” Amanda replied.

  “Her goddamn albatross is more like it,” Rhonda stated flatly.

  Amanda surged to her feet. “You take that back, Rhonda Smith. That’s a lousy thing to say!”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe it is, Amanda, but the way I see it, it’s nothing short of the truth! The only times I’ve ever seen you blue enough to just chuck aside every damn thing you have ever worked for is when you’ve been thinking of Teddy. When are you going to let yourself off the hook and admit that nothing you could’ve said or done at the time would have changed a damn thing?”

  Like a spectator at a tennis match, June’s head turned from one protagonist to the other. “I’m confused,” she murmured.

  “So’s Amanda,” Rhonda snapped. “So let’s go get us a drink and I’ll set you both straight.”

  “I don’t want a drink,” Amanda replied belligerently. “And who the hell are you to set anyone straight, anyway? Were you there?” Rhonda opened her mouth to speak, but Amanda poked her in the chest with her finger and continued, “Well, I was, and I know I should’ve tried harder to find the right words to change her mind. If I had just tried a little bit harder, I could have made a difference, Rhonda. I could have.”

  “Bullshit!” Rhonda roared. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! Once your parents messed in her affairs, and once Teddy made up her mind and set things in motion, you had about as much chance of patching things up as I have of joining a nunnery. You did every damn thing you possibly could have, Amanda. And I refuse to stand here and watch you beat yourself black and blue over something you had about a snowball’s chance in hell of controlling. Now, fix your damn shoe, and let’s go get that drink!”

  Amanda stood fast, glaring at Rhonda. Then that tiny corner of her brain that harbored a love of the absurd got the best of her. She had a sudden flash of the picture they’d present if anyone peeked into the room. She and Rhonda standing nose to nose, yelling at each other, while poor June stood by, completely bewildered. Rhonda’s chest was heaving with indignation. Her brown eyes were shooting sparks, her cheeks were flushed, and she looked like a spandex warrior in kiss-me-baby lipstick-red armor. Poor June looked as if she was wondering how she’d happened to fall down this particular rabbit hole, and she herself probably looked like a not-too-bright schoolgirl, with her flopping shoe strap and her sweaty, tangled hair.

  “Okay, you win,” she said with a small half smile of surrender. “We’ll get a drink and hash this out.” She picked up a brush and started working out the snarls.

  “Oh, goody,” June said. “Does this mean someone’s gonna tell me what the hell’s going on here?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Amanda eyed June’s reflection in the mirror. “Why not? I’m not real big on spilling my guts, but maybe it’ll help to go over the whole sorry saga of the Charles sisters.” She sent a sour look Rhonda’s way. “Although I don’t see how, since I regret the last time I opened my big mouth.”

  “No you don’t, kid,” Rhonda replied confidently. “I refuse to let you wallow in your masochistic depression and become self-destructive, and deep down, in your heart of hearts, you love me for it.”

  Deep down
in her heart of hearts, Amanda did, but she was still too irritated with Rhonda to admit as much out loud. She hated it when she felt Rhonda was attacking Teddy. But in a weird sort of way, it was almost like hearing Teddy speak.

  The very first thing that had attracted her to Rhonda had been her striking similarity to her sister. Oh, not in looks. Physically, they were nothing alike. But when it came to personality, they were practically twins. Rhonda was so much like Teddy had been. She was exuberant and rowdy, outspoken and affectionate. She was sometimes crass beyond belief, but always totally unafraid to speak her mind. And in a crazy way, Amanda knew that if the roles had somehow been reversed today, Teddy would have stood nose to nose with her in the exact same manner that Rhonda had.

  It was a scary thought.

  But comforting.

  Chapter

  8

  “Buy you ladies a drink?”

  The three women glanced up from their conversation. Standing next to the table was an attractive man in a pinstriped suit. Rhonda declined for all of them, but it was with a trace of regret that she watched him walk away. He was just her type—male.

  “So, what happened when your folks found out Teddy was pregnant?” June delicately poked through the ice cubes in her glass to fish out the cherry. She popped it in her mouth and looked up at Amanda. “I imagine they pitched quite a fit, huh?”

  “To put it mildly.” Amanda drained the last sip from her glass and, catching the waitress’s eye, raised it to indicate she wanted a refill. She knew she shouldn’t; she wasn’t much of a drinker, and as a result, her tolerance was low.

  Then she shrugged. Well, what the hell. She was off tonight. In fact, if she had been halfway smart, she would have avoided today’s rehearsal entirely. If she had just stayed at home, she wouldn’t be sitting here now, searching for a way to explain events from so far in her past she couldn’t figure out why they had chosen this particular time in her life to resurrect themselves.