Beauties and the Beast (3 page)

Chapter Three

“Jesus,” said Billy, finally. “He's nobody, man. Superstar! Crap! I see all the movies, and I've never heard of him.”

Mickey was still staring intently at the exit. “No,” he muttered. “You wouldn't have.”

“What?”

Mickey snapped out of his reverie. “You wouldn't know him. He was before your time. He was in dozens of movies when Hollywood made epics. I never realised he was so old. He was in just about all of them. The women used to swoon over him all the time.”

Billy looked incredulously at the exit. “That fat old queen.”

Mickey chuckled. “Funny he never married”. He was starting to feel comfortable. A calming sense of unreality had dropped on him like a star ship force field. Beam me up Scottie! He felt like he did in the confined cocoon of a TV studio - alive. Reality was in the script.

“He was at the top of the heap when stars made big money. He doesn't make movies now, just the occasional TV film. He mainly does live theatre, Shakespeare, the classics and stuff - and he can still pull in a crowd. He's rich as Croesus, lives in a mansion in Melbourne with servants and he drives a roller.”

“That's not rich, man,” said Billy emphatically. “I've got a mansion - in Sydney, and I got a penthouse in New York, a house in London, a Merc, two rollers,
and
a Porsche. That's rich, man.”

“Half your luck,” said Mickey. “My bank manager tells me at regular intervals how much I owe him. Still, I've got my health, that's something I suppose.” He cast a reproving eye over Billy's wasted body. “You don't look as though you've got a pint of blood in you,” he said slyly. “You've probably got veins full of dope. I wonder if management knows about that.”

Billy let the remark ride. He too was feeling rosier. Besides there was something else... an image of Angela had formed at the back of his mind. She glowed like an angel. She was a girl he wouldn't forget quickly, in fact he wondered if he ever would.

“Management?” he muttered. “Have you seen her?”

“What?”

“Management,” emphasised Billy. “There's a randy chick round here somewhere who tried to rape me.”

“A woman tried to rape you?” There was a new dimension to the conversation.

“The blonde chick who was here before, man,” said Willie. “She's out there somewhere.” He waved in the direction of the wings.

Mickey rushed off to the edge of the stage and peered out. The darkness was deep and cold. He could see nothing; hear nothing, except... he concentrated hard. There was skittering, like a rat running over sand or the remnant of a laugh. Then he saw a movement, black on black and suddenly he was afraid. The darkness had penetrated his mantle of comfort. He stepped back into the warmth of the stage, wondering what was out there. He said nothing to Billy, but shook away the fear and reassured himself with a smile.

“Blonde, eh? Management? I wonder if she's got a casting couch.” He laughed his high pitched, grating twitter.

“Bitch,” said Billy. “If she is management I'm in for a hard time.”

“You'd be able to manage her I expect. I mean, you're a scrawny bugger, but you're young.” He moved closer and shivered. The cold of the darkness was edging onto the stage. “Mind you, I doubt Thornton could.”

“I doubt he'd want to,” said Billy.

“I don't mean
that
,” said Mickey. “There are rumours in the trade that he has a very dicky ticker.” He made a snorting sound. “Great cast, a doper and a man with a bad heart. I wonder if management knows about that!”

“You're troublemaking old bastard aren't you,” snapped Billy. The comic was beginning to grate heavily on his nerves.

“Just curious,” said Mickey. He used his disarming smile. The one he used when he'd deliberately insulted someone in the audience.

“I don't get the chance to mix much with you blokes. Different age group I suppose. Different gigs. No rockers in my circuit, just Tom Jones copies and comics. We do all right though, plenty of partying and plenty of party girls. There never was much dope, except cocaine of course, but you can't count that. Not like you blokes, right into everything, hard drugs group sex ...”

Billy burst into laughter. “Is there any other kind?”

He moved in on Mickey. There was a skeletal grin on his face. His rubbery lips curled round the too perfect, too large teeth. “My minders cleared out half a dozen girls from my bedroom one morning. Did you ever do that good?” He stepped back. The smile gone and was replaced by a look of derision.

Mickey leapt into the offensive. “I did all right, still do.”

Mickey faltered. Last night - the blonde - did he? He still couldn't remember. His eyes flickered. The face saddened and on came the downcast look. “I have a few problems.”

He mentally kicked himself. Why did he say that? Why give the little bastard a cue line. Who did he think he was anyway? Screaming, no-talent hyped up bag of bones. There was something, something in the darkness that was making him say things he shouldn't.

Billy's eyes suddenly gleamed red, like a bad colour photograph. Mickey's heart began to beat at a fear-induced sped. What he was seeing was impossible. They were vampire eyes, the look of ghosts, goblins, devils from a fiery Hell, twisted bodies in a torture chamber. Heronius Bosch! The images flew through his mind. He tried to kill them but couldn't. He was frightened, chillingly terrified. But he didn't understand why. He didn't believe in that sort of crap. “Help me,” his brain screamed, but all he got was Billy's voice and it was full of malice, but normal.

Billy had Mickey's measure in the insult stakes. He'd fought it out with the master - Genghis Khan. “Too much booze eh?” The voice blasted the graphic images like a shattered mirror.

Thankfully, Mickey looked away. The insults were easier to bear than the images.

Mickey straightened up. “No. It was my wife. She... well I couldn't keep up with her.”

“I'm not surprised, you poor old bastard. Twice a month'd see you over the top.”

“She was 22,” said Mickey defiantly.

Billy stopped and looked at the comic with surprise. “You randy old goat,” he said. A grudging respect edged into his voice.

Mickey seized on it. “She was my fifth,” he said. There was a touch of bravado in his words

Billy was delighted. “No wonder you're worn out.” He gave Mickey a punch on the arm. Gentle. The comic felt camaraderie for the first time. “She still hanging around is she? Or has she moved on to another stud.” He laughed at his own joke.

“She died,” said Mickey.

“Oh,” Billy's childhood Sunday school training slowed him. A fleeting look of sorrow crossed his face. He knew that sympathy was in order, but one look at the portly comic dispelled the thought. He laughed instead. “It's a wonder she didn't kill you, you overweight little heart case.”

“You're not exactly Mr bloody universe are you?”

Billy grinned. It was a grin laced with malice. “Not, but I can still get it up.”

Mickey had had enough. He stormed to the edge of the stage and stared into the lights, trying to close his ears to Billy's laugh. It was evil. He felt his whole body trembling. Was it fear, anger, or the need for a drink?

He held his hands in front of him, looking for the telltale tremor. Surprise! The hands were rock steady. He clenched them, then unclenched them and looked again. They were steady. His body was shaking, but his hands were no longer part of the whole.

Billy's eagle eye saw the motions. He closed in, ready for the kill. “You need a drink don't you your poor little alcoholic pudding basin!”

Mickey turned, bewildered. “No.” His voice was calm. “Look.” he held out his hands at arm's length. “There's nothing. Steady as a rock. I feel bloody great.” He laughed like a delighted child with an early Christmas present.

Mickey was still studying those hands. “I was a boozer, but never an alcoholic but I really got stuck into it when she died.”

The chill suddenly came slithering in from the wings and Mickey put his hands into his pockets. They tingled with cold. There was something out there, but he was scared to mention it because Billy didn't seem to notice... unless he was part of it.

“It got too hard to tell a joke without a drink.” He paused momentarily. “You get into the habit,” he concluded lamely.

“Tell me about it.” Billy's interruption had a touch of bitterness.

Mickey didn't hear. His mind was trying to bring things to the surface, but it was meeting obstacles. “I was drinking last night,” he said. “There was this blonde.” He paused and looked at the singer. “But I couldn't have had too many could I? I don't have a hangover. I don't even feel like having the hair of the dog - and I've been telling jokes.”

“You could have fooled me.” Billy enjoyed the dig he knew it hurt Mickey.

“Okay, so my timing was off. It goes you know, it goes when your home life's wrecked.”

“Crap, man, it was the booze. The booze has wrecked your brain.”

“Yeah, and what has the dope done to you? Christ, you look about 110.”

“I never said I did dope,” protested Billy.

“You think I'm blind or something?” Mickey felt he was getting back on top.

“You don't understand the scene, so shut up!” It was Billy's turn to be rattled.

“I know enough. I've seen your sort fall apart a lot faster than a drunk. They die quicker too.”

“Okay,” confessed Billy. “I use the odd shot, that's all. I'm no junkie.” He stopped. Why was he letting this little man get to him? What did he know, an over-the-hill unfunny man? He pointed a finger, quivering. “I can handle it, man.”

“Yeah, that's what they all say,” said Mickey, his voice cool, calculating, and waiting for the moment - the moment of truth. “It'll kill you one day and sooner than later by the look of you.”

“I can handle it.” The voice was stronger.

“Bloody rock stars, bloody junkies.” Mickey was not going to let go. “Sex and drugs that's all you know. All you do is spread disease and misery. At least I spread a bit of happiness when I've had a couple of drinks.”

Billy gave a shrill laugh. “You call your joke-telling spreading happiness? God, they're enough to make a grown man cry.”

“I'll bet you've got AIDS,” said Mickey slyly.

“Don't be bloody stupid.” Billy was stung. Not AIDS. He was careful. No shared needles - and no sex with men. “I look after myself.”

“Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you - a living skeleton.” Living? A shiver whistled through Mickey's body. Was that someone walking over his own grave? Or... He shrugged it off. “Look after yourself! You'd grab a needle from anybody. You're a junkie. You use dope because you need it.”

Billy glared.

Mickey became expansive. “Me I enjoy the odd glass. Drinking's a social thing; a couple of drinks make the world go round. I drink because I like it.”

Billy strode towards Mickey. He was angry, worried. Was it truth hurting? He thrust an aggressive finger out. “You drink because you can't do without it. You're an old alkie has-been. So don't give me that social crap. Christ, look at you in those ridiculous clothes. They went out of style when my old man was a kid, and that silly bloody ukulele! You're about as funny as a shark attack.”

Mickey's shoulders slumped and he slid, boneless onto a chair. The truth was more painful than the gut ache he got when he couldn't get a drink.

“Has-been, has-been. I bet you'd crawl on your knees for a drink.” Billy was crowing with his perceived victory.

He moved in for the kill, but the clatter of stiletto heels beat him. He stepped back and looked expectantly, watching for Angela's return.

Chapter Four

Belvedere Thornton felt even more bilious when he stepped from the stage into the dank darkness. Cold settled on his broad shoulders like a mantle of soot riddled snow as he marched down the passageway. He hesitated on his dash to freedom and looked back. The light from the stage winked warm and inviting. He looked the other way. Inky blackness with vague patterns of light reflected off damp walls.

He remembered the door that had slammed shut and refused to open. Steel solid? Had he walked into some sort of diabolical trap?

He frowned in the darkness. Then he took a deep, settling breath as he realised he was letting his always vivid imagination take charge. Why, the very idea was preposterous! It was like the plot of one of those dreadful horror movies in which he had sometimes been forced to perform. He gave a snort of amusement and set off again. Then he stopped? What was that? Rustling? Footsteps?

Thoughts of unexorcised evil floating ectoplasmically in the darkness above invaded his mind. He jerked his head upwards, but there were no incandescent glows or malformed figures materialising.

He blinked and moved along the slippery floor, slower now. He turned a corner and suddenly the light was gone. He stumbled on, the darkness breeding determination.

The passageway split into crossroads and intersections that had not been there before, or he had not noticed them in his striving to get into the light. He took instant decisions, turned left or right or stumbled straight on, oblivious to the nagging in a secret part of his brain. But at last his tenacity was rewarded. There was a faint moon glow of light ahead. He picked up his pace. The exit, he felt, was near. Belvedere Thornton was back on track.

***

On the stage Billy's eyes glittered. The clip-clop was closer. The girl was closer. He could almost smell her - smell the excitement. Had there ever been a woman like her?

Mickey caught the vibrations of his lust. He stepped back, searching for shadows, wondering exactly what he was looking for.

Then he knew. He gave a small gasp that came only when he saw something rare and beautiful like the Renoir ballet dancer or the black marble Rodin bust. The electrodes of lust rode in the air, lighting an aura near the table where Angela stood.

If she felt the raw heat, she did not show it. She gave a brief smile, tucked a wayward lock of golden hair out of her eyes, and laid down three plain manila folders on the grey table. She had her back to the men.

Mickey stepped wondering into the light. He coughed. Angela tensed and turned quickly. The smile gone replaced by... Mickey wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it was not nice.

His stomach knotted in a warning of menace ahead. Villains at work: beware of falling rocks. Then her smile was back. It was all warm, scented meadows, summer sky, Dorothy in Oz. Where were the Munchkins?

She strode towards him, arm outstretched.

“Mr Finnegan's here, how nice.” Her voice was cat's purr, deep and throaty. Deep throat? Not that girl, she was pure as virgin snow. “We're just about ready.”

Mickey grasped her hand. Felt the jolt. He tried to withdraw. Then it was soft, but firm; a handshake with strength.

“Finnegan's the name, comedy's the game.” It was meant to be a loud and chatty greeting, but it came out like a catch in the throat.

“Nice to meet you.”

Mickey felt the heat again. He wondered if she was going to rape him. He hoped she would. She drew back. The heat evaporated. Mickey winked an understanding eye at Billy. “I take it you're management,” he said. This time the words came out with confidence.

“Indeed I am. Welcome to the audition.” She indicated the dusty, ancient seats and Mickey sat obediently.

“Nice to be here,” he paused, “I think.”

Angela began to walk away. Ululated was the word that came into Mickey's mind.

There were others however in Billy's. “Hang on a minute,” he barked.

Angela stopped and turned. She looked at him with her strange eyes; dead eyes, eyes with worms behind them? Billy forced away the nightmares.

“Yes?” She breathed the word.

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“This audition... Genghis ...”

“Your manager,” she cut in.

“Yeah,” Billy was perplexed. “He never explained it properly. You know Genghis and you know who I am.”

“Indeed we do, Mr Winter.” It was a cat's purr; the voice of autumn.

“I mean, I get the best support acts in the world when I do a show - Emcees, singers, bands... comics.” He threw a derisive look at Mickey, who flinched at the power of it. “The point is,” continued Billy, “that they audition for
me
and Genghis.”

Angela smiled and said nothing.

“So, why am I here?”

“Because we asked for you Mr Winter,” said Angela as she closed in on Billy. Her eyes... Billy blinked. Were they glowing?

Billy moved away. “Genghis don't let me sign nothing unless he's on the spot and he's not here now, so what's it all about!” There was an edge of panic to his voice.

Angela didn't help him. She came closer again. “You don't have to worry about signing contracts.”

Mickey watched in fascination at the duel. Billy moved back again. “It's not that, that's what Genghis does. I just want to know what the gig is. Why am I here?”

“To audition, like the others,” she said. She reached out quickly. Her arm was like a darting snake. She touched Billy's arm. He couldn't move. “Mind you if I had my way ...” She was suddenly as sensual as a high class hooker, a million dollars a night job. She dropped her arm and Billy shot backwards, stung!

“Yeah, I know.” There was a sudden burst of fear. He felt his bladder weaken, but he controlled it. “Well never mind that, I'm walking, just like the other bloke did.”

He almost ran to his guitar and picked it up. Then, without a glance back he scurried into the passageway.

Angela's sensual looks simmered. Mickey expected her clothes to suddenly ignite in spontaneous combustion. He felt like that himself. For once he understood the meaning of the phrase. He felt passion rise in him. Words of great power welled in his head. But his only utterance was: “Those sort have no respect do they?” inane nothing words.

Angela was silent for a moment, still burning her simmering look to where Billy had departed. “He has the talent to learn,” she said, finally.

“They get it all too young these days,” said Mickey, conversationally. “In my day we had to work for years to learn the trade.”

“Of course you did,” said Angela.

Mickey heard sympathy. He was making progress. “You have to watch them, you know.” He was using his experience. “He'll be trying to get into your pants the first thing you know.”

Angela's eyes opened wide. Was it shock or mock shock? Mickey wasn't sure but he didn't care.

“Anyway, he's gone now - they've both gone. It's just you and me.” He tried to smile sexily but it came across as a lecherous leer. An old fool's leer and he knew it. Who the hell was this woman, this enigma? He felt stupid.

She didn't seem to notice Mickey's discomfort. “I think he might come back,” she said, sweetly. “I fact I'd bet everything I have and will have, that they'll both be back.”

“I'll pick up on that bet,” said Mickey. “They won't show their faces here again. They have too much ego. I know the sort, Not me though, I'm not too proud to do an audition, not that I'm used to it mind you. But you have to progress don't you? You can't stay in the same old rut, year after year and if you don't audition for something new how you can move on?”

“You've got the right attitude, Mr Finnegan.”

“You've got to have in this business. Besides,” he grinned and felt bad breath slide from between his teeth. He licked his lips. “If they've gone, there's only me left.”

He laughed and Angela laughed with him. He was encouraged. “Hey, how about you and me go for a bite to eat when all this is over?”

Angela looked archly at him. “Mr Finnegan, don't you think you might be a little old for me?”

Mickey caught the tease in her voice and rushed in eagerly. “I'm not old, just mature. Experienced, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm quite sure I do, and I'm shocked, Mr Finnegan. What sort of experience would you expect a girl like me have?” She was as demure as a novice nun and Mickey thought how nice it would be to teach her everything he knew.

“That's for you to know and me to find out.” Mickey leered again and he knew it. But the girl didn't seem to notice. “What do you say, a bite after?”

An amused, bizarre smiled parted her lips.

“We'll see,” she said.

“Does that mean ‘yes'”, persisted Mickey.

“It means we'll see,” said Angela.

Mickey saw more promise there than he'd ever seen in a woman's eyes in his entire life - awake or dreaming.