The Angel & the Brown-eyed Boy (9 page)

“Put that coat in a locker,” she said, waving at them. The girl moved toward the lockers, but kept the coat. Madeleine, exasperated, removed it and tossed it over a bench. “Now get in the front of the barre and prepare to dance!”

Finally, they could begin. Madeleine turned on the sound system. The simple notes formed the backbone of the lesson. They rippled around her, raising her spirits and taking her back to a time when she was a young dancer. She had promise once, a long-legged girl found by the director of the national ballet in a state orphanage.

“We will do our demi-pliés. First position,” she said, but she didn’t have to. Her students knew the order of the class. The dancers took the first of five positions, positions that would mold their bones and joints so that what was unnatural became natural. Down the line, they assumed the same stance, one hand lightly on the barre, and the other arm gracefully extended toward the center of the room at shoulder height. Spines stretched, heads erect, heels together, and toes pointed outward so that they formed a straight, 180-degree line. Toe to heel to heel to toe, one straight line. It was a position that no one who hadn’t experienced the rigors of the ballet studio for years could assume or hold.

Madeleine looked down the line. Perfect, perfect.

Except Olga. She stood at the front of the class, looking around, in no position at all.

“Olga! Stand up straight! Assume first position!” Olga blinked at her. “Like the others. Look! Haven’t you ever been in a class?”

She grabbed Olga’s shoulder and turned her around to look at the others. A nasty smile flicked over Bridgette’s face. Madeleine said, “That’s how you’re supposed to look. Bridgette, get in front of her so she can watch you.”

Bridgette leapt in front of Olga. Madeleine moved the girl behind her, shaking her a little. “Watch what she does. See. Do it like that.”

Olga looked carefully at Bridgette and picked up first position so gracefully that those behind her drew in a breath. If she could make such a simple movement memorable, she was good.

The work on the barre warmed the dancers up, moving slowly from one muscle group to the next, starting with the feet and going on to the larger muscles.

Madame Mercier stood before the class, giving whatever variation of the exercises she wanted, moving down the barre to correct the lines of arms or heads, fixing the tuck of a hip or position of a leg. “Stand up. Pay attention. Listen to the music.” Shaking her head, she looked at the riding crop that hung next to the piano. The dancers stood taller.

“Rond de jambe!” Madeleine snapped at Olga. “Don’t you know what that is? A circle of the leg. It’s elementary. Show her, Bridgette. Take first position. Extend the inside foot forward on the floor, straight ahead, leg turned out. Trace a half circle around toward the center of the room. Then drop the heel and settle back to first position. Keep your turnout. It’s easy. Now you do it.”

Olga looked around blankly, and then did the most perfect rond de jambe ever seen.

“Yes! I knew you could do it. Apply yourself and you’ll do fine.”

Madeleine was so involved with the girl that she didn’t notice the shifting moods of her other students. While they might have entered the classroom curious and perhaps a bit envious of the new girl, those feelings didn’t last. Even though they hadn’t gotten past the barre work, it was obvious that Olga had no classical ballet training at all. Every time No Mercy yelled at her, or used that vicious tone to tell Bridgette to show her something, the others cringed.

When No Mercy began looking again at the wall where her riding crop hung, little Melanie, the poorest dancer in the class, choked back tears. “No, Madame, don’t hit her. Please don’t...,” she whispered.

The class moved to the center work. Leaving the barre, they performed carefully chosen routines, starting with easy steps and moving to very large jumps. The music accelerated. They were getting close to a semblance of dancing.

Olga seemed to have awakened. She kept doing little jumps and jigs and had the other girls smiling.

“Stop that! Get over here!” Madeleine grabbed Olga’s shoulder. “Don’t you have any discipline? That isn’t how you behave in class.” She shoved her behind Bridgette. “What are you so jumpy about, Bridgette? You’ve got your place back. At least you can follow orders.

“Now, do this”—she mapped out a simple series of steps—“pas de chat, pas de chat, pas de chat, glissade, a petit jeté—

“STOP THAT!”

Olga had taken the simple steps she’d given them, repeated them once, and then burst across the room, spinning and leaping and... dancing! She wasn’t supposed to dance. She was supposed to do her center work, using the exercises that Madame chose.

“Stop that, and get in line, Olga! The rest of you, begin! In order, one after the other. Pas de chat, pas de chat, pas...” They did the sequence in line, diagonally across the room. Each added some little step or jump of her own. Madeleine continued the lesson, and Olga led a rebellion, leaping and spinning and moving across the room like she’d been born en pointe. All the time, she had such a sweet look on her face that only an expert could see her true duplicity. Madeleine’s jaw worked furiously.

First Bridgette joined Olga in the dance fest, then the rest jumped in. And, finally, the little one, Melanie, took off across the room with a series of grand jetés no one would have believed her capable of executing.

“Stop! Stop! All of you! Leave this room,” Madeleine screamed. She stepped in front of Olga, preventing her leaving. “All but you, get out. Close the doors!”

When they were alone, she pulled Olga around to face her. “What do you think you’re doing? This is my class. Do you think you can walk in here and create chaos? Insanity?” Her eyes bulged and spittle flew from her mouth.

“You’re here because of me! You would have remained in Russia performing like a puppet. I set everything up for you. You’ll be famous! The world will open for you. I’m giving Richard to you—he’s waiting for you now. The Golden Boy—for you. You and I could be famous. But you are not a good dancer until you know the order of the class. Until you can execute steps to my cue, on command. You must learn to obey, or we will be lost.” With silent fury, she swung the crop across the girl’s buttocks, swinging once, and again and again.

The girl looked at her with surprise.

“That didn’t hurt you? How about this?” Madeleine swung with all her strength.

The girl looked at her, astonished, and then fell to the floor. All her muscles let go and she was down, on the floor, limbs pointing in every direction. Madeleine swung the crop a few more times.

Sometimes they threw themselves down when she disciplined them, but not so soon. Not like that, such a total collapse. Madeleine dropped to her knees and spoke to her. “Come now, Olga. Don’t be so sensitive. Can’t we have a little falling-out?”

The girl lay there, unmoving. Her skin, normally so pale that it appeared to be lavender in its shadows, was turning a waxy white. It was the color of a white candle, with light leaking through the edges.

She put her hand under the girl’s nostrils. Nothing. Felt her pulse. None. She stood up, clasping her hands to her chest. She took a wild look around the room, noting the door at the other end. But there was no exit from that corridor.

Outside in the hallway, the girls clustered, listening to the sound of the crop striking flesh.

Melanie was the first to begin crying. Bridgette was next, and then all of them stood in the hallway, clutching each other and sobbing.

A security man heard the noise and came over. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s beating the new girl! The door is locked.” Bridgette spoke for them.

“Code Red,” he said into his walkie-talkie. “I need backup, Code Red. Get the director here, now.”

It was quiet behind the door when the school director arrived. “She didn’t understand what Madame was saying. The new girl doesn’t speak English very well. She acts like she’s not too...,” Bridgette dropped her head and whispered, “bright. Madame’s got her in there, and she was beating her with her riding crop. She does it to all of us, whenever she wants. She doesn’t stop.”

“Call 911, we need the police,” the director barked at the security man. “And get that door open.”

The door opened before they could unlock it. Madame Mercier stood in the opening, face expressionless.

“Something terrible has happened,” she said. “I killed her.”

G
eorge Hempstead no longer had his gray hat. Whether he’d lost it when they apprehended him at the track, or later, he didn’t know. Or care.

He had placed his last bet—his very last, since he had no more money and no one would give him credit. He’d been standing in the general admission seats, watching the race and hoping for a miracle. Two men, each twice his size, had come up and stood on either side of him.

“Come with us,” the smaller of the two had said.

When he’d said, “Wait! Wait! Let me see how the race finishes,” they’d taken him under the arms and he’d found himself moving across the tarmac. “Wait!” He never did get to see if he won or lost. Winning would have meant so much. They didn’t care.

At first, he thought the guys hauling him off were from bookies or loan sharks. It took him a while to realize that wasn’t so.

If he’d been smart, he would have paid everyone off the day before when he had the money. He should have taken the rest home to his wife, gone out to dinner, and then sworn off the ponies forever.

But he wasn’t smart. He thought he’d pay everything off from his winnings of today. He’d been going to the races for years—he had his
own system. He thought he’d use what the girl gave him, combine it with his method, and be unbeatable. He hated the fact that the track management had him down as a two-bit loser. He was a winner! He’d shown them that. So he came back to show them again. He’d double his money! He’d win and win. He bet high and hard.

When he started losing, he bet twice as much to win it back. When his bankroll was approaching nothing, he bet more. He kept going until he had made that last bet and the guys in black picked him up. When they got out of the stands, he expected them to turn left and propel him into the innards of the stadium, the way they had yesterday. That didn’t happen.

When they got outside the arena, a black car with blacked-out windows had hovered at the curb. A couple of more men in black suits leaned against it. The car was one of those that were banned ages ago because it took so much power to lift off the ground. Only the government still had them.

He was in the car and moving away from the track. “I didn’t—” was all he got out before he felt a prick in his thigh and the car began to spin.

When he woke up, he was in a room. He’d never seen such a room. All cement. Walls, ceiling, floor. He was strapped in a chair with no way to get out. He knew exactly who had him: the feds. Only an interrogation room would look like this. A strong metal table sat before him. He noticed that there was a gutter around the room. Before each wall, the cement dropped four or five inches into a trough. He could see drains in the gutter, and a larger one in the middle of the room.

He decided he would tell them whatever they wanted, or give them the house, or anything he had, and then beg to go home. He’d throw himself on their mercy.

A man came in. He had short brown hair and was wearing black slacks and a white shirt. He seemed more normal than the two big men, like you could talk to him. George opened his mouth, and the man said, “Shh! Don’t say anything.” He looked up and George realized the room was bugged.

“Look, I’m your only chance,” the stranger said. “People are going to come in and hurt you worse than you can imagine. So tell me, now.”

“OK,” George had said. “What do you want to know?” He thought they wanted him to show how he’d pay back his debts.

“How did you win three-and-a-half-million dollars yesterday?”

He sat up. They wanted the girl. Everything in him said, “Protect her. Protect her with everything you’ve got.”

“Just luck,” he told the man. “I’ve gone to the track for years. I was bound to get lucky someday.” Something ran through the chair and he jerked backward. His first scream was cut short when he bit his tongue. He continued to convulse for a while. The man he’d been talking to was sitting on the edge of the table when George came out of it.

“I forgot to tell you that I’d hurt you, too,” he drawled. “Probably more than the others. That was electric shock. You’re wired up. Now, I want to know how you won the money yesterday. That’s all I want to know, because I already know everything else about you.” He put his hands on the table and leaned over him, spitting out each word.

“Your name is George Hempstead. Your wife’s name is Myra. You live at 12000-A NW 1st, Brooklyn. You work at America First Bank; your wife manages the Main/Norfolk CrumblyGood branch. Your mortgage is with Central States.” He slammed his hand down on the table and leapt closer to George.

“Do you understand? I know everything about you. Down to the four-fuck affair you had with Eileen Streit last year. You have a forty-grand-a-year habit at the track, and you’re about to be fired and lose your house. Three bookies would love to do what I’m going to do to you.” He leaned even closer.