out into the muggy dusk with the ramshackle house of his optimism somewhat repaired.
Teach quickened his step and prepared his smile. It was always strange for him, stepping into the opulence of the ballroom. The varnished mahogany wainscoting, the crystal chandelier shedding its pink light on the damask tapestry with its stilted scene of serene men on horseback spearing a lion that seemed to be in no particular pain. The murmur of conversation that would suddenly quiet as the lights went down and the music began to play and the first dancers appeared on stage, shy and brave and fragile.
Teach rested the old Minolta SLR on his right coat sleeve, concealing the bloodstain. He would look, he hoped, perfectly natural entering this way. A club woman gave him a program and a gentle frown for his lateness. Teach deferred the pleasure of opening the program to see Dean listed as principal dancer. He stood behind the last row of seats, imagining his wife, Paige, somewhere in the sea of organdy and silk. That she had not lived to see their daughter in this role seemed a crime of fate, a sin worse than any of Teach’s own. He closed his eyes and saw Paige where he knew she would have sat, halfway down on the aisle. In his mind’s eye, she lifted her head to look around for him, her shining honey-blond hair in the usual chignon. She’d had a good neck, long and smooth, and a heartbreaking wisp of hair had always escaped the chignon just under her left ear.
As he started down the aisle to find a seat, a hand took his arm, turning him. A red-faced man in a pink blazer looked petulantly at him and said, “Please.”
Teach stepped aside as the man ushered a tall, fiftyish black man and his wife down the aisle to the reserved front row. Stately was the word that formed in Teach’s mind. The way the couple moved, the way they claimed the usher’s deference and the attention of this prosperous audience. The black man walked with a musical grace, and his dark suit was rakishly cut for a man of his age.
The man’s wife carried herself with regal dignity. The entire ballroom watched them settle in the first row next to a couple Teach recognized as the mayor of Tampa and his wife. The two couples smiled and greeted each other comfortably, and the lights began to go down.
Teach hurried down the aisle in the half dark, excused himself across the knees of a sixtyish couple, and dropped down next to a diamond-beglittered matron. He smiled at the woman, who inclined her head toward him and sniffed. Her nose worked on the air between them, then she frowned. The bourbon. And if she could smell it, so, probably, could others. Well, what the hell? Other men had come here straight from work after a bump from the office bottle or a stop at Eric’s in the Franklin Street Mall. Teach took a good comprehensive whiff of himself and got it all: the musky sweat of violence and fear, the tang of blood and whiskey.
After a brief overture, the curtain rose on a woodland scene Teach thought must have been painted by a descendant of the tapestry maker. A line of girls flowed onto the stage in pink tutus, white tights, and pink toe-shoes. Their hair was blond and bunned, and each wore a white blossom on the crown of her bun. These girls, Teach had learned, were the corps de ballet.
Several of them were pretty. They were all earnest and deeply imbued with the seriousness of The Dance. But none of them, Teach knew from years of these evenings, was talented. And wait a minute, there was a new girl. A black girl. She tottered in on uncertain toes, her movements a little too robust for the corps. Watching her, Teach knew she was an athlete. He could see her running the hurdles or doing the Fosbury flop over a high-jump bar. A spirited girl, she seemed trapped up there on the stage, her eyes a little panicky, her energy too large for this subtle rite.
Sitting here amongst these complacent burghers, listening to the lilting music, watching these daughters of
Teach quickened his step and prepared his smile. It was always strange for him, stepping into the opulence of the ballroom. The varnished mahogany wainscoting, the crystal chandelier shedding its pink light on the damask tapestry with its stilted scene of serene men on horseback spearing a lion that seemed to be in no particular pain. The murmur of conversation that would suddenly quiet as the lights went down and the music began to play and the first dancers appeared on stage, shy and brave and fragile.
Teach rested the old Minolta SLR on his right coat sleeve, concealing the bloodstain. He would look, he hoped, perfectly natural entering this way. A club woman gave him a program and a gentle frown for his lateness. Teach deferred the pleasure of opening the program to see Dean listed as principal dancer. He stood behind the last row of seats, imagining his wife, Paige, somewhere in the sea of organdy and silk. That she had not lived to see their daughter in this role seemed a crime of fate, a sin worse than any of Teach’s own. He closed his eyes and saw Paige where he knew she would have sat, halfway down on the aisle. In his mind’s eye, she lifted her head to look around for him, her shining honey-blond hair in the usual chignon. She’d had a good neck, long and smooth, and a heartbreaking wisp of hair had always escaped the chignon just under her left ear.
As he started down the aisle to find a seat, a hand took his arm, turning him. A red-faced man in a pink blazer looked petulantly at him and said, “Please.”
Teach stepped aside as the man ushered a tall, fiftyish black man and his wife down the aisle to the reserved front row. Stately was the word that formed in Teach’s mind. The way the couple moved, the way they claimed the usher’s deference and the attention of this prosperous audience. The black man walked with a musical grace, and his dark suit was rakishly cut for a man of his age.
The man’s wife carried herself with regal dignity. The entire ballroom watched them settle in the first row next to a couple Teach recognized as the mayor of Tampa and his wife. The two couples smiled and greeted each other comfortably, and the lights began to go down.
Teach hurried down the aisle in the half dark, excused himself across the knees of a sixtyish couple, and dropped down next to a diamond-beglittered matron. He smiled at the woman, who inclined her head toward him and sniffed. Her nose worked on the air between them, then she frowned. The bourbon. And if she could smell it, so, probably, could others. Well, what the hell? Other men had come here straight from work after a bump from the office bottle or a stop at Eric’s in the Franklin Street Mall. Teach took a good comprehensive whiff of himself and got it all: the musky sweat of violence and fear, the tang of blood and whiskey.
After a brief overture, the curtain rose on a woodland scene Teach thought must have been painted by a descendant of the tapestry maker. A line of girls flowed onto the stage in pink tutus, white tights, and pink toe-shoes. Their hair was blond and bunned, and each wore a white blossom on the crown of her bun. These girls, Teach had learned, were the corps de ballet.
Several of them were pretty. They were all earnest and deeply imbued with the seriousness of The Dance. But none of them, Teach knew from years of these evenings, was talented. And wait a minute, there was a new girl. A black girl. She tottered in on uncertain toes, her movements a little too robust for the corps. Watching her, Teach knew she was an athlete. He could see her running the hurdles or doing the Fosbury flop over a high-jump bar. A spirited girl, she seemed trapped up there on the stage, her eyes a little panicky, her energy too large for this subtle rite.
Sitting here amongst these complacent burghers, listening to the lilting music, watching these daughters of
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