No one will be wise to this sad compromise
No one but you and the ache in your gut
A quickly pulsing bass-drum roll led into an extensive instrumental section—crying trumpets, sympathetic violins, disorienting cymbals. Beneath Margaret, the devil dancers sashayed around the stage and subtly gyrated. Slowly, cautiously, she walked to the end of the scaffolding, grabbed the thick black chain for balance, and began shifting her weight onto the next beam.
Above her, the random top-floor door opened, revealing the silhouette of a man. The figure was too stocky to be Charlie, but Margaret had allowed herself a moment of fantasy to imagine that it was. Where was Charlie now? The man retreated, then a different silhouette appeared, this one clearly Manny Fontaine, tux jacket gone, sleeves rolled up. He watched her for a moment, then, unbelievably, he leaped through the air and grabbed hold of a chain. It swung, and he shimmied down to the scaffolding she had just left with an athleticism that surprised her.
“The folder,” he said.
The deep chords of a pipe organ filled the arena, conveying menace. The sound almost drowned out Fontaine’s words. She stepped carefully along the narrow metal plank. Goddamn high heels.
“I don’t have it,” she said.
He jumped to the end of her plank, causing it to wobble and wheel. They both braced themselves as if they were surfing.
“You do,” he said. “And we have your friend.”
She suddenly realized he was right; she did have the real papers—not the forgeries Charlie had delivered earlier that evening. They were rolled up into a tube and crammed at the bottom of the purse she still had over her shoulder, though she wished she had remembered to ditch it along the way. She could just give him the papers, she thought, but then she’d have no leverage.
“Is this all worth it?” she asked, jumping to a lighting rig that swung back and forth like a carnival ride. “To cover up your sleazy sex club with little girls?”
“You’re an idiot,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, continuing toward her like a cat.
The door above them opened again. From her new vantage point she could see the same man whose name had been recorded earlier as requiring a seat-filler, the United Artists executive Les Wolff.
“Cut the shit,” Wolff hissed.
One slip and she or Fontaine or both of them could crash to the stage while tens of millions watched on television.
“You can chalk it up to hap-pen-stance!” Sinatra sang, the choreographed section over. Even in this state of hyper-attention to her balance and her goddamn high heels and the movement of the lighting rig, Margaret couldn’t help listening, and she glanced down at the stage. He was really cooking now, impassioned and selling it with his whole heart.
You convince yourself and you’re entranced
And the devil may dance
The devil may dance
What does Satan have on you now?
What have you done that fills with remorse?
A corruption, an evil, you cannot disavow
And you’re fearing no clearing, so it’s jail or divorce
The realization hit her like a punch. “You’re not just running a kiddie-sex ring, you’re running a blackmail ring,” she said to Wolff.
He didn’t respond.
“You film everything!” she said. “And Chris Powell found out. Maybe through the church.” She was deducing it all on the spot, but for the first time the randomness made sense.
“What a diabolical scenario,” Wolff said. It was dark, but Margaret could discern a smirk.
“It’s brilliant,” Margaret said. “A bunch of predators—why not victimize them? They deserve it. And they won’t complain about it!”
Wolff chuckled. “You’ve seen too many movies where the bad guy confesses everything before he kills the pretty girl,” he said. “You’re not Ingrid Bergman, and I’m not Charles Boyer. We just want the papers.”
“The thing I can’t figure out,” Margaret continued as if he hadn’t said a word, “was why you didn’t just blackmail Powell.”
Wolff didn’t say anything.
“I’m a very bright woman, Mr. Wolff, I have a PhD in zoology. But I confess I don’t have your genius when it comes to evil. Educate me.”
Wolff laughed, amused by her effrontery.
“I’m serious—you’ve clearly outwitted not just me but this whole city. I don’t know where you went to school or if you have much of an intellect, to be perfectly candid. I mean, I get that out here a deep tan, charisma, and a certain look—not to mention your ability to act the part—can go a long way. But I gotta admit, you’re pretty brilliant with this stuff.”
“You have to remember,” Wolff said, “not everyone can be blackmailed. Some people care more about other things than about their careers or reputations, so blackmail doesn’t work.”
“And Powell loved Lola more than his career or reputation?” Margaret asked. “Or maybe he was just disgusted that you used her as a whore when she was a child.”
“Who knows what motivated him,” Wolff said with all the nonchalance of someone wondering if it might rain. “Just an actor. A speck of dust.”
Margaret reached the end of the lighting rig, grabbed one of the chains, and jumped to the last remaining piece of scaffolding, causing the beam to sway wildly away from her. She clung to the chain as Fontaine, below, tried to grab her. He almost fell after attempting to lunge but caught himself and swung back onto the metal ledge, deploying his Special Forces training and Eighth Army Ranger expertise to help neutralize a mom trying to stop a child-sex-slave ring.
“I don’t know where you think you’re going,” Fontaine said.
The water grew warmer o’er the span of a lifetime
Now it’s boiling, you’re roiling, you look to your friend
But that pal you saw dancing, advancing, romancing
Wants your soul, that’s his goal, and this is the end
Margaret steadied herself, then inched along the swinging beam to the ladder. She was almost there when Fontaine jumped onto her scaffold. Margaret lost her balance; her flailing right arm hit the ladder, and she grasped a rung. Fontaine slid forward on his stomach, grabbed her by her hair, and yanked her toward him.
