The Cop and the Chorus Girl (3 page)

“I'll be out in a minute, Maurice!” she caroled from the bedroom.

Pinpointing her location, Maurice forgot about Flynn and hurried to the bedroom door. “Oh, Miss Davis, I'm terribly sorry the Honeymoon Suite isn't ready yet. We weren't expecting you for several more hours and—”

“Cool your tamales, Maurice.”

The bedroom door opened, and another woman walked out into the suite.

She was even prettier than Dixie Davis—tall and slim, with laughing blue eyes and a wide, happy mouth. But she wasn't caked with makeup or dressed like a ride at Disneyland. Gone was the flamboyant showgirl. In her place arrived a fresh-faced young woman with an eye-popping figure and a sweet smile. Barefoot and wearing a pair of snug, faded jeans and a man's plain white T-shirt that was loose everywhere but across her generous breasts, she looked delectable and innocently young.

Her hair was blond and cut short in a face-framing pixie style that accentuated the sharpness of her chin and nose.

From one slender hand dangled an enormous blond wig.

Flynn blinked and realized the woman
was
Dixie Davis—but without her trademark haystack of hair, the gaudy clothes and the hooker's makeup. She tossed her wig onto the sofa beside her hat.

Flynn was speechless. Her transformation was amazing.

“Now, Maurice,” she soothed, curling her arm around the concierge's trembling one. “Don't worry about a thing. I just came up with a plan to surprise Joey.”

“A—a surprise?”

“Precisely. I hope I can count on you to help?”

“Well, I—I— It won't get me—or the hotel—into any trouble, will it?”

“Of course not!” She laughed sweetly. “Would I toss you into the pigpen, Maurice?”

“Not you, Miss Davis, but Mr. Torrano is—”

“Just leave Joey to me, Maurice.” She patted his arm placatingly.

“Will you be moving to the Honeymoon Suite?” the concierge asked, still a little nervous.

Dixie bit her lip as if to hold back a flirtatious smile and shook her head. “Not yet. I'd like to stay in this suite without Joey knowing I'm here. For just a couple of days, you understand.”

A smile broke across the concierge's perspiring face. “Oh, of course, Miss Davis!”

“You'll keep an eye peeped for Joey, right? I, er, don't want his surprise spoiled.”

“I'll alert security immediately.” The little man bent forward and bestowed a kiss on Dixie's hand. “You can count on the Plaza, Miss Davis.”

A dimple popped on her cheek as she smiled. “That's wonderful, Maurice.”

She ushered him to the door of the suite. “Now, don't worry about a thing. I'll be out of your hair quicker than an armadillo out of a sausage grinder, I promise!”

“You can stay as long as you like, Miss Davis.”

“That's downright neighborly, Maurice, honey.”

When the concierge was gone, Dixie leaned against the closed door and said with an amused sigh, “He'll change that tune as soon as Joey stops paying my bill.”

Flynn folded his arms across his chest. “Miss Davis, I think you've got some explaining to do. I don't understand most of what's going on. Maybe it would be better if I just left.”

“No! Please, don't go.”

“I've got to get to work.”

“Well, could you take a few days off from the garage?” she asked, heading for the kitchenette.

Flynn followed. “The garage?”

“Where you work on your motorbikes. Couldn't you take a little vacation?”

“What for?”

“I've got a proposition for you.”

Flynn's imagination immediately came up with several possible propositions—all of them including scenarios that required the removal of clothing that casually clung to Dixie's curvaceous figure. Flynn had a good idea of what she would look like naked, but he wondered exactly what shade her nipples might be, what the texture of her skin would feel like, how her voice might sound softly whispering nonsense in his ear. He could feel his whole body tingle and harden at the thoughts that crowded into his mind.

Unaware of Flynn's nosedive into sexual fantasy, she opened the refrigerator and removed two apples. Calmly, she offered him one of the pieces of fruit. “I'd like you to stick around and help me.”

He accepted the apple automatically, although he wasn't thinking about his stomach. “Doing what?”

“I heard you tell Maurice you were my bodyguard.” She polished her apple on the belly of her T-shirt and regarded Flynn. “That was pretty quick thinking.”

“I had to come up with something.”

She bit into her apple and chewed, studying Flynn carefully. “Would you be interested in the job?”

“What job?”

“Guarding my body. So to speak, that is.” She swallowed her bite of apple and headed for the living room in an easy saunter that showed how perfectly her jeans fit the curves of her hips and thighs. “I mean, I might be needing some protection. Nothing life threatening, but it would be nice knowing there was somebody around here if I needed a—well, a witness or something.”

“You want somebody to beat up your boyfriend if he comes around,” Flynn guessed.

“Heavens, no! Although I'm still amazed by the way you stopped George in his tracks.” Dixie sat down on the sofa and folded her long legs Indian-style. “Joey's not a violent man. But sometimes he loses his temper.”

“And then what happens?”

“He shouts a lot,” she admitted, studying her apple. “I hate shouting, so I'd like to avoid him. I want somebody around for a few days while I take care of some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Theater stuff. Don't worry.”

But Flynn
was
worried. As a cop he knew he'd never get a better chance to get the goods on Joey Torrano. The Organized Crime Unit had spent the past two years trying to dig up evidence to use against the nefarious mob boss, but nothing useful had landed in the laps of the police. Until now.

But looking at Dixie Davis as she sat on the sofa nibbling her apple and looking anything but prim, Flynn knew it would take a stronger man than himself to resist her charms long enough to locate some evidence against her mobster boyfriend.

She looked up, and her blue eyes seemed endlessly deep as she awaited Flynn's answer. Her bottom lip was moist from the apple. Her blond hair wisped delicately along her temples, and Flynn's fingers itched to brush it away from her brows. There he'd press light, nibbling kisses.

“What do you say?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. “I could pay you—oh, a hundred dollars a day. Plus expenses if you don't like expensive restaurants. How about it?”

Flynn didn't trust his voice and cleared his throat before speaking. “You don't know anything about me.”

She smiled. “I'm a quick judge of character.”

“Quick doesn't mean good. Maybe I'm your worst enemy.”

“I don't kiss my worst enemies,” she said softly. “And they don't kiss me back the way you did.”

Flynn's mouth went completely dry. “Miss Davis—”

“I have rules about men,” she said quickly. “I don't let anybody get too close. I know what I look like—some kind of cheap call girl, right?”

“Not right now.”

With a wry smile, she ruffled her short hair. “But most of the time I look like a hooker on parade. Believe me, I know. It's all an act, though. It's show business. But I've learned not to trust men, you see. When I'm all dolled up, I know what most guys are after. But you're different.”

“Maybe not very different,” Flynn said dryly, thinking about the erotic fantasies he'd already indulged in.

She laughed lightly. “Yes, different. When I saw you on your motorcycle, you had a look in your eye. Kind of faraway. But definitely trustworthy.”

Flynn bristled. “Believe me, Miss Davis, I'm not a Boy Scout.”

“Let's put it this way,” she said hastily. “You looked safe. And you turned out to be the right man for the job today. Couldn't you stick with it a little longer?”

Flynn hesitated. “How long are we talking about?”

Her expression brightened. “A couple of days, that's all I need to clear up a few things. You could stay here and sleep on the sofa. Please?”

The sight of her ingenuous smile made Flynn's heart turn over. With her simple haircut and no makeup, she was even more appealing than the woman who'd kissed him in the street. This one was just as sexy, though. Just as beautiful. And she wore her heart on her sleeve.

He quelled the response that rose within him and said, “I have to make a phone call first. In private.”

“Sure!” She bounded off the sofa and threw her arms around his shoulders. “Oh, Flynn, I really appreciate this!”

She felt fabulous in his arms—her body lithe and full, her perfume sweet and tantalizing. How could she avoid sensing how turned on he was by her? She brushed another quick, electrifying kiss on Flynn's cheek and sent a dizzying smile up at him.

“Thanks.”

Then she hurried away to the bedroom and closed the door, leaving Flynn stunned and shaken. He waited until his blood pressure returned to normal before making contact with his superior officer.

Flynn telephoned Sergeant Dominick Kello, currently in charge of the Torrano investigation within the Organized Crime Unit of the N.Y.P.D. Flynn got through to the sergeant quickly and summarized his situation.

Sergeant Kello could hardly believe their good fortune. “This is the best break we've had in months!”

“I'm not so sure,” Flynn began. “What if I jeopardize the case?”

“What case? We haven't got a case! Maybe you'll finally get something we can use!”

“But she seems pretty innocent to me—”

“This is great!” crowed the sergeant, not hearing a word Flynn was saying. He covered the receiver, no doubt jubilantly announcing the news to the rest of the squad room. Flynn could hear the excited cheers and catcalls of his fellow cops as they heard where he was. Then the sergeant came back on the line. “Stick as close as you can, Flynn. Be her bodyguard, her chauffeur, her frigging costume changer if you have to!”

“I think that would be a very bad idea.”

“It's a damn brilliant idea! Why are you so uptight?”

“Because she's—”

Again the sergeant's voice cut across his. “Listen, Flynn. Do you have any idea how many guys would kill for this assignment? All you have to do is hang around a beautiful woman!”

An extremely attractive woman,
Flynn thought, clenching his jaw. Did Sergeant Kello have any idea how difficult it might be to simply think straight in the presence of somebody as sexy as Dixie Davis?

“Just stay there,” his boss commanded. “Do whatever you have to do to get us some information we can use to nail Torrano. Got that, Flynn? Whatever you have to do!”

D
ixie emerged from her bedroom wearing her huge wig again, along with a pair of fire-engine red cowboy boots, her tight blue jeans and a mouth-watering T-shirt. She carried a slouchy canvas bag over her shoulder and twirled a pair of cactus-shaped sunglasses in one hand.

Flynn put down the newspaper he'd been pretending to read after snooping through her suite. He had told himself he'd better snoop to keep himself from peeking through her bedroom keyhole.

At once, he noticed she was ready to leave. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To the theater, of course.”

He sat up straight. “The what?”

“I've got a show to do!”

Flynn scrambled up from the sofa. “What do you mean, a show? This was supposed to be your wedding day!”

“I'm the star of
The Flatfoot and the Floozie,
” she reminded him simply. “I've got seven shows a week—including matinees on Wednesday and Sunday. Unless I'm dying, I have to go to the theater.”

“But—but—” Flynn found himself sputtering with amazement. “I thought you wanted to hide from Joey Torrano! How can you do that on a Broadway stage?”

“That's your job,” she said with a laugh. “You're my new bodyguard, remember?”

“You can't possibly—I don't believe—”

But Dixie whirled away from him in a flounce of blond wig. Flynn tailed her to the door, where she checked her appearance one more time in the gilded mirror that hung there. Her reflection was enough to take a strong man's breath away.

She tugged an imaginary stray eyelash straight, then met Flynn's goggling gaze in the mirror. She smiled. “Well, how do I look?”

“You're not exactly going to blend into the scenery while sneaking out of the hotel.”

“Is that a compliment?” She headed for the door and seconds later stepped into the elevator.

“A statement of fact.” Flynn got in the elevator, too. “You're not the kind of woman anyone can ignore.”

“Thanks—I think. But don't worry. I've got a cab waiting in the alley outside the hotel kitchen. Nobody will see me leave. Will you come along?”

“That's my new job, right?”

“Yes—if you still want it.”

“I just don't think running around the city is a very good idea.”

“People are counting on me. Tonight's performance is sold out.”

“Don't you have an understudy?”

“I
am
the understudy,” she reminded him. “Joey replaced the original star with me. We haven't had time to train somebody else. I have to go on.”

“This seems like a crazy way to avoid the man you stood up at the church today.”

“I know I can't avoid him forever. But I'm going to try until I can get a few things settled at the theater.” As the elevator cruised to a stop in the basement, she shouldered her canvas bag again. “Ready?”

The elevator swished open, depositing Dixie and Flynn in the midst of the hotel's vast, bustling kitchen. The white-coated staff was deeply involved in preparing for the dinner hour, so hardly anyone looked up from their work to take notice of the two strangers slipping through their midst. But just as they neared the door, a shout went up and suddenly the whole kitchen was asking for autographs and pressing close.

Flynn fended off the mob and let Dixie slip out the door. She waved and called hello to everyone, but moments later Dixie was sliding across the back seat of a waiting taxi. Flynn climbed in after her.

“Hiya, Jerry,” Dixie greeted the driver. “Thanks for coming.”

The pudgy man sitting at the wheel grinned over his shoulder. “I haven't missed a night yet, Miss Davis. And I don't intend to. Who's the cop?”

Flynn stiffened. If he wanted to get any useful information out of his sojourn with Dixie Davis, he was going to have to keep his true identity a secret.

But Dixie laughed at the driver. “He's no cop! This is my new bodyguard. Flynn, meet Jerry. Jerry's been driving me ever since I got to town. I have his private number, and I call him anytime I need a ride. I hate trying to catch cabs in this town! And Jerry's discreet.”

Flynn nodded at Jerry, who gave him a suspicious stare in return. Jerry said, “I've lived in this city all my life. I know a cop when I see one.”

“Don't be silly, Jerry! Flynn is a mechanic in a garage, right? Shall we go?”

The driver didn't argue further, but continued to shoot glares into the rearview mirror.

The taxi sped across town in record time and dropped Dixie at the stage door of the theater where
The Flatfoot and the Floozie
was playing.

They were admitted through the stage door by an elderly man who'd been reading a racing form. Dixie explained who Flynn was and why he should be allowed into the building.

“Mr. Torrano didn't say nothing about somebody named Flynn. I got my list right here.” The guard held up a clipboard. “See? There's no cop listed here.”

“Flynn isn't a cop! For heaven's sake, Dwayne, what gives you that idea? He's my bodyguard, that's all!”

“He looks like a cop,” Dwayne said stubbornly.

And Dwayne looked like an ex-con to Flynn. They faced each other like a couple of wild animals who knew each other by instinct.

“He's not a cop.” Dixie put her hand on the clipboard, forcing it back down onto the guard's desk. “Let's just forget the rules this once, Dwayne. Can't you do me a favor?”

The guard tried to glower at Dixie, but it was impossible to look at her for more than five seconds without grinning. Dwayne manfully fought back his inclination to admire her. “I'm supposed to do what Mr. Torrano says. He pays the bills around here.”

“Money isn't everything, Dwayne.” Dixie widened her irresistible smile. “Remember that white-lightning cough syrup I made when you had bronchitis last week? It did the trick, right?”

Dwayne wavered. “Well...”

“Flynn's harmless, Dwayne. Trust me.”

The twinkle in her eyes coaxed a smile from Dwayne at last, and his resolve melted. With a reluctant smile, he waved them through. “All right, all right. Just for tonight.”

“Thanks, Dwayne!”

Over his shoulder, Flynn cast a glance at Dwayne and found the old guard glaring at him from behind his desk. There was a look in his eyes that Flynn knew well. An ex-con, all right.

Dixie led the way through a labyrinth of hallways and staircases—dark, echoing passages that seemed to tunnel deeply under the theater. Flynn made a mental note to memorize the layout as soon as possible. A cop never knew when he would need a back door. He could hear an orchestra warming up in the distance. Two men carrying an extension ladder hurriedly brushed past them. They called hello to Dixie, and she answered cheerily, not noticing how they nearly dropped the ladder and stared after her with goo-goo eyes.

Her dressing room lay midway along a hall lined with other doors—all of them decorated with pinups, greeting cards, cartoons and tinfoil stars.

A girl wearing a faded bathrobe, orange hair and elaborate stage makeup poked her head out of one door. She took one look at Dixie and squealed. “Dixie! Thank heavens, you made it! Hey, everybody! Dixie's here!”

At once, all the doors flew open and Dixie was engulfed by a crowd of chattering, cheering people dressed in wild outfits or very little clothing at all. Flynn had no hope of rescuing Dixie from the mob. Fortunately they all seemed delighted to see her.

“Tell us everything!” gushed a young man in a lime green zoot suit.

“Oh, Dixie, I can't believe you made it!” A petite young woman hugged Dixie with all her strength. “Thank heavens, you came! We thought we might have to cancel tonight's show.”

“The evening paper's got your picture—the whole story—everything!” A burly man with muttonchop whiskers and a handlebar mustache waved a newspaper over the heads of everyone.

“Dixie, Joey's going to kill you!”

“Is he going to close the show?”

“Who's this handsome hunk, Dixie? The one on the motorcycle who helped you escape the church?” The girl with orange hair smiled flirtatiously at Flynn. “His picture in the paper didn't do him justice. Hiya, good-lookin'.”

Dixie quelled the voices with a cheerful shout. “Calm down! Take it easy, everybody! We've got a show to do. We'll talk about all this stuff after the curtain!”

“But—”

“She's right,” commanded a man in work clothes. Flynn guessed he was the stage manager. He held up his wristwatch. “Places in one hour!”

“An hour!” Dixie yelped. “I've got to get ready!”

She dived into her dressing room and Flynn followed. The rest of the actors breathlessly scattered into their respective lairs to prepare for the show.

“Sit down anywhere,” she told Flynn, moving quickly to her cluttered dressing table.

Dixie had a routine for everything at the theater. She considered it bad luck to deviate from her regular schedule. First order of business was to make her dressing room cozy enough to relax in.

Opening her shoulder bag, she began by unpacking. First came her extra wig, her tap shoes, her makeup bag. Then came all her framed photographs, which she proceeded to line up amid all the junk on her dressing table.

“Who's this?” Flynn asked, surprising her by coming over and picking up the first photo.

“My father.” Dixie proudly removed the handsome walnut frame from Flynn's hand. She smiled at the portrait—a photo that caught the infamous “Downhome” Davis looking particularly dashing. The photographer had managed to catch his character perfectly—half Wild West sheriff and half elder statesman. “Papa's the mayor of Sweet Creek. Doesn't he look wonderful in that hat?”

“Um,” said Flynn, apparently unimpressed by her father's sartorial splendor. He reached for the second picture frame. “Good Lord, who's this?”

The second photo was a professional picture of Dixie's mother, Darlene Butterfield Davis, taken two decades earlier. Dixie leaned close. “Why, Mama, of course! She still looks just as fabulous. You should see her in a swimsuit!”

“Wow.” Flynn seemed mesmerized by the astonishing length of leg, the thrust of bosom, the wide grin of Dixie's mother. Her satin evening gown managed to gleam on the curves of her hips. Most men had found Darlene Butterfield Davis irresistible. Apparently Flynn wasn't immune to her charms, either.

“Doesn't she look great? Mama was Miss Texas two years running! Nobody's ever done that but her. She won't say what years, of course. She's sensitive about her age.”

“She's very...pretty.”

“Pretty! She's drop-dead gorgeous!”

“I can see where you got your, uh, your—”

“The famous Butterfield boobs? I know. They're a blessing and a curse. My granny Butterfield was in the Ziegfeld Follies and became one of the first topless dancers in Texas. She got herself arrested four times. Mama always said topless was tacky, so I've never done it. It does seem pretty silly, don't you think? Waving your chest around?”

Flynn was seized by a coughing spasm.

Dixie patted him on the back. “Mama got me started in show business.”

“She must be, er, proud of you.”

“I hope so. I have to do the Butterfield boobs proud, don't I?”

Flynn coughed again, but controlled it this time. He reached for the last two photos. “And who are these guys?”

“Oh, they're my—”

She didn't get a chance to finish. The telephone by her mirror rang once. Dixie jumped, startled, but made no move to answer the phone.

“What's the matter?” Flynn asked, instantly on guard.

“It's Joey,” she replied, staring at the phone as if it might jump up and bite her. “He always calls before the show.”

“Don't answer,” Flynn ordered. “I'll get it.”

“Wait, Flynn. I'm not ready yet—”

He picked up the receiver on the third ring.

Flynn wasn't sure what to expect. But he hated the look of panic on Dixie's face. “Hello?”

A long pause. Then a gruff voice rasped, “Put Dixie on.”

The voice was full of disdain, full of arrogance.

“Sorry,” Flynn said, sure he had the infamous Joey Torrano on the line. “You've got the wrong number.”

“Listen, whoever you are,” the voice snarled. “This is Torrano. Put that ditzy broad on the phone right now.”

Flynn hated the voice at once. He hated the contempt that dripped from every word. “Sorry, but you've got—”

“Let me talk to her now,” Torrano ordered. “Or I'll come down there and—”

Flynn hung up before the threat was finished.

The phone started to ring again almost immediately.

“Don't answer it,” Dixie begged. “I don't have time to get upset right now.”

“You're the boss,” Flynn replied, absurdly glad she didn't want to talk to the mobster. He waited until the caller gave up and then turned to Dixie. “Now what?”

“I have to get ready for Sven.”

“What's a Sven?”

“Not a what. Who. He's the masseur Joey hired for me. He'll be here any—oh, that's him now.” A short knock had sounded on the door and Dixie scooted to open it. “Hi, Sven, honey. Come on in!”

The already small dressing room was invaded by a huge young man who looked like a professional wrestler. In addition to a bright yellow headband that contained a spiked blond mohawk, he wore a clingy Gold's Gym T-shirt that showed off the glistening ripples of his chest and arm muscles. Skintight bicycle shorts clung to his massive thighs. He carried a portable massage table effortlessly under one bulging arm.

“Ready, Dixie?”

“Sure. Just give me a minute. Sven, this is my new bodyguard, Flynn. He's going to look after me for a little while.”

Sven gave Flynn a long, measuring look. “Hi.”