The Girl They Sold to the Moon (5 page)

“Tuck your hair under the hat.” said Sue Lin, and took a box cutter from the counter and began cutting the clothes into strips, shredding pieces here and there, letting them hang off the body. Next she used a can of spray paint to dirty up the look. After she slathered pancake makeup on Tilly's face and added black smudges to the eye sockets, she stood back and said, “The living gawd damn dead. Wear whatever you think is sexy underneath, and I'll make this wardrobe a one-piece-breakaway. Then for your finale, you yank the costume off, kick your shoes into the crowd and pitch your hat across the stage. You'll have their eyes popping out of their heads when they see the real you.”

Sue Lin caught sight of someone throwing a temper tantrum with a wig. “You there! You are a complete asshole. Turn the wig around. It's backwards!” She turned back to Tilly. “Now, everything we have done has taken less than 12 minutes. I want you to prepare all of your acts in the same fashion, ready for quick changes like mini-productions. Give a lot of thought to each routine; timing is everything. I want enough acts and costumes for six days.”

Tilly looked in the mirror, made a scary face and clawed her fingers.
Zombie girl
. Maybe her stay here wouldn't be too bad after all. With a little luck and a whole lot of pluck, this could work. Maybe.

On the fifth day, when Tilly arrived at wardrobe, she didn't see Sue Lin around so she changed into her clothes and applied her makeup. She practiced some dance moves and tested her voice. She caught a guy watching her in the reflection of the mirror. Dressed in a suit with long tails and wearing a top hat, he looked like a magician, complete with pleated black cape. He had dark eyes under thick brows. After a while, she found his stare annoying, throwing her concentration off. She turned around and hunched her shoulders. The young man approached.

Tilly said, “So? What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just watching your warm-up. I fill-in between your acts. I don't think I've ever seen the walking dead getting pumped up to dance before. Sorry, I'm Buddy Gunner Bell. I'd give you my code number but that's all a bunch of crap.”

She looked him up and down. “I'll give you a little over three minutes of time. That's how long it takes me to change.”

“Suit yourself. More work for you, less for me. How long you in for?”

She looked over the tops of the racks and between the scurrying bodies, trying to spot Sue Lin. “Six months, unless I get time off for good behavior.”

“No time off except for a bonus break, but you have to be damn good and drag a lot of coin for that. I'll be here for five months. What's your name?”

“You'll hear it announced.” She went back to practicing her moves, watching Buddy Gunner Bell grin at her and walk away. Nice teeth, she thought. Long black hair parted in the middle. Hazel eyes. Not too shabby. She might have seemed rude, but right now she needed to pump herself up and find that “zone.”

“Ah, there you are!” Sue Lin bleated from across the floor, elbowing actors out of her way. She gave Tilly the once over, head to toe. “Not bad. Keep the hair tucked. You think of a stage name yet?”

“Sunshine will do. Some pig nicknamed me that in the beginning.”

“Good for you, Sunshine. You gonna knock ‘em dead?”

“I'm going to destroy them.”

“Who's the gawd damned sugar shack queen in this place?”

“I am!”

Sue Lin pumped both fists in the air, bobbing up and down. “Take no prisoners, only their money! You're a thief. How hot are you?”

Tilly found herself heated up and following along. “I'm nuclear hot. I'm a ruthless bitch!”

“That's what I want to hear!”

Pumped up, Tilly felt she could do cartwheels across the wardrobe floor. She realized that Sue Lin intended her to feel that way, which was a good ploy, considering what she faced. What better way to face this prison, this slave-labor camp than to get her head wrapped around something she loved—dance. Dance allowed her to tune out everything and everybody and completely forget where she was.
I can't survive here unless I ignore this shithole and create my own little selfish world.

“To the stage lift,” said Sue Lin, and took Tilly's hand, leading her down the wardrobe floor. They entered a corridor and ended up in a large control room that held large compressors, gears, and high-pressure lines. Several disks that had an Xs on them sat in the middle of the floor. Sue Lin explained they were lifts that would hoist her to the top of the stage. From there she had to brush through a fold of curtains and step out on the main stage.

Tilly stepped on a lift. She could hear music filtering down from above—some kind of high-energy ragtime beat. In the next moment, a lift descended from the ceiling, carrying a female performer dressed in a riotous collection of ostrich feathers, sequins and glitter. The girl gave Tilly a furtive glance, stepped off the disk and walked out of the control room. The girl looked like a goddess compared to Tilly, who felt like a train wreck in her rags and zombie makeup.

Sue Lin slapped her shoulder. “Pay no attention to that. Concentrate on
you
. Get ready…”

The elevator disk whooshed up and stopped suddenly. Tilly found herself in a curtained partition. A slit of light indicated the way out. She heard her music cue.

“And now,” said an announcer's voice, “all the way from Long Island, New York…United Western Mining proudly introduces the gangster of hip-hop…the serial killer of swing…the girl with the tsunami swagger…Sunshine!” Applause, catcalls, and whistles followed.

Tilly burst through the drapes and began the opening dance sequence, which was a slow walk with her hands in her pockets. Half of the applause died down when the audience got a real good look at her. Even though she did not show it, Tilly felt equally surprised at her first sight of the stage and the arena audience. The motif of the Amazon Lounge was South American jungle. Large ceramic trees took up strategic positions in the aisles, while colorful animatronic birds and monkeys moved upon tracks through synthetic branches. A brass rail surrounding the elevated half-moon stage had huge rubber snakes coiled around it from one end to the other. Maitresses and slingers, wearing leopard-print leotards, moved in and around the tables, shuffling food orders and drinks. Tilly had no idea of the capacity of the lounge but guessed it had to be close to 5,000 patrons, most of which consisted of bearded minors. The capacity looked to be about half full. A few women sat at the tables, obvious escorts or girlfriends. Tilly tried to spot Fia in the dim aisles, but couldn't find her face.

The crowd seemed tense, wound up like a taut wire ready to snap. A few men stood up and hurled crumpled napkins. She saw bar police merging into the crowd. She had to do something quick in order to gain control. She did a dance-strut up to the rail and glared down at the audience members. She jumped up to come back down in an animal crouch, hissing and clawing at them. This pulled a few laughs. The music volume rose. She put everything into it, exaggerating the moves, hitting every beat, pausing for effect. She could feel the vibration of the air speakers pumping the staccato base beats, the throb of the drums, the full symphony blasting away. A few dozen men came out of their seats to stand and gawk. Three men staggered down the aisle, drinks in hand, eyes on the lithe girl in the zombie makeup. Five, then ten minutes of accelerating energy passed.

Just before her end sequence, Tilly danced up to the end of the rail. The overhead lights cutout, replaced by blue neon floods. She froze, then she kicked off her shoes, sending them flying out into the crowd. She grabbed her hat and pitched it into the air. With a stark yank, she pulled the breakaway suit form her body, revealing a sheer string bikini underneath. She dropped into the splits and threw her head back, flipping her hair just as the music hit a dramatic crescendo.

It started in a wave from one end of the arena to the other; nearly all the audience members rose to get to their feet. Those who couldn't stand due to inebriation were hoisted upright by their fellows. Hands came together in applause, fists pounded tabletops. Tilly swore she heard glassware breaking somewhere. Men bellowed her stage name. Others flocked to the rail, jockeying for a view of the new girl. Tilly ate it up, giving them an open-mouthed smile, winking at the flushed faces. She performed a back roll somersault and sprung to her feet, taking a deep bow. All manner of items were thrown onto the stage, including notes, flowers, room keys, hats, even a few toupees. Then hard objects rained down on her, pelting her from every direction. She covered her head and ducked. She glanced down and saw some objects roll to a stop.

Gold Imperials.

Tilly knew better than to pick them up, since they would be gathered by mining company personnel. Too bad—she'd earned every one of them. Some of the men's voices broke through the din.

“How's about your pubicle in my cubicle, baby!”

“You belong to Papa Dog tonight!”

She back-shuffled when she saw men swarming over the rail. A shoving match ensued. Punches were thrown. Bar police fought their way through the crowd, but a few of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. A screech alarm pierced the air. The stage and audience lights brightened. Several men upended their tables, knives and forks caught in the gleam of the overhead lights.

Tilly backed up into the curtains. A hand reached out and grasped her by the wrist. Pulled through the partition, she recognized her rescuer as the magician Buddy Gunner Bell. “There are no encores when something like this happens,” he said urgently. “You vanish. Get on the lift!”

Tilly did as she was told and jumped on the disk. She dropped to the basement a few seconds later. Some of the gold Imperials fell down the lift shaft, clinking on the pavement. Sue Lin grabbed her by the arm and ran her to the wardrobe area. Anarchy reigned above—thuds and knocks, the siren screaming. Sue Lin sat Tilly in a chair and wiped her brow. Some of the actors and singers gathered around her chair. A few pointed at her. Most of them stared in dumb silence.

Tilly clapped her hand to her cheeks. “Things went nuts all of a sudden!”

“It happens sometimes,” said Sue Lin. “But nothing like this, ever. I knew you were good, but not
that
good.”

“Well that's too bad. I have to get ready for the next act.”

“No, too dangerous. We'll have to wait for the all clear.” Sue Lin looked behind her toward the corridor leading to the lift. “You just brought the house down, old style, girl.” Sue Lin looked at the floor. She had a coin stuck in the seam of her shoe. She kicked it up, catching it deftly in her hand. “A thousand dollar Imperial,” she said, aghast. “With any luck the tip intake will cover the damages and injuries. If not…” She cackled. “Well, too damn bad then! We have ourselves a headliner here, doncha know!”

Tilly didn't know what to expect when she sat across from the President of Entertainment and Leisure for United Western Mining. Abigail Rogers wore old fashion eyeglasses, a gray suit with bow tie, and had her silver hair up in a tight bun. The woman was so ancient she looked skeletal and ready to shed dust. Her green eyes popped goiter-like behind the thick lenses. Judging from her office, she fared well when it came to home comforts, like air sofas, potted plants and sculptures. A large colored schematic map of Tranquility Harbor took up most of the wall behind her, showing all of the blocks, lounges, and businesses run by the Entertainment division. Service plaques and trophies adorned one long shelf high up on a sidewall.

Fia and Sue Lin had come along. They were there to answer any questions about the incident at the Amazon Lounge. Because of the disturbance, the lounge had lost an hour's revenue and suffered some structural damage, in addition to 14 hospitalizations and four arrests.

Abigail bit her lower lip and looked at the three women, but her gaze settled on the main player. “Fortunately,” said the president, “the tip pool surpassed the damages incurred by a factor of ten to one. Over $125, 000 was taken in for one 15-minute dance segment, by you, Tilly Breedlove, AKA Sunshine.”

Tilly nodded.

Abigail looked at her coach. “Sue Lin, did you suggest and-or choreograph this routine?”

“I did not, Ms. Rogers. Due to time constraints, I did not witness a preview. The young woman came prepared before I met her and began the instruction. I only assisted with the wardrobe and makeup.”

Abigail nodded. “Miss Bluestone, did you witness this dance number while you were on the main floor?”

“I did, snatches of it from the kitchen entrance.”

“Did either of you see Tilly, taunt, tempt, tease, rile, or in any other way insult any of the audience members through words, signs or gestures?”

Fia shook her head. “I didn't see behavior like that. Just a normal dance routine that, I thought, was done really well. I think the Dogs stepped over their own balls…pardon, and caused the disturbance by becoming overly excited.”

Abigail grunted. “I've seen the replay tape—a stunning performance, actually. It was an unusual concept, using the ragamuffin look until the end, where you burst out of your coverings to reveal your true form. Since I've been informed that you favor the genre of this music, and the artist, Tilly, I would suggest that you tone down your energy level to a more tolerable and less-energetic routine.”

Sue Lin leaned forward, a gleam in her eyes. “You have to admit she's a draw. She boosted the lounge income 28 percent in one 15-minute session. We had to shut down. She's blameless. You know the Prairie Dogs. Anything can and has set them off, including over-exuberance.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Abigail.

“Her popularity can only increase now that she's put a foot on the stage,” said Sue Lin. “Why not put forth some extra security measures whenever she appears? Station more bar police down by the rail. Water the drinks. Use some lighting tricks to diminish her profile.” Sue Lin leaned back into her chair. “Christ, Abigail, let's not pull any punches here. Run her numbers. She has the index and hallmarks of a headliner. We haven't had such a high-ticket flame since Jo Jo-goddess Arnold, three years ago. She might even draw Earth-side vacationers—whales. I say cut her loose and beef up our end of it.”