The curtain swept across the stage extinguishing the audience with shimmering purple satin. Annette, flouncing the sagging gold and silver spangles, strode through the disintegrating chorus line. Sequined fingernails released her hair into a cascading auburn wave as she pressed through the sweat and chatter. Cold anger filled her as she approached the dressing room. Marci'd just got the lead in McNary's new production—a role Annette was born for.

The dressing room door was half open and Marci's raucous laugh spilled out. Annette pushed the door open, knocking Danielle, in her sexy Santa Claus outfit on her ass. Silence, then Danielle, snarled. "Hey, watch it, bitch."

"Shove it. I don't need your shit." Annette spit back.

"Well, you ain't the only one who's tired. This fucking costume is hot." Danielle said rising and smiling," Doing Santa Claus in March. Can you believe it?"

Marci, sitting on the makeup table, brushed her blonde hair across her shoulder and sopped a Kleenex in facial cream. Marci flicked the Kleenex into Annette's face. Black anger—Annette slapped the Kleenex on the floor.

"You cunt," Annette gritted back.

"Fuck-off, hag," Marci spit in Annette's face.

Annette leaped on Marci. Ivory skin and smearing makeup, the two locked together, eyes flashing with anger. Eye-liner dripping, Annette slammed Marci across the table of smearing lipstick and rouge, her fingers clawing toward the lavender lidded eyes. Darkness enveloped as her head was jerked back and she was smothered in Danielle's Santa hat... Marci's hands on her bodice... ripping downward... darkness... Danielle's laughter spilled through the velvet darkness, then the Santa Claus hat was pulled from Annette's face and Marci shoved her on her ass. Annette sat legs splayed staring upward at Marci's net stockings.

"You think your tough bitch. Give it another go," Marci laughed.

Annette started to rise, but Marci kicked her in the gut, she coughed and grabbed Marci's leg. Marci, grabbed Annette on by the hair and pulled her up close face to face.

"Finished," Marci voice stung, "You're finished bitch."

"Marci, quit fucking around. Let her up." Juli, a big mulatto hoofer cut in.

"Why?"

"I said so. This dressing room ain't no place for your power trips. Let her go."

Suddenly, Marci tossed Annette on her ass and backed off. Smiling, she picked a pack of Benson and Hedges off the vanity. Lighting a cigarette she tossed the burning match in Annette's lap and laughed. Annette, knocked the match to the floor and clambered to her feet. Marci and Danielle were grinning. She turned and sat in her cubicle and looked in the mirror.

The round lights illuminated tears of running mascara. Pain filled her face. Her ankle hurt. Maybe, she should look into cortisone, dammit. It was supposed to help. She knew a doctor who would prescribe it. Competing with the young girls was a bitch. The directors loved new talent... the bastards.

'Thirty-three years old, I'm not over-the-hill,' Annette thought, stripping her torn costume to the floor. Stepping out of it, she sat down and looked at her foot. It was swollen. Carefully she bent her naked body and washed her ankle with the DMSO she kept in her dressing table. She knew the stuff was illegal, but it was the only thing that kept her on the line. Her skin turned burning red, but it felt better already. She smiled grimly, she'd be ready for next Tuesday's show. Drunk she'd stumbled stepping out of the cab last night. Just what she needed—a fucked up ankle. There was a pounding on the door—the girl's looked up.

It was Johnny, the skinny long-haired assistant director. The faggot was handing out pay checks—good. In a flurry of flushed flesh Marci and Danielle jumped him as he dealt out the loot. Annette still simmering, waited, butt perched against the dressing table. Johnny walked over and handed her her envelope, a thin yellow smile creased his lips. She smiled back but he wouldn't meet her eyes—just left her with the limp envelope.

He walked away and she felt hollow, breathless. Something was wrong. She ripped open the envelope with a lacquered nail and pulled out the check. Her eyes tried to dart from the pink note behind it. The director wanted to see her. Fuck it! She knew what was happening. In blue jeans and tennis shoes she walked to Nate Keller's office. For a moment she stood before the greasy wooden door. Fuck it, she knocked.

"Come on in," Nate growled.

She pushed the door open.

"Sit down honey. How do you feel?"

"Fucked, Nate... I'm a little tired, but all right. What's the pink slip shit?"

"You're through."

"Nate... no not now."

"Time's a bitch baby. You ain't a kid no more. Look at that ankle you think you can dance on that. You ain't kidding no one."

"Jesus Nate."

"Look, I gotta show to look after. I don't have time to baby-sit. Clean out your locker."

"Thanks."

"Get your ass out of here."

"You bastard."

"That truth stuff's a bitch. Get out of here."

She turned.

"Annette..."

"Yeah..."

"Kill 'em."

"They're already dead."

Walking down Broadway, Annette looked for a cab. The crowd bustled, hustlers, con-artists, bums, and executives hustling from one deal to the next. It'd been fifteen years since she'd come to New York a green high-school kid and hit the stage kicking. Times had been good...the money had been fair, the guys...Annette smiled to herself... the guys had been all right. Too bad she'd never married rich.

Mark, that bastard, she'd lived with for eight years—good fucking all. But he'd split to Hollywood to write for the movies last spring—and fell on his ass and ended up with a waitress at Pismo Beach. She'd thought of going to L.A. Marked begged her to go. But what was there for a thirty-three year-old chorus girl to do out west? Vegas, maybe. A yellow cab cruising the street, caught her eye, dented and dirty, her kind of transport. She gave it a whistle that turned heads—a special talent learned in the wheat fields.

The driver slammed the cab across two lanes of traffic and into the curb. She stepped over the dirty-black pavement and slipped into the back seat next to a half dozen gum wrappers and worn out newspapers. She pulled the door shut and looked at the cabby, an Arab, who was stared back at her through half-dollar sized ringlets, his black eyes glistening from behind gold, wire-framed glasses—probably a member of the inner circle.

"Where you wanta go," he asked in thick Brooklynese.

"Want to go... I want to go away...", she laughed. "Away... take me away."

"I'd love to baby, come with me."

"Spare me."

Again, penetrating black eyes.

"Okay, Twenty-two Park Avenue."

Slamming the car into gear the driver gunned out into the traffic, driving a housewife in a station wagon over two lanes, frightened children stared back clawing at the windows. Annette settled back into the worn cushions. Fuck, this was the end of the road. Fanfuckingtastic! What the fuck was she growing older or something? Okay... so she was. Anyway, she had a few grand in the bank. Big deal. She had to figure out a scam out of this mess. Go home?

Home—she'd gone home. Yeah, last Christmas, and visited Betty, her best friend in high school. Betty was the divorced mother of two kids now, lived in a trailer court collecting welfare. Betty'd put on a few pounds, too. Annette smiled, dancing had kept her fit, she still had her figure. She uncoiled a leg and stretched it across the seat—lean, muscular and powerful; she caught the driver eyeing her through the rear view mirror... she still had it.

Yeah, that trip home... Illinois, flatlands white with snow, dour-visaged relatives telling her about their pituitary problems. She crushed out the cigarette and lit another. She still had what it took, she knew that. Illinois—the farm and Mom and Dad—Daddy can I come home? I'll be a good girl now, slop the hogs, feed the chickens—no more big dreams and kicking up my heels in New York City. I'll settle down and marry some hick and raise grandchildren for you. Just take me in, give me a chance. Yeah, some chance... fuck it.

She lightly ran her tongue over her lower lip as she stared out at the junkies and the hookers hanging out on the street corners. No going home for her. The city was in her blood, the grime and sweat of it, not just the stage lights. It was the city. She was addicted to Manhattan... she was an islander... sure, that was it. It was as simple as that... The big apple, Broadway, she laughed through her teeth at the thought of herself, on some dusty small town street. New York was for her... she'd never go back, never.

The cabby dropped her off in front of her co-op, a large gray building rising into a sky illuminated by a yellow moon glowing through the orange haze. She tipped the driver a buck and gave him a big smile. He scowled at her, wanting more. The whole world wants more, she thought, too fucking bad. Smiling at the cabby she blew him a kiss and spun to give him a good look at her legs and ass.

The gray-haired doorman smiled and opened the door as he tipped his hat and said, "How'd the show go Annette?"

"It sucked Harold. Show's over—monkeys dead."

"Don't worry, you'll get another."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Janis home?"

"She came in about an hour ago."

"Alone?"

"Yes, her boyfriend dropped her off. He was driving that red Ferrari of his."

"Thanks," she said giving him a smile. The elevator door opened, she entered and turned around. Harold was still watching her, so she gave him a salute and punched the button for the twenty-second floor. The doors closed and the elevator shot skyward, depositing her in the lush luxury that was the hallway, pink and white and blue. Inside the apartment Janis was sitting on the couch in a blue slip, her legs kicked up on the coffee table, watching the Playboy channel and drinking white Chablis.

"Hey, Annie how's it going?" she asked, not looking up.

"I got fired."

"You're lucky. It was a stinker. How'd your audition with McNary go."

"Fucked. He likes 'em young. Marci got the part."

"Figures. McNary's wife moved in with a painter down in Soho last week. You used to think he was cute," Janis said looking up from her drink.

"He's a shit," Annette threw her coat on the couch. "Anymore of that wine left?"

"It's in the fridge."

"Anyway, McNary's been fucking Marci. That's why his old lady bailed." Annette said, pouring herself a glass of Chablis.

"McNary always holds his auditions in bed. His old lady cleaned out the checking account and split. Marci's moving in. Word is she's gonna be a monster talent."

"That monster's got everything it takes for super-stardom. I shoulda fucked director's rather than outta work writers. Wanta to go out for a drink tonight?" Annette asked.

"Nah, Gino's gonna pick me up at eleven. He wants to go down to Atlantic City and play blackjack. He says I bring him luck. It cost him." Janis said holding out her wrist wrapped in the coils of a solid gold snake with emerald eyes.

"Impressive. You gotta a show tomorrow?"

"Sure, but mother's little helper..."

"Don't..."

"Just a little," Janis's lying eyes smiled at Annette, "Ah, by the way, Gino told me that Toni wants to take you out."

"Toni the one with the big nose?"

"You ever met an Italian with a little nose?"

"Doesn't your mouth ever get you in trouble."

"Gino tells wop jokes all the time. He don't mind as long as he gets what he wants.

We're two of a kind."

"The basics?"

"Toni's got connections. He might line you up with something."

"Like what?"

"Whatever you want. TV ads... you know... I think he owns a tampon company."

"I can just see myself advertising panty-liners."

"Five thousand bucks a shot."

"Five thousand bucks?"

"I don't know. In this business you gotta negotiate your own deals. Like Emerald eyes."

"Tell Toni to have Gino give me a call."

"Yeah, hey look at this," She pointed at the TV, "They've got that ice skating queen staring in Fanny does Philadelphia."

"The one implicated in the coke ring?"

"Yeah, she was all over the papers a few years ago, the media made a real circus over it."

The cab stopped in the Lower East Side in an industrial neighborhood, dark and filthy. Annette looked out the window and saw Georgi standing next to a dumpster. She looked at Georgi with contempt. Georgi was five-foot-six and weighed 300 pounds. He was dressed in a worn-bomber jacket and had a soft cap pulled low over his eyes. He spotted her and nodded. She handed the driver a ten and said, "Keep the change."

"Thanks," the Irishman replied, exposing a friendly gap-toothed grin. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm all right."

Annette slammed the door and stepped and stepped on the sidewalk. Dressed in an elegant green sheath skirt and matching pumps, the wind chilled her for a second and the skin on her neck shuddered. For an instant she considered getting back in the cab and saying to hell with it. What was going on anyway? Weirdness abounded. Georgi smiled at her with a greasy fat-guy smile and the cab got away—so much for retreating.

She edged across the pavement toward Georgi who leaned against the paint pealing building trying to light a cigarette with paper matches. It took him a couple of tries but he got the cigarette lit. He inhaled then blew a ring of gray-blue smoke towards Brooklyn, his eyes glistening in the lamp light as she approached.

"Hi babe."

"Where's Toni?" Annette asked, stopping a dozen feet from Georgi.

"He'll be here. I'm supposed to see that nothin' happens to you."

"Why this neighborhood?"

"You ask a lotta questions."

"I like to know what's going on."

"Toni's got business around here and it ain't far from the tunnel. I live down the block. So, I do him a favor."

"He should have been here by now," she said, her rouged cheeks crimsoning in the vapid mercury glare. "I don't like this."

"What's to like? Don't worry, he'll be here. Toni always keeps his appointments."

"He was supposed to be here by eleven. It's ten after now," she said, stretching her body inside the lavender waist coat. Her muscles were tense in the chill of the evening, the angry coils of a dancer not performing.

"Maybe he wants to see how you act. You know he's an important man... an intelligent man. This work ain't for everybody." 

Her eyes hardened.  "I'm leaving," she said and turned around and tucked her purse under her arm and walked toward a telephone booth down the street. Toni's voice trailed after her.

"That phone don't work. You gotta go down by the Battery to get one that works," Georgi's words were soft against the cold wind rising off the river. "That's a lotta blocks in this part of town. Specially for a good lookin' dame, alone."

Annette spun toward the big man, eyes flashing, and hissed, "Who in the hell does Toni think he is?"

"Toni's Toni."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It don't mean nothing. Cool down. He'll come."

"Doesn't he know who I am?"

"He knows. That's why he'll be here. He likes classy dames."

"Classy dames!" she stepped toward him. "You don't know who you're talking too."

"I know who I'm talking to. There are lots of dames in this town. You should be glad Toni picks you. This ain't Broadway, you're not on stage no more. Jobs is hard to come by. Calm down and relax. You don't wanta have a heart attack."

"Maybe I don't want to be picked."

"Why you here then?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you, hot-shot. Nobody ain't forcing you to be here are they?"

"Nobody's forcing me to do anything."

"I didn't think so."

Annette looked at Georgi for a moment, even though it was cold, he was sweating. A cold sweat suddenly ran down her neck.

"Why are you here, anyway?" she asked, moving up close to him, her perfume spreading a silky aura around her. "Why do you have to be here? Toni said you operate the laundry... don't you?"

"Yeah, I operate a laundry off Mulberry Street. I clean people's dirty clothes for a living."

"I don't see why Toni wanted you to be here. This is between Toni and me. I think you should get out of here."

Georgi shifted his bulk and gravel crunched beneath his Florsheims. He looked down the dark empty street. A pair of lights approached slowly down the streets, dimpled the standing water on the asphalt.

"You want to be alone, here... on the street? I can leave if you want. It's just that Toni asked me to come. I did it as a favor to Toni."

She looked around at the sooty building ands the black river sliding silently past. When she glanced at Georgi it was with eyes lowered slightly, the heavy green eye-liner glistened in the street-lights. She said huskily, "No, I don't want to be alone."

"That's right. Be a good girl. Look, here he comes now," Georgi held a pudgy hand out towards the oncoming as its lights lit her up casting sparkling sequins into the night.

"You sure that's him?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's his Lincoln."

A black Lincoln with mirrored windows flashing reflections of mercury arcs pulled up at the curb. The rear window lowered an inch as the chauffeur jumped and moved around the car. Annette, strutted a few steps forward, smiling nervously. The chauffeur flashed raven eyes on her.

"You Annette Darling?" the chauffeur asked.

"Yes, of course."

The chauffeur opened the door and Toni's smile dazzled her. Bronzed, tall and slender, in a tux, his perfect smile beckoned. Annette smiled, but her feet were frozen to the sidewalk, hair glistening, legs slightly spread, a statue of quivering flesh.

"Get in Miss Darling," the chauffeur uttered.

The earth moved. From behind Georgi's hand touched her elbow, and she was in motion, slipping onto the slathered leather, moving at Georgi's hand's insistence closer to Toni. Toni flashed his perfect white teeth at her and took her hand.

"Miss Darling, I'm Toni Bentrilli.

"Uh thanks... you usually meet women in places like this?"

"I was raised just down the block... you're perfectly safe here as long as you're with me, or Georgi."

Georgi settled in next to Annette. Startled, Annette eyed Georgi as the chauffeur closed the door.

"What do you think, boss?" Toni asked.

"A little scared, but she'll do," Georgi answered, smiling. "She's smart. That's good."

"What's going on?" Annette asked shifting nervously in her tight skirt.

"Like I said, kid, this ain't Broadway." Toni chuckled.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked as the car started moving.

"Where you've been heading for a long time."

"What are you talking about?"

"What do you think I'm talking about. Everybody's gotta make a living. I gotta make mine, you gotta make yours. It's the way of the world."

"You can't do this."

"It's up to you... You want out? We can let you out right here."

Annette looked out the window at the burned out buildings passing by.

Impoverished eyes, gleaming from shadowed hulks of men, staring at the limousine, men broken by life and its savage dreams.

"Drive on," she said, disembodied, distant.

Copyright 2004 by Danton Thorne