Blood and Honey by G. G. Fickling

Author:G. G. Fickling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PageTurner Editions LLC

"Lo, 'tis little Eva floating in on a cake of Ivory," Fred Sims quipped, as I entered the old Royal Theater shaking snow from my hood.

The crippled newsman was hunched in one of the back-row seats, cane thrust between his knees, hat crunched over one ear cockily. "You're just in time."

"For what?"

"Third act curtain." Fred indicated the flood-lighted stage where a group of men and women, clad in slacks and sweaters, whirled and sang.

Their voices lifted:

"She's a brassy, big-hipped, blue-eyed blonde,

A brassy, big-hipped, blue-eyed blonde,

A sassy lassy with a classy chassis,

This brassy, blue-eyed blonde from Bellflower!"

The male dancers kicked out their legs, splitting from the women and creating a space between them to reveal Pepper Parker in Dirk Madison's arms. Cymbals clanged, arms lifted, and the orchestra boomed into the finale number as the dancers rocked on their heels, heads flung back.

They sang lustily:

"She's a private eye,

she's a private eye,

a private, private, private,

private, private, private—EYE!"

Dirk and Pepper, gripping each other's hands, moved toward the footlights as the curtain descended. Even from the rear of the theater the exhilaration and impact of the show could be seen on their faces. Their eyes glistened.

Popping out of a front-row seat, Mike Savage clapped his hands briskly. "Okay! Okay, everyone on stage!"

The curtain jerked to a stop, then pulled up as the cast broke into noisy groups, gesticulating, bending their tired legs, rehashing the mistakes and triumphs of the rehearsal.

I noticed Vic Kendall in the fourth row, head bowed against a seat in front of him. Jeff Evan and Lou Stern were on the far left side of the theater, huddled together over a sheaf of musical scores, talking quietly.

"How'd it go?" I asked Fred, sliding into a seat next to the reporter.

"Not bad," he said, stretching his arms. "Not as bad as I thought it would be what with Tina Kendall's murder hanging on their backs."

"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

Fred yawned. "Nothing, except Dirk Madison flubbed about every line he had. He was as shaky as a hind end in a frost-covered outhouse. What's the matter with the guy? The police give him a hard time?"

"Search me."

"I'd love to. Has he?"

"Who?"

"Madison. He strikes me as your type. You know, one of those who-gives-a-damn rascals—subtle as a blow torch."

Down front Mike Savage spit a stream of smoke past a cigarette clenched in his lips and glanced across the theater. "Lou, how'd that 'thirty-eight, twenty-two, thirty-six' number sound to you the second time through?"

"Lousy!" the balding song writer barked. "It's going to need a lot of work." He pulled himself erect, string tie dangling loosely at his fat throat. "Pep, what's the matter with you in that 'Love Can't Be Spelled' number? You were screeching."

Sparks exploded in the Pepper Pot's green eyes. She tore her hand loose from Dirk Madison's grip and strode heavy-hipped to the footlights.

"What the hell do you want?" she burst, hands laced around her slim waist. "Blood?"

"No. Voice!" Lou Stern countered, cutting down the aisle toward the stage.

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