Eternal Journey. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ her at ease. He was overdressed in a purple tuxedo so dark in the shadows it looked black, with lavender satin piping up the legs and an emerald-green cummerbund that bulged slightly with his paunch. He had makeup on; his long, narrow face was paler than his neck and hands, a little rouge was visible on his cheeks and he batted eyelashes that had to be false, judging by their exaggerated length and curl. Annja thought he looked like a circus clown going to some formal affair.

      “How do you know I’m American?” Annja had intended to ask why he’d rudely tugged her off the sidewalk, but the other question came out first.

      “I’m not your average Cross spruiker, you know! I’ve got keen eyes. I can tell Americans.” He clapped his hands. “Besides, you don’t have the look of a local, or a pommy. English,” he translated for her benefit. “You don’t have your chin tipped up to catch the better air, and you don’t have that English swagger, if you know what I mean.” He paused. “And you’re walking alone. Americans don’t seem to require company in the Cross. Brave and curious, the lot of you are.”

      She raised an eyebrow, a little taken aback by the odd-looking fellow, but deciding he posed no threat.

      “And since you’re curious, and obviously a tourist, you simply must come in and see the show.” He waved with a flourish to the door behind him. “What say you, mate?”

      She shook her head. “I have to make a phone call.”

      “There’s a phone in the lobby.” He pointed to the sign above the door. The Purple Pussycat.

      She caught a whiff of him, a cologne that was musky and flowery and would have been overpowering were she not outside on the sidewalk where the scents from the Japanese restaurant next door intruded. Her feet ached, and the headache that had started on the bus was getting worse.

      She could sit for a few moments, inside this place, collect her thoughts and then call Doug and the police on the pay phone he mentioned. She wanted to rest her feet briefly.

      “A spectacular show we have this late morning,” he persisted. “And it’s just about to start. You wouldn’t want to miss the opening number.”

      Annja had a sense that he used the same spiel on anyone who came close enough for him to grab.

      “Old Broadway show tunes, like you’ve never heard them before. Better than Broadway, because they’re Australian.”

      “How much?” she asked.

      “For you, dear lady, only eight dollars.”

      “And for everyone else?” She offered him a weak smile.

      “Eight dollars.” This time he bowed as he gestured grandly to the door, the color of which nearly matched his tuxedo.

      Just a few minutes, she told herself, to rest my feet and to think. God, but I need to think. And thinking wasn’t happening out here on the sidewalk, and hadn’t been possible on the bus.

      He opened the door, and she went inside, instantly assaulted by more smells—incense, perfume, fried potatoes, popcorn, something terribly sugary. They all warred for her attention. She went to the counter. It was stainless steel and glass, reminiscent of one from an old movie theater she’d attended once in a while near the orphanage in New Orleans where she grew up.

      An elderly woman with a heart-shaped face and a tired expression emerged from behind the popcorn machine.

      “G’day!”

      Annja took in the rest of the lobby, hoping to find a bench to sit on, and seeing nothing but movie-style posters of women in flouncy gowns. She spied the pay phone, an old thing…or perhaps it was made to look old. The place definitely had a retro ambience, as if she’d stepped back into 1940 or 1950.

      “One ticket?” The woman’s voice was high and soft, sounding like crystal wind chimes. “Eight dollars. Show’s about to start. You’d best hurry to get a good seat.”

      Annja retrieved a five-dollar bill and three one-dollar coins out of her wallet, pausing to look at the face on the bill before she passed it over. Australian money was much more colorful than American, and the bills had a parchment feel to them.

      “Popcorn?” the woman asked.

      Annja shook her head.

      “Iced coffee? Soda? Perhaps—”

      “No, thank you.” Annja headed toward a heavy curtain, above which a sign said Auditorium. She’d collect her thoughts for a few minutes. Rest her feet. Try to lessen the pounding in her head. Then she’d come back out to make the calls.

      She looked at the time before going inside. On the wall behind the concession counter was a large purple cat with a twitching tail, its belly the clock. Less than an hour had passed since the men had tried to kill her at the hotel.

      She pushed aside the curtain and let the darkness swallow her.

      It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. She stood in an aisle that stretched between two banks of movie-theater-style seats. The only light was what spilled out beneath the hem of the closed curtain at the stage down front. Her eyes picked through the shadows, seeing only a dozen other people inside an auditorium that could hold well over one hundred. Most of them were close to the stage. Annja selected a seat in the last row. The seats were upholstered in dark red velveteen, though some of the cushions had been replaced and covered with various colors of vinyl. The seat squeaked when she sat, causing the other patrons to turn around and try to spot the newcomer. She leaned against the high back and it squeaked again.

      The floor was carpeted, the nap worn thin and the pattern lost where sections of the canvas backing showed through. It was clean—Annja was struck by the cleanliness of the place. There was still the hint of popcorn in the air and a vague fustiness just because of the age of the building. But there was nothing objectionable.

      She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. Annja knew several martial-arts relaxation techniques, any of which would help the tension melt away as she balanced and centered herself. She breathed deep and slow, imagining a point of light in the distance and focusing on it.

      Suddenly speakers crackled on the walls and George M. Cohan’s “Give My Regards to Broadway” began playing, with “Remember me to Kings Cross” in place of “Remember me to Herald Square.”

      Her eyes opened wide as the curtains parted and a single bright spotlight struck a lanky torch singer in a black sequined gown. The woman threw her head back and began singing “If He Walked into My Life” from Mame. Something didn’t seem quite right about the singer, and so Annja leaned forward and studied the woman.

      Not a woman, Annja decided after a moment. The singer sported an Adam’s apple, as did the next one who came out singing “Whatever Lola Wants,” from Damn Yankees. Annja recognized this warbler as the man in the purple tuxedo who’d lured her into this place. Female impersonators, the lot of them, and they weren’t terrible, Annja decided, a bargain for eight bucks. She watched only one more number—an eight-member chorus line singing about a “singular sensation,” before she closed her eyes and resumed her breathing exercise and focused on an imagined speck of light.

      What did Oliver see? What did I see? What relic was so valuable someone would kill for it?

      She forced out the sound—the СКАЧАТЬ