Jazzed

Chapter Seven-1

Chapter Seven

“Miss Azaria, thank you for coming to Washington.” Dillon came around from behind his desk and extended a hand. She looked at it, like she suspected he hadn’t washed, but took a firm hold. Inside, she smirked. Later, she knew he would think of her and masturbate with that same hand. It was a sign of weakness.

Spencer stood to one side and watched.

Taz had large hands. Long strong fingers with the nails cut blunt. Hands that could have belonged to a young man. And then Spencer spotted the ring on the third finger. She’s married? How could he have missed it. Too busy admiring other parts of her anatomy, he thought glumly. But it wasn’t what he thought a wedding band should be, but what did he know? She was the product of a different culture.

He stared at the thin wire of gold, feeling betrayed. Taz cleared her throat. Spencer looked up and was surprised to find her analyzing his features; reading his thoughts. “It was Marie’s,” she whispered. “A friend.” Spencer was so startled by her simple confession that he had to stifle a nervous laugh. Taz turned away; diverted her attention to Dillon.

Spencer couldn’t stop his mind from turning over: Marie’s ring; her best friend. They had served together; been assigned the mind-numbing job of documenting a never ending series of r**e cases. What could have been more demoralizing for two young girls? How did they cope? How could they possibly drag themselves outta bed in the mornings?

Bed!

A twinge rose along Spencer’s spine and lifted the hairs at the back of his neck. Spencer thought about the words Gal Nevo had used, played them back in his mind: Sisters he had called them. Sisters could mean something entirely different in his culture. He looked back to the ring she wore; Marie’s ring. And it came to him. Did the sisters share that narrow bed in the ramshackle army barracks? Did they pull the blanket about their heads at night? Lie in each other’s arms and console themselves? Force away the reality of their daily drudgery with nights of desperate love-making? Was that their escape? Was the love they shared their only solace in a never-ending, senseless war?

A door in his head opened and all the pieces fell together. Taz and Marie had been lovers.

He looked up and found her watching, intently. The emotional bridge between them suddenly and unaccountably open. But then Dillon spoke and the connection was lost.

“Miss Azaria, might I call you Taz?”

Taz shrugged, took a chair and crossed her legs.

She wore one of her light-blue, NYPD uniform shirts, jeans, and a pair of police-issue boots. Her hair was tied back with a piece of string. There wasn’t a trace of makeup and a light band of freckles spanned the bridge of her nose and gave her a youthful glow. Taz looked at Dillon with narrow eyes from beneath long straight bangs. The bangs hung in her eyes and were in need of a serious trimming.

There was something about this girl and Dillon found himself struggling with his feelings. She was not an attractive women, but still, she had something. And there was the body; a body that looked to be sculpted from spring steel.

The extreme legginess and the lanky body-type; it could have made a career in fashion possible. And in spite of the hooded eyes and the busted nose, with the right makeup, who knew? She might end up being decent; not pretty, but kind of exotic-looking. Dillon had to admit to himself that there was a very real, grassroots attraction. But in return, Taz glowered with an expression that didn’t portray any feelings of human warmth and he found he was deeply disturbed by her presence.

Spencer slid into a chair opposite and leaned forward. He had done his bit; delivered the woman to Washington. He could relax now. Or at least try. Spencer had been up all night and was exhausted but he couldn’t shake the feeling of exhilaration every time he cast his eyes along the length of her legs.

Spencer had seen it. All of it. He had gazed greedily, and she hadn’t even flinched. That had to account for something, he hoped; even if she was a lesbian. Taz had been unconcerned about her nudity. Maybe that cavalier attitude extended to her choice of a bed-mate. What if he could get her alone. God, maybe she would let him. Maybe all he had to do was ask. He knew he was obsessed; wanted to possess her. He wanted to bend her over and violate the softness. Spencer didn’t know what to expect from her but he expected it would be memorable, all the same.

Dillon caught his eye and Spencer squirmed in his seat. Dillon gave him a smile. A crafty smile like he could see right through Spencer’s thoughts; like he knew Spencer was scheming to get between the woman’s legs. Was that so bad? Spencer didn’t want to run off with Taz, or have an affair. He just wanted to f**k someone new for a change, after all these years. And he sensed that Taz would be worth the risk.

But Dillon wasn’t thinking of Spencer’s schoolboy fantasies. He was, instead, thinking of Spencer’s wife. Spencer had been out of town and it was one of those perfect opportunities for Jill to go out on the prowl. Dillon had made the call; put his top surveillance photograph on notice. The man was a genius when it came to clandestine photography. And the guy had called back an hour ago; said he had some great photographs. And what’s more, he had shot video.

Dillon struggled to contain the silly giggle that was forming in the back of his throat. Naughty bed-y-bye video of Spencer’s wife. His loins tingled and he fought to ground himself. He pushed thoughts of Jill Spencer’s naked body from his mind and tried to concentrated on Taz instead; fought to get his mind back on track.

“Okay then, Taz it is.” Dillon continued. “I know you have no great love for the Russians, but, all the same, I would like you to meet this one.” He slid open the drawer that contained the console and pressed a button. The overhead lights diminished and the photo of a man was projected onto the rear wall.

The Russian glared at Taz with empty slate-gray eyes and the line of his thin bloodless lips made her fear, for a moment, that she was viewing a frozen corpse. His eye-sockets were encircled with slanted bone: Chiseled cheeks below, heavy brows above, giving him the sunken-eyed look of the wretched. The taunt colorless skin seemed stretched so tight over his hollow face that it was like looking directly through, at the man’s skull. One could only suppose that somewhere in his ancestry, a Mongolian horseman had forced a peasant woman and she was looking at the result.

The Russian projected cold calculating hatred; like he was trying to decide whether to kill out right, or sit back and watch you struggle slowly. He wore the great-coat of the Russian Imperial Army.

“This is General Yuri Chenkov,” Dillon said casually. And I want you to kill him for me.”

Taz eyed the man’s image with cool resolve. “And in return?”

And in return, the US government will place five million dollars into a Swiss bank account; in your name. And you will be repatriated. We will send you home, Miss Azaria.”

“Home,” she said, and smiled. The smile was a little lop-sided, and satanical, but it was a smile and Spencer marveled at it.

Chay didn’t have to suffer the indignity of an audition. Bobby recognized that she had clawed her way up through the ranks, just like he had, and though her career had slipped in recent years, he wasn’t about to put her through a cattle-call. She still deserved a certain degree of star treatment as far as he was concerned and he was not about to pretend she was some naive, high-hoofing sugar-baby. But as it turned out, he had been basing his assessment of her skills on the woman he had worked with a dozen years ago. Things had changed. For the both of them.

Chay strutted into the restaurant like she was making an entrance onto center stage at the New York City Center. Her attitude was undeniable: she owned the damned place! She had cut out the biscuits and many of her favorite desserts. She had lapped Central Park each morning, to the delight of the winos lying under the bushes. The results were subtle: the leg muscles a little more defined, the stomach flatter, the ass a little harder. She showed off the results in a clingy body-leotard. She strutted on six-inch, killer heels and looked abrasive. Dangerous, even. But it was all about attitude. And no amount of exercise could match the test of bad attitude.

At forty-eight years of age, Chay could still turned the heads of the young dudes; the twenty-five year old wannabes who gawked with their chins dangling and could only wish that their mothers were as compelling.

The maître d’ seated Chay at Bobby’s table.

“You ever going to get old?” was his comment as she slithered six feet of smoldering Latin heat onto the seat cushion across from where he sat sucking on his smoke.

“Old is for mortals,” she smiled and gripping her hands, she flexed impressive upper chest muscles, t**s lifting. “I’m super woman,” she smirked, knowing just how to play him.

Bobby took it all in with a cocky smile; the come get me t**s, the ridge torso, and most of all, the raunchy thighs that could still crush a young man’s ego. She laid it all out for him, taunted him, but he knew he wasn’t about to get a taste. Not ever.

If he had met her earlier on, when she was struggling for work, it would have been different. He would have bedded her; added her to a long list of conquests. But now it was past too late; she was worth millions. And her ranking was right up there: Chay was a hedge-liner! He flicked cigarette ash at the dish.

“Chay,” he said.

“Bobby,” she replied.

“I want you to play Fastrada.”

“I know,” she said, the negotiations were all but over. “I want eight million. And two percent of the gross.”

Bobby didn’t bat an eye. “Send Benny around. I’ll sign the contract.”

“Excellent,” she purred. “How’s the caviar? I’ll have iced vodka on the side.”

Despite the grandstanding, it took Chay three weeks to realize she was no good for the part. Bobby knew even sooner.

Their rolls had switched dramatically. Bobby sat, fully in control of the proceedings and Chay, unusually shell-shocked, sat across from him at his desk in the production office Bobby had set aside for himself at the dance studio. It was a far cry from the fancy restaurant on Park Avenue.

“Chay,” he started out, “you know what I’m faced with here.”

Chay felt her insides slide. She had sensed his disappointment. The humiliation was unbearable.

“The dance is exceptional,” he tried to soften the blow.

“I know... I know. I’m trying,” she said, falling forward in her chair.

“I just can’t risk it.”

Chay could not, no matter how hard she worked at it, remember her lines! She stumbled through her speaking parts, stopping the performance every few moments.

“Line,” Chay would call out repeatedly from the stage apron. The stage prompter in the first row would have to get her started once again. But the rhythm of the performance would stumble.

It had been years since she had been called upon to perform in front of a live audience. The movies had been easy. They shot in short segments and her lines were offered up a few at a time. She didn’t have to memorize a damned thing. A quick look at the script just before shooting was all that was necessary. But now, before a live audience, she was expected to learn ninety minutes worth of dialogue. Put it down to declining years or a lack of skill; she just couldn’t master it.

She struggled in her chair. “Bobby, I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... ”

“Look. It happens,” Bobby relaxed when he realize she wasn’t about to go off the deep end. “I sure as hell couldn’t do it,” he chuckled and was gratified to see a weak smile form on Chay’s lips. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But, in a way, it still might.”

Chay’s eyes came up. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’ve walked into the dressing room, on more than one occasion, and watched you, sitting in your chair with all the younger dancers cross-legged on the floor around your knees; their faces lit up in awe. I’ve heard you tell the stories, answer their questions, offer advice. They love you, Chay. You’re a golden mentor.”

“And I love those girls. They have it all ahead of them.”

“Yes. And I need that.”

“You need what? I don’t understand.”

“The Demon. You’ve heard of The American Dance Demon?”

“Yes. Of course. But mostly rumors. A new dance company... from out West.”

“That’s right. My dance company, Chay.” Bobby leaned forward. “Here... take this.”

Chay’s eyes came up when she saw him lift an envelope from his jacket pocket. “What is it, Bobby?”

She pulled the envelop from his fingers and took a peek inside. It was an airline ticket.

“I want you to fly out to California and take a look. Attend a couple of the rehearsals and think it over. If you like what you see, and I mean really like it, then I want you to sign on as my Artistic Director. You hold a certain magic for the younger dancers. I need you to spread it around and I’m willing to pay for it. And, if you agree, start packing. The Dance Demon is going to Europe at the end of the month. I want you along on the tour.”

“Oh Bobby,” Chay said, the ticket was trembling in her fingers.

Jill Spenser flipped through her copy of Dance America. The photograph of Bobby broke her heart. He hadn’t traveled well. He had accumulated twenty very hard years since she last danced for him. His hair was thinning, his skin had yellowed and everything about the man seemed to have drooped; from his eyelids to his stomach. But there was still that burning intensity; still there about the coal-black eyes. Eyes that seemed to lift from the page and it caused a rambling quiver to move along her spine. She well remembered, as a nineteen year old, watching those eyes, intensely positioned, just inches above her own as an unwanted p***s was forced between her legs.

So that was what an audition was all about.

Jill quickly read the accompanying article. There had been rumors floating about for the last year: A new dance company in the works. But nothing was ever verified, until now. So it was Bobby!

Jill reached for the phone and her credit card.

“Bobby. Jill Spencer... yes. It’s been forever. But I just had to call and congratulate you on the spread in Dance America. The rumors have been flying around since last year, of course, but I would never have guessed.”

They chatted for twenty minutes; gossiped, got caught up on old friends and discussed future plans. When Jill was convinced he was still interested and she had spent enough time with the small talk so as not to seem too obvious, she invited him to fly to Washington. He was surprisingly receptive when she told him a ticket would be waiting for him at the airport and she would arrange for a hotel room. They would have dinner together, reminisce, and he could fly back the following morning. He said it would be good to see her again. That it would be fun.