“The swell part.”
“Now, boys, go easy. Miss Knight was only a little girl when they smuggled her out of a war-torn country in the dead of night, to be delivered to this great country by loyal servants and raised in an orphanage by kindly nuns,” Mr. Ziegfeld said. “It was quite traumatic! The poor girl has amnesia and doesn’t remember much at all. The doctors don’t expect that she ever will.”
“That true, Miss Knight?”
Theta blew a plume of smoke in the reporter’s direction, enjoying his cough. “If Mr. Ziegfeld says it’s true, then it’s true.” She couldn’t wait for this dog and pony show to be over so she could sing and dance. That’s the act she was good at, not this one.
“Hey, honey, are you spooked to perform here after what happened to Daisy Goodwin? Murdered right up there on that stage!”
Theta paled. If she told them about that night and the secret power that had helped her to escape from Naughty John, the newspaper boys would have a story to wipe Flo’s “Russian princess” invention right off the page.
“I don’t spook easy,” Theta said, letting her answer out on a plume of cigarette smoke. “If I did, I wouldn’t live in Manhattan.”
“You worried about this sleeping sickness?”
“Who sleeps? I’m a Follies girl.”
“Say, Theta, honey—you wanna give ’em a little song and dance?” Wally nudged.
“It’s what I live for.” Theta dropped her coat on the chair and walked past Henry. “Look alive,” she whispered. “We’re on.”
Theta’s heart beat fast. She avoided looking at Wally. “This is a brand-new song…” Theta started. In his seat, Herbert Allen preened like a man who expected the world to go his way. “… written by the talented Henry DuBois the Fourth.”
Theta gestured toward Henry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Herbie’s face shift from smug to shocked. “It’s called ‘Slumberland.’ Hit it, Hen!”
When Theta finished selling Henry’s new song for all she was worth, the news hawks applauded.
“Not bad,” one of the reporters mused. “Different.”
“Yeah. A real surprise,” Herbie said. There was murder in his eyes.
“Gentlemen, I give you the Follies’ newest sensation, Miss Theta Knight,” Mr. Ziegfeld crowed.
“And her piano player, Henry DuBois the Fourth,” Henry mumbled to himself. “Thank you, thank you. Hold your applause, folks.”
“Terrific, Miss Knight. Simply terrific,” a smiling reporter said. “They’re going to love this story in Peoria. Why, you’ll be famous everywhere—from New York to Hollywood, Florida to Kansas.”
“Kansas?” Theta whispered.
“Yeah. Big state in the middle of the country. Fulla corn, Republicans, and Bible salesmen, and not much else?”
Herbie put his arm around Theta and gave her a squeeze. “Isn’t she terrific? Actually, I’m writing new songs for this little lady myself. A whole show’s worth. She’s my muse!”
“That so? Is this your beau, Miss Knight?” The gossip columnist winked.
“No,” Theta said, gently shaking Herbie’s hand free.
“Well, you must have somebody—beautiful girl like you.”
The skin of Theta’s palms crawled with heat like a mess of fire ants. Calm, she told herself. Keep calm.
“Come on, give us a little juice for the columns,” the columnist persisted.
“Uh… sure. I got a fella.”
The reporters’ pencils were ready to take it all down. “Well, who is he?”
The heat reached her wrists. “Uncle Sam,” Theta shot back. “I’m a real patriot. ’Scuse me, I gotta powder my nose.”
Quickly, Theta headed for the wings.
“She’s something,” a reporter said.