The four girls climbed out and stood behind me, peering anxiously at our new boss.
“Do you all have cell phones?” he asked. “Please let your families know that you have safely arrived. For security reasons, I’ll have to collect your cells, but they will be returned to you later.”
I paused, halfway through an email to Luka, even though I knew he didn’t check his messages that much when he was on tour.
“You want our phones?”
The man scanned me quickly, then gave a cold smile. “It will be returned once it’s been processed.”
First my passport, now my phone? I really didn’t like that idea. But I didn’t have any choice, so I finished the email and handed it over.
He tossed it to Conan who dropped it into a plastic bag with the others. I really hoped that the screen hadn’t been damaged. It was a new iPhone.
Silently, we followed them inside. It was creepy, and I felt Yveta close behind me. I reached out to hold her hand. She clung on, her skin cold and clammy even though the night air was warm.
We trudged through the hotel along a series of service corridors until we arrived at a battered elevator and crowded inside. I was surprised when the car started moving downwards, stopping three floors underground. It really felt like we were trapped. Yveta was holding on tightly and I wanted to say it was going to be okay . . .
When the doors opened, there were two more heavies in suits waiting for us. That was a lot of muscle to escort five dancers.
“Women that way.”
Yveta hesitated, then gave me a small unhappy wave as she trailed after the others.
Conan jerked his head at me to follow him.
I hoped that I wouldn’t have to be around him too much, he was a scary dude. I’d been expecting to meet the artistic director, Elaine something. But having that asshole’s cold stare on me felt like insects crawling across my skin.
I followed him through more corridors until we ended up at a large kitchen. Two Asian guys were sitting at a table playing Poker, but when they saw Conan, they scooped up their cards and slunk out. That was definitely weird. They acted like they had a reason to be scared of him, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Conan pointed at a chair and left.
Welcome to America.
When no one came to get me, I wandered around the kitchen, searching for something to eat, but other than an apple and some cheese, there were only things that needed cooking.
I must have fallen asleep at the table because I was woken by the sound of high heels tapping across the floor.
“Are you Mr. Novak?”
I sat up straight and looked over my shoulder.
The woman was tiny, perhaps fifty years old, with bleach-blonde hair and false eyelashes edged with miniature rhinestones that caught the light. Even from ten feet, I could smell the acrid scent of fake tan that she’d tried to hide under a heavy dose of perfume.
She huffed impatiently. “Are you Mr. Novak?”
I nodded slowly, replying with a croak. “Yes.”
“Finally! We’ve been waiting for you. You were expected at the theater.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. A big guy with a scar on his cheek brought me here.”
The blonde woman shuddered.
“Oleg! Ugh, don’t mention that creep’s name.”
She jerked her chin at my suitcase.
“Well, come on then.”
I followed her out of the kitchen, still hungry and feeling jetlagged.
“I was a dancer,” she said cheerfully, strutting along the corridor. “Exotic—I’m too short to be a real Las Vegas showgirl. Now, I work backstage and look after the boys and girls.”
“How long have you been here?”
She shrugged. “A while. I’m Trixie Morell.” She grinned at me. “I was born Doris Wazacki, but that’s showbiz for ya!”
She marched ahead, leading me through an unmarked door with air conditioning ducts humming overhead.
Finally she stopped at a numbered keypad and punched in a code.
“This is the staff wing,” she threw over her shoulder. “The long-timers have their own apartments, but we get a lot of people on short-term contracts. As well as us show folk, it’s where the kitchen and wait staff live. It’s safe.”
Safe? Why would it be unsafe?
After another corridor, she pushed open the door to a small bedroom with a tiny attached bathroom.
Half of the room was plastered with posters of Hollywood icons from Greta Garbo to Judy Garland, and one of the twin beds was covered in men’s dance clothes.
So my new roommate was a dancer.
“You’ll meet Gary later,” Trixie said, ignoring my silence. “He’s very possessive about his things, so don’t borrow anything without asking. In fact, don’t touch anything at all. He can be a bit of a bitch, but you’ll get used to him.”
I almost smiled. After my last fight with my father, it was the least of my worries.
“Leave your things here. Oh, bring your dance shoes—something you can audition in.”
“Audition? I thought I had the job?”