The Devil May Dance by Jake Tapper (books to read fiction txt) 📗

She was still holding on to the ladder, which pulled away from the wall.

Margaret tried to hit him, claw him, scratch him, anything, with her free hand. She was holding on to the ladder with all of her strength, but she knew she couldn’t do it for much longer. Part of her just wanted to give up.

She instinctively let go of the ladder and grabbed Fontaine’s right arm, half dragging him off the swinging metal beam. He clutched Margaret by her hair but she tightened her grip on him and pulled herself up on his arm, relieving the pressure on her scalp. They hung there at this impasse for seconds, though it felt longer, neither sure of what to do.

Margaret looked up at the rafters of the building, then down at the floor, then at Fontaine. He appeared furious and terrified in equal measure.

She lunged for the chain holding up one corner of the beam on which Fontaine was lying. After grappling with it blindly for several seconds, she managed to release the clasp—it was the same kind she’d used on the bridle of her pony as a kid. The beam jerked and Fontaine let go of Margaret and grabbed at the air around him.

The next few moments for Margaret seemed to pass in slow motion; released from Fontaine’s grip, she pushed herself away from the scaffold and lunged for the ladder.

Onstage, Sinatra was bringing the song to its boisterous, soulful climax, the deep menacing notes from the pipe organ serving as a musical rumbling of the beast, Satan, as Sinatra cautioned the crowd with his closing refrain:

Don’t say you weren’t warned in advance

You can’t hide safe ensconced in your manse

Fontaine seesawed left and right.

You felt safe in his eyes at first glance

And now inside you’s a hate you can’t lance

The chain she’d released flew upward and the sandbag fastened to its other end shot down and hit Fontaine’s head with the force of a speeding Mack truck.

And the devil may dance

The devil may dance

The devil may dance

The song crescendoed under Sinatra’s desperate pleas; cymbals crashed and bass drums erupted. A wild standing ovation from the audience drowned out the noise of Manny Fontaine and the sandbag hitting the floor.

Margaret grasped a rung of the ladder and clung to it as it thunked back against the wall. She settled herself, then carefully descended to the stage.

Chapter Twenty-EightSanta Monica, California

April 1962

Margaret reached the final rung as several dozen she-devil dancers exited the stage, grinning exuberantly as they poured into the wings. Les Wolff emerged from the dark, grabbed Margaret, and yanked her back into the shadows. She reached for the dancers around her and desperately shouted for help, but it played as a lark.

“I’m serious! Help me!” she called out, but Wolff laughed and held her tighter.

“Oh, Margaret, you’re too much,” he said, smiling, pulling her arm behind her back and jamming it up. He steered her toward the stage and down a separate hallway.

“Help!” Margaret cried. “He’s kidnapping me!” Heads turned. Wolff slapped a hand over her mouth. She shook her head from side to side. Wolff employed his acting chops and Hollywood charisma. “It’s true!” He laughed. “I’m kidnapping her!”

Margaret looked around wild-eyed, hoping to find a friendly face. But the actors, dancers, stagehands, and producers backstage were unsure about the sincerity of her panic and happily smiled back at Wolff, who was well-known and who, they knew, could make or break their careers. He pushed her past a cluster of official-looking men and women at a table full of gold statuettes.

“Help me!” she said, turning away from his big, hot paw. He kept his hand over her mouth, smiling at the people glancing over at them. “She forgot to take her pill this morning,” he said and shoved her through an exit door. It shut behind them and they entered a silent corridor beside a dark stairwell with an open door at the end of the hall.

Margaret bit his hand. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. He slapped her face, stunning her silent. “If you want to survive this,” he said, “you need to behave.” He grabbed her arm again, pulled it back behind her, twisted it harder.

The open door down the staircase led to organized chaos—theater ropes and bright lights and women with clipboards; some kind of press area for Oscar winners?

With her free hand, Margaret rubbed her reddened cheek. “Big studio boss going to kill me yards away from paparazzi?” she asked. “Seems unwise.”

“You’d be amazed at what journalists don’t cover,” he said.

A tall young man in a black suit entered the stairwell from backstage. He had dirty blond hair and was clean-cut and chiseled, a Tab Hunter knockoff.

“Oh, good,” Wolff said. “We need to figure out a way to get her out of here.”

“Who are you?” Margaret asked. He ignored her.

“You need to move. Whoever wins Best Supporting Actor will come right through here in about ninety seconds,” the young man said. He hopped down the stairs, then peered out the open exit door. “Easy path for us as long as she keeps her mouth shut.”

“Which she’ll do if she wants this to end well,” Wolff said. “She’ll give us the file too.” With his free right arm, he suddenly grabbed her purse and violently yanked it from her, breaking its strap. He tossed the purse to the young man, who began rummaging through its contents. He plucked out a roll of papers as if he’d found the Dead Sea Scrolls, unspooled it, skimmed through, and gave Wolff a thumbs-up.

“So you did bring the real ones,” Wolff said.

“Where is Sheryl Ann?” Margaret asked.

“We can tell you that as soon as we get out of here,” Wolff said. “You and the congressman can go back to Washington, and everything’ll be hunky-dory.”

The poor man’s Tab Hunter walked outside the exit door for a few seconds and quickly returned. “I see some friendly faces out there. They can help us escort her out.”

“You think I’m going to let you drag me