Enthralled

Enthralled
by Scribe

Four

Merle pulled the collar of her mink a little tighter against the cold air. It looked like it was going to snow again. This was dreadful. She decided that after she married Shep she'd insist that they spend Christmas somewhere civilized--like Miami or Los Angeles. Snow at Chmas mas was just too quaint for words. He'd probably kick--he seemed awfully attached to all the frou-frou that came with the holidays. Imagine, he'd actually wanted mince pie at dinner. He even acted a little hurt when she vetoed his order in favor of crepes, but she really COULDN'T let him eat anything so plebian in front of her friends.

She'd tried to make amends by agreeing to leave early with him. Why, it hadn't even been ten o'clock. She'd completely missed going dancing at El Morocco in favor of what? Walking the streets, looking for some undoubtedly grotty little club that no one had ever heard of, simply because he thought his neighbor might be there, and he'd been invited.

"Shep, really, if you haven't found it by now, I doubt that you will," she called.

He was walking a few yards ahead of her. She had to mince along--slick sidewalks and high heels did not go well together. Shep paused and looked back at her. "Oh, it's around here somewhere, Merle. I'm sure of it."

"How can you be sure? You don't even have an address. You couldn't find a listing in the phone book, and that taxi driver was so vague. He just said it was in an alley. It sounds perfectly dreadful."

"I'm sure it's just quirky. And I just FEEL that we're close. The driver said that you really have to look for it. Wait!" Shep stopped, head tilted alertly. "There!"

"What?" Merle glanced around with irritation. "If we go back up the street, we might be able to catch that cab again, and there's still time to catch the floor show at..."

"Listen, Merle," Shep insisted. "Music."

Irritated, Merle stopped and listened. "All I hear is the wind. If you'd..." She trailed off as a thin, distant melody reached her ears. "Well... I guess you're right, Shep. I DO hear something." Her frowned deepened as she picked out a heavy bass line, and occasional shrill notes. "But it sounds pretty strange."

Excited now, he was ignoring her disapproval. "It has to be close by. Hey, look at this."

He was kicking a thin dusting of snow aside on the sidewalk, revealing heavy grating. Faint light filtered up from it, and the music was louder. "This has to be it!"

He brushed away more snow, uncovering a strip of yellow paint. "That's probably just a parking zone marker," Merle complained.

"No, look." He moved on, revealing more of the line. At the end, it curved to the left, and came to a point. "It's an arrow. It's pointing at that space between the buildings, and the cabbie said that it was in an alley." He hurried over and peered into the dimness. Halfway down there was an arched doorway, and above it was a small neon sign. THE ZODIAC CLUB. "Here it is!"

"Oh, wonderful," Merle sighed. *Well, there's no getting out of it now. I just hope that no one I know sees us here.* "Let's go in, then. I want to warm up."

"Okay." Shep tried the doorknob. "It's locked. Well, it's a club, after all. I just hope they let us in."

"Oh, yes. It would be such a tragedy if we were barred."

Shep shot her a glance. Merle was something of an expert with the sweetly snotty remark. There was a bell beside the door, and he pushed it. In a moment the door opened, and a blast of warm air and loud music gushed out over him. He found himself blinking up at what appeared to be the genie from Aladdin and the Lamp. The man was so tall that he filled the door, and dressed in harem attendant clothes--baggy pants and an embroidered vest over a satin, full-sleeved blouse. The image was completed by a turban and a neat goatee. He regarded Shep with a genial expression, but his folded-armed stance indicated that he wasn't going to be moving without a good reason. He bowed slightly. "Greetings."

Shep cleared his throat. "Good evening."

"What is your desire tonight?"

Shep blinked. "I'd... uh... We'd like to come in."

"A most sensible wish, and one which will be accommodated, providing that the signs are favorable." He looked at Shep expectantly.

There was a moment of silence, and Merle snapped, "Well? Are we going in, or not?"

"I don't know," Shep replied. "Something about..." The man gestured toward the sign over his head. "Oh--signs! I'm Pisces. Merle, what are you?"

She stared at him. "A Republican."

"No, you're astrological sign."

"I have no idea."

"When were you born?"

"June 29th."

"Late June. That would be... Cancer."

The doorman nodded. "The Crab." Merle stiffened, glaring at him, but the man said blandly, "Both affiliated with water. The stars are aligned favorably for water signs. Enter, and may you find all that you seek here." He stepped aside, bowing them in.

They found themselves on a narrow landing, overlooking a large, dim, smoky, NOISY room. The floor was a sea of small tables and booths, all crammed with chattering patrons. There was a small stage on one side, and it held a jazz combo, which was putting forth very rapid and bright music. There was also a singer, a slendan aan all in white who was singing with great verve--in French.

Shep smiled at Merle. "Looks like a lively place."

Merle surveyed it with barely concealed distaste. "I think 'manic' would be a better term."

"Oh, I'm sure it won't seem so confused once we sit down and have a drink. Let's go find a table." They started down the stairs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Queenie was returning to their table, squeezing through the crowd much more easily than one would think a man his size could manage. He picked out a specific conversation from the babble around him, and it made him pause. A sittsitting nearby was fawning over his table companion, a middle aged woman who was as stout as Queenie. "But my dear Mrs. DePass--your skill, your' finesse... No one comes close to you in brewing..."

"Except Gilbert Holroyd," said Queenie loudly. The man and woman swiveled to look at him, and he defiantly stood taller, staring at them dauntingly.

Mrs. DePass smiled, murmuring, "Dear Gil is very, very talented--for an armature."

Queenie sniffed. "Not everyone chooses to prostitute their talents." He sailed away.

Behind him he heard Mrs. DePass saying, "I still say he can't touch my ointments. Anyway, this singer is from our Paris contingency, and the song is very amusing. His lover threw him over, so he drowned himself, and there he is in the river. He's been there for ten years, and he's miserable. No food, no alcohol, no girls, and what is worst..." she listened, then laughed. "He HATES water!"

"Vain old wench," Queenie muttered. He quickly wiped the annoyance off his face as he got back to his table, though. Gil was still moping, and he didn't want to depress the dear boy any more if he could help it. He dropped into his seat, then proceeded to bounce in it, head swiveling constantly to take in the scene. "You see, Gil? I told you that EVERYONE would be here tonight."

Gil sighed, turning the drink that sat before him. "Yes, Queenie. Same old crowd."

Queenie made a face at him. "You! You just don't WANT to have a good time." He beamed toward the stage. "Isn't Nicky doing wonderfully tonight?"

Gil glanced at the stage, his eyes gravitating to the young man who was sitting cross-legged near the edge, playing the bongos. Nicky was watching the singer with rapt attention, hands stroking and patting the skins of his instrument with unconscious precision, even though he was obviously paying more attention to the man than the music. "Yes. Now, if he'd just devote that kind of concentration to something that actually brought in money, he'd be quite a success."

"Gil," Queenie scolded. "You know that he's artistic. He'll be a success, once he finds what he's meant to do."

"Yes, yes, I know. He's 'finding' himself. What I'd like to know is just when he actually got lost."

"You're very cynical, dear."

"I'm a witch, Queenie." He sighed again, and glanced around. "Mrs. DePass, Katrinka van Kokolach, Missy Terwiliger, Preston Cleveland, Cheryl Bloomberg... People I've known all my life, or people THEY'VE known all THEY'RE life, and all of us doing the same thing we always do." He leaned his chin in his hands. "It's Christmas. I wonder what it would be like to attend a midnight mass in a church, listen to carols..." Queenie was regarding him with something akin to horror. "What would it be like to spend a holiday quietly, not with a noisy crowd, but with just one person--someone who mattered?"

"Mister Henderson, perhaps?" asked Queenie slyly.

Gil smiled at him. "I don't think I'd mind."

Queenie was looking past him. "That might be a good thing."

"Mister Holroyd?"

Gil looked up at the slightly familiar voice, and found himself gazing at Shepherd Henderson, who was smiling down at him. Queenie looked from Gil, to Shep, then back to Gil. "Dear, I really wish that sometimes you'd tell me how you do that."

Gil stood up, accepting the hand that Shep offered. "It's Gil, remember? How nice to see you. I didn't think you'd make it. Weren't you going out with your lady friend?"

"He was." The tone was cool, and it made Gil's spine prickle with instinctive hostility. A small blonde in a sumptuous mink moved out from behind Shep, giving Gil and Queenie a dubious look. "But he decided that he wanted to go exploring, rather than spending time with our friends."

"Oh, now, Merle, you know that they won't miss us. Gil, Queenie--this is Merle Kitteridge."

"His fiancee," said Merle pointedly. None of the three offered to shake hands, opting instead for small, formal nods. "Shep, there isn't a free table anywhere. We ought to go."

"I wouldn't think of it," said Gil swiftly. "You must join us."

"We couldn't impose, really," said Merle with false sweetness.

"They have room," said Shep, "And if someone else drops by, I bet they could find a spare chair or two." He was pulling Merle's mink off her shoulders, and Queenie, eyes twinkling, hopped up and gallantly pulled a chair out for her.

"How gracious," said Merle, not quite gritting her teeth as she sat.

Shep took the seat between Merle and Gil, and looked up at the waitress who had appeared at his elbow. "Two martinis, please." He looked back at Gil, smiling. "Fancy meeting you here."

Gil returned the smile. "Yes--fancy."

There was a moment's silence, then Shep said quickly, "Where are my manners? Gil, this is..."

"Merle Kitteridge. We've met, actually."

That got him surprised looks from all the others. Merle said, "I don't seem to recall..."

"Really? Surely your memory isn't that bad, Merle. It wasn't so long ago." He looked at Shep. "It was in college. We shared several classes. In fact," he turned enigmatic eyes on Merle, "We collaborated on a project one semester. Come on, Merle--you remember me. I attended class barefooted."

Merle's expression was stiff. "Yes, I do recall something like that."

Gilbert laughed, the sound silvery, but a little brittle. "If I recall, you noticed it quite particularly." He leaned toward Shep. "A harmless eccentricity, right? Shep, did you know that someone wrote a note to the Dean about it? They were trying to get me expelled for impropper foot attire."

Shep frowned. "Sounds a little petty to me."

Merle and Gilbert were making eye contact. "That's what I thought. There was a little annoyance, but it... blew over."

The music had stopped, and the French singer took a bow, to enthusiastic applause. Nicky hopped up and took the microphone, saying, "Wasn't he fantastic, ladies and gentlemen? That's his set for the night, so you make do with just instrumentals now," he grinned, "But believe me--we'll make it worth your while. Any requests?" A few hands were raised, and he squinted around the room.

"I think we need a special number in honor of our guests," drawled Gilbert, raising his hand languidly.

Nicky spotted him, and smiled happily in recognition. "Put your hands down, everyone. We're swinging with nepotism tonight. My big brother has a request, and his wish is my command." Gil had pulled a small notebook from his pocket and was scribbling on a page. He ripped it out, and handed it to the waitress, who carried it up to the stage. As she made her way up, Nicky said, "Don't sweat it, friends. Gil has impeccable taste, and I'm sure anything he chooses will be the coolest of the cool." He accepted the paper, then unfolded it. It read 'Stormy Weather. Nicky--SPECIAL version'.

Nicky raised his eyebrows in pleases surprise. *What's Gil up to now?* He looked out and examined the others sitting at Gil's table. Gil tilted his head minutely toward the nervous, snotty looking blonde, and Nick grinned. *Oh, ho. That can be only one person. Looks like Gil is ready to continue to exact revenge, and I am MORE than happy to help.* He turned and spoke to the combo. "Grab your insturments, boys. We are about to become strolling players." He whispered to them, and soon they were all nodding and smiling.

After he'd sent the note to the front, Gilbert said, "Oh, I don't guess I should have used that expression."

"What expression?" asked Shep.

"'Blew over.' It's bound to have unpleasant connotations for Merle."

"I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.

"Oh, then you're over that little problem you used to have with thunderstorms?" asked Gil innocently.

The combo had started playing as they made their way down into the crowd, and began edging toward them. The music of Stormy Weather started out as mellow and gentle as any rendition that had ever been played. They gathered around the table occupied by Gil, Queenie, Shep, and Merle, pushed in close by the crowd.

"Problem?" asked Shep.

"Just a little nervous condition," said Merle, glancing around at the musician. The music was rising in volume and tempo. A sudden breeze ruffled her hair, and she ld upd up sharply. They were in an enclosed room--where would a draft have come from? Then she noticed the ceiling fan just overhead. It must have just been turned on. As she watched, the slowly spinning blades began to revolve more quickly, stirring the air more strongly.

"Nervous condition? I should say so. Her roommate said she was TERRIFIED of them. I believe she used to hide in the closet if there was a really bad one," said Gil. "That semester was really hard on you, wasn't it, Merle?" He looked at Shep. "The weather was quite unusual that year. There was an unprecedented number of storms."

The music was getting louder, and more rapid, approaching a frantic pace. Merle found herself gripping her glass so hard that her nails were digging into her palm. The air from the overhead fan seemed to be gusting--dying, then rising fitfully. And it smelled... moist.

Gil was continuing, "In fact, I believe it set a record. They just seemed to go on for days, without a break. Quite violent."

The music kept rising. There was a sudden hissing sound, and a bright flicker of light. Merle jumped in her seat, staring around frantically. A few yards away, a club employee was standing on a chair, fiddling with a light bulb in an overhead fixture. As she looked, he jiggled it again, and there was another flash--just as the drummer (who had of necessity remained on stage) crashed his cymbals. She squeaked, just as Gilbert was saying, "In fact, I believe that she went home early for... a rest. That's what I heard, anyway."

The light was flashing again, the music almost seemed to shriek, and Merle felt buffetted by some sort of undefined power. Her nerves were already stretched, and the next time there was a flash and crash of cymbals, she screamed...

Just as the music stopped.

Her shriek echoed through sudden quiet. Even the surrounding crowd had fallen silent, and now all eyes turned toward to her. Shep, shocked, said, "Merle?"

Merle stood quickly, snatching up her mink. "Shep, I have a splitting headache. I need to go. I need to go NOW."

Shep looked helplessly at the untouched drinks, then around at the staring crowd, then at Gil. Gil made a soft tsking sound. "The holidays can be quite a strain on some people, can't they?"

"Look, I'm sorry." Shep stood and began to help Merle on with her mink. "It's... Things HAVE been a little stressful. Maybe we can..."

Merle grabbed his arm in a grip that seemed too firm for such a self-consciously ladylike woman. "Shep! NOW!"

"Merle," he whispered, tipping his head meaningfully toward their companions.

Merle glared at Gilbert and Queenie. "I'm sorry we have to run. Thank you for your hospitality. It's been lovely." She turned and began to make her way toward the stairs.

Shep hesitated, looking bewildered. "I don't know what's gotten into her. She's usually so self-possessed. I apologize, Gil--Queenie."

"No need," said Gilbert.

"No, really. I was enjoying the company."

"Well, if you want the company again, you know where to find me," said Gilbert quietly. "Any time."

Their eyes met, and Shep found himself thinking that the ps has had it wrong--it wasn't only blue eyes that could be fathomless pools.

"Shep!"

He winced. It wasn't quite a bark, but it came close. "Careful, I might take you up on that." He turned and followed Merle.

Gil watched him go, mringring, "I really hope you do."