Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) Read Online Free Page B

’s spacious Twilight Lounge. André Morton, the ship’s self-proclaimed pianist/comedian, was six decades and several bushel-loads of talent shy of qualifying as the next Victor Borge. André wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought he was, and it seemed to me that he didn’t play the piano all that well, either. Victor Borge has always been considered something of a national hero in the Scandinavian-stocked homes of my boyhood in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhoods. The old Dane continues to be hilariously funny. Even pushing ninety, Borge plays the piano with a gusto André Morton will probably never achieve. In other words, I didn’t care for the show, and I wasn’t much looking forward to the dancing, either.
    It’s not that I can’t dance. When I was in eighth grade, my mother saw to it that I had a year’s worth of lessons. Mother was a single parent who raised me alone without child support and without the benefit of any help or encouragement from her parents, either. She was a talented seamstress who did alterations and repairs for several Ballard-area dry cleaners. She also had a regular clientele among Seattle’s tight-fisted upper crust, who came to our upstairs apartment with photos of the latest New York and Paris fashions which they had clipped from various magazines. From the photos alone Mother was usually able to create wonderful knockoffs at a fraction of the price of the designer variety.
    That’s where my dancing lessons came from—Mother’s sewing. She whipped off two or three ball gowns for a lady named Miss Rose Toledo who ran the local dance studio. The next thing I knew, I was dressed in a suit and tie and shipped off to dance lessons at four o’clock every Thursday afternoon for nine whole months—the entire duration of eighth grade.
    Looking back, I wish I could have found a way to be more appreciative of what Mother was trying to do for me. Instead, I was a typically sullen and lippy teenager. I remember arguing with her that ballroom dancing was so old-fashioned—that nobody danced together anymore, not since somebody invented the twist. But Mother prevailed, and so I went—sulking all the way.
    But that particular night, all those years later in the Twilight Lounge on board the Starfire Breeze, I was grateful she had insisted because dancing, it turns out, is just like riding a bicycle. I may have been rusty to begin with, but I still remembered the moves.
    I confess I had my work cut out for me. I was spread thin over three partners while a much younger Marc Alley only had to deal with one. Admittedly, Marc’s was a handful. Margaret Featherman danced with her body glued to his in a way that made it look as though she was ready to seduce him on the spot. I remember Mother warning me about girls who danced that way. Miss Toledo told me much the same thing. Somehow, I don’t think anyone ever got around to telling Marc Alley.
    I was taking a turn around the floor to the tune of “Dancing in the Dark” with Naomi Pepper, the plumpish woman who had winked at me earlier. We passed close by Marc and Margaret just in time to catch Margaret nibbling on the poor guy’s ear.
    â€œReminds me of The Graduate ,” Naomi said. “How about you?”
    â€œMarc’s so young that he’s probably never even heard of that movie,” I replied.
    For me, that’s one of the advantages of hanging out with women my own age. They know the same jokes and music. We saw the same movies back when we were kids. The generation gap was something that had driven me crazy about working with my last partner, Sue Danielson. She had been so much younger than I was that we’d had major communication problems. Now, with Sue dead, there was no way those problems would ever be resolved.
    â€œMargaret was after Marc to begin with,” Naomi confided, bringing me abruptly back to the dance floor. “Once she saw