The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,42
mambo-ing, salsa-ing, cha-cha-ing Meeple doing their complicated dance moves nearby. “Show-offs,” I say, as Wyn and I two-step like hillbillies around the dance floor.
“They got nothing on us,” Wyn says, putting his hands around my waist and lifting me into the air. As we twirl around I stretch my arms out like a ballerina. “Thatta girl, princesa!” he says, laughing at my dramatic pose.
I love hearing him laugh. I almost wish we didn’t have work to do.
But now that I don’t have to worry so much about my feet, I start scoping the place as we circle through the room. “I recognize Frank Sinatra,” I say. “But point out the rest of the famous people to me.”
As we circuit the dance floor, Wyn shows me all the custom Meeple he’s programmed based on the prestigious guest list of the Tropicana, back when it was the favorite playground of the rich and famous. I recognize many of the names—Marlon Brando, Nat King Cole, Sammy Davis Jr., Joan Crawford, and Elizabeth Taylor— but there are others he has to explain to me, like Edith Piaf, a French singer whose long, skinny eyebrows look like they’ve been applied with a Sharpie, and Rocky Marciano, a heavyweight boxer whose nose looks like it lost a fight with a bowling ball.
“See that woman over there in the long white dress with the short dark hair?” he asks, tilting his head at a corner of the room.
I look in that direction and spot her. The white satin of her dress clings to every curve of her body and her hair has been slicked against her head like a cap, with little ringlets framing her tawny face. Huge spirals of diamonds hang from her ears, as big as Christmas ornaments. She’s gorgeous.
“Let me guess . . . another actress? Singer? Dancer?”
“All of the above,” he answers. “That’s Josephine Baker. She was quite the sensation back in the day.”
“Who’s the Rico Suave with her?” I ask, thinking the tall, dark, tuxedoed man sitting across from her is pretty sensational as well. He is drinking from a martini glass and giving Josephine a smoky look across the table.
Wyn shrugs. “No one famous, just one of the stock Meeple. Latin Lover III, I think.”
“Oooh, he sounds like fun,” I say, wondering if Jill has given him a bunch of total cheeseball lines. I certainly hope so.
We continue to wing our way around the floor, watching for anything out of the ordinary, anything human among the Meeple.
“They’re probably not on the dance floor,” Wyn says. “Unless they’re great dancers, this would be an easy place to give yourself away.”
“You don’t say?” I tease, and he lowers me into a dip like I’m Ginger Rogers. I kick up a leg for flourish and my long wench dress slides down to my thigh.
Wyn whistles at my bare leg and wags his eyebrows at me. “That leg must be enhanced ’cause they don’t make ’em that shapely in the real world.”
“Steal that line from Latin Lover III?” I ask, as he pulls me back up.
He puts both arms around me now, like we’re slow dancing, though the music is still loud and lively. We stay this way for a while, and I rest my head on his shoulder as I scan the tables again. Wyn’s right: if there are any human players here, they would most likely be seated, where their nonautomated movements won’t give them away.
So far, everyone just looks happy and fabulous. Marlon Brando is smoking a cigar and eyeing a cigarette girl. Nat King Cole and Sammy Davis Jr. are chuckling together and clinking glasses. Elizabeth Taylor is whispering something in Joan Crawford’s ear. Joan Crawford looks unamused. Josephine Baker is adjusting her dangling earrings in a small compact while Rico Suave taps his foot impatiently. My eyes continue their search, though I’m starting to doubt this plan is working. I’m pretty sure the only two humans in this room are me and Wyn, and honestly, that’s fine by me. I’m having fun and I don’t want this night to—
“They’re here,” I say, jerking my head up as the realization finally dawns on me.
“Easy,” Wyn says, continuing to dance. “Don’t let them know you know. Tell me where they are, but smile like you’re telling me what I great dancer I am.”
“Josephine and Rico Suave,” I say through my smile. “She had on spiral earrings before, not dangly ones. And he’s tapping his foot out of sync with the music.”
Wyn spins