Chapter 6

NINETTE

Jeff couldn't forget that baby grand at the club. So he left the apartment early and went directly to BRUNO'S PLACE.

One of the cooks was on duty, and he let Jeff in. Jeff made small talk for a few minutes, then went into the club-proper. The work light was still burning. He guessed no one come to work yet.

He headed straight for the baby grand. When he got there, he ran his hand over the smooth, mahogany surface, and with the same anticipation and gentleness with which he might disrobe a woman, he uncovered the keyboard. This was his paramour.

He sat on the bench, wiped his hands on his shirt-front then flexed his long, sensitive fingers. He poised his hands over the keys then brought them down softly on the keys. It was as if he'd reached the piano's soul; the sound echoing and re-echoing through the darkness. Softly, he began to play.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" a voice roared at him from out of the shadows, somewhere off to his right.

Jeff was on his feet.

A man materialized out of the darkness and ambled forward. He looked like an outsized ape. Even the expensive clothes he wore couldn't hide his ugliness or his misshapen body. He was Oleg Bruno, the club owner.

His shoe button eyes under thick black eye-brows, fastened on Jeff angrily.

"What the hell do you think you were doing? Who are you anyway?"

Jeff told him.

"Dishwasher?" Bruno raged. "You get the hell back in the kitchen. I catch you out here again, you'll find yourself on your ass out in the alley."

Jeff turned to go. A girl's voice stopped him. He wheeled to face her. She had a strange, dark, fascinating beauty. Raven black hair that hung in soft waves several inches below her shoulders.

He'd seen her last night, too. She was Ninette, the club's singing mistress of ceremonies. Jeff caught a few minutes of her act last night. She couldn't sing worth a damn.

Her stock in trade was sex. She sold it out there on the club floor with gestures and double-entendre lyrics and a look of profound innocence on her face. Even now in a deceivingly simple white shift, she looked sexy; the soft silk material molding to her voluptuous body; giving full play to her sumptuous breasts.

She stared at Jeff with considerable interest. "You play pretty music."

"He's a dishwasher," Bruno said with contempt.

Ninette looked at Bruno over her shoulder with a mildly bored expression. "Why don't you go back to your office, Darling. You know that you don't know anything about talent."

"Talent!" Bruno scoffed.

"Bruno!" The word was soft, spoken almost under her breath, but it carried the sting of a whiplash with it. His shoe-button eyes came around to meet her withering gaze. For a moment, it looked as if he might be going to say something. But she stared him down and he turned and sauntered away into the shadows like some beaten animal retreating to its lair.

Jeff looked at her with frank amazement. She could talk to the boss like that?

Her gaze settled on Jeff again. His bewilderment was clearly written in his face. She smiled amusedly. "You don't know who I am?"

He nodded. "You're Ninette. The M.C. Your picture's out front."

Her smile deepened. "I'm also Mrs. Bruno."

When he got over his shocked surprise, she asked him to play something for her.

He glanced at the piano significantly. "Is that an order?"

She smiled. "A favor. You do one for me, I just might do one for you."

He shrugged. "You're the boss."

She grinned. "I'd rather you think of my husband that way."

He nodded and without another word, turned to the piano and sat down. He began to play.

Ninette closed her eyes and listened almost as if she were mesmerized. When he was finished, she opened her eyes and stared across the piano at him.

"Beautiful," she murmured. Then she looked at him, intently. "Now suppose you tell me who you really are. You've played professionally, haven't you?"

He didn't lie. There was no point to it. He simply wagged his head affirmatively. "Where?"

"L. A. Up and down the coast."

"Why the dishwashing routine?" He shrugged. "Best offer I had." She continued to study his good-looking face. "For a long time, I've been telling my husband that we should have continuous entertainment. Maybe a combo or a piano player. Something to fill in between shows. But we could never find the right "somebody".

"And...?"

"I found him."

"Your husband approve?"

She smiled and said simply, "You start tonight." Then she looked at his clothes disapprovingly. "That all you've got to wear?" He nodded.

"We'll find you something," she said. "Now let's hear what kind of piano you're going to play for the people."

He ran through a medley of pop tunes that he once played at the NIGHT HAWK.

"Terrific," she said when he concluded, "But they're right out of the museum, how about something from right now?"

He told her he didn't know anything contemporary.

She frowned. "You Rip Van Winkle or somebody? You been sleeping for the past ten years?"

"Eight years, wasn't it?" somebody asked, fading in. They turned to see a man coming forward.