The Viewing of Velma

The Viewing of Velma

by

William von Reese

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 by William von Reese

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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BOOK ONE

VELMA

Las Vegas, Nevada. 1955

PROLOGUE

Las Vegas, Nevada. 8:45 o'clock, Saturday Morning,

June 6, 1987.

The camera mounted in the rafters of the chapel was an old-fashioned surveillance model, taken off the dusty shelves of the FBI equipment room. The device was not high-tech like a VCR camera, capable of shooting glitzy commercials. But it was bulletproof. You could drop it from the roof of the Riviera Hotel and it would survive, protecting precious film from exposure to the hot June sun.

This was the kind of camera that took the sleazy pictures you saw on the news: congressmen taking bribes from Arabs, drug deals going down or illicit sexual encounters. The pictures were grainy black and white, with the cross hairs and focusing grid showing. There was no sound track. The camera was made to catch evidential material clearly. Such films had an official aura.

There were few electric outlets in the ceiling, so the camera was plugged into a spotlight socket. The noise of the drive motor would be more than covered by the whir of air-conditioning and the bass notes of the organ music piped throughout. The old clunker of a camera would never be noticed.

Turned on by remote control at 8:30 Saturday morning, the camera came to life with an electronic spasm. Its fish-eye lens was pre-focused on the casket below, already wheeled into position under the soft spotlights. But the lens' peripheral vision took in the entire chapel, including part of the entry.

A dozen mourners of both sexes sipped coffee from plastic cups as they chatted in the aisle, like extras waiting for their director's call. But the white foam cups quickly disappeared when the tall man in ministerial robes appeared like Johnny Carson entering the stage.

After glancing at his watch, the minister shrugged. Then he, too, filled a cup from the urn concealed in an alcove. He sipped and chatted with the mourners, who milled about the aisle, unwilling to take their seats until summoned.

A remote command zoomed the lens for a close-up of a handsome woman of about fifty, who lay in the casket with a leather Bible and a colorless rose on her chest. The zoom was only a momentary swoop to identify the person in the coffin for the official record. One mourner came to hover over the coffin. The camera recorded the movement of his lips as he seemed to commune with the dead.

Then some off-screen director called for positions. The plastic cups disappeared again. It was 9:15, according to the time stamp in a corner of the frame, when the reverend took his position at the lectern and began to deliver his eulogy.

At 9:35, the minister left the dais, and the mourners formed a viewing line at the foot of the casket. A latecomer joined the ceremony. A round little man entered the chapel door as the mourners began filing past the coffin. The fat man pushed into the head of the line and gazed into the casket. He glanced down at something in his hand. He nodded to himself, then turned and bounced out of camera range. The viewing line paused.

Someone else entered the chapel. The camera picked up the silver density of his hair, the hulk of his shoulders beneath the black suit. He was a tall man, with intense presence. Unlike the fat men, the newcomer took his place at the end of the viewing line.

The queue inched past the coffin. The silver-haired man was the last to approach. The other mourners were clustered loosely around him as he peered into the coffin, then stepped abruptly backward, staring at the woman inside.

The woman in the coffin had risen to a sitting position, clutching the Bible to her breast. The tall man crossed himself and took another step backward. The camera caught his facial expression. A lip reader would later confirm the Italian word he said was a term of endearment, the equivalent in English of little redhead. He shook his head sideways and began to smile, like a good sport going along with a bad joke. He stepped forward toward the coffin, holding out his arms to her. She did not return his smile.

The Bible fell open in her lap. Without breaking her gaze, the woman took a pearl-handled purse gun, later identified as a .25 caliber, Browning automatic, from the hollow book. She raised both arms toward him, as the man leaned to embrace her, but her hands clenched the gun in firing position. The man never touched her.

Three white flashes and a pall of gun smoke confirmed the shots fired. The woman's intent was unmistakable. She would have emptied the clip, except for the last round, had the man not slumped out of range at the foot of her coffin, his silver hair not mussed.

While the mourners clustered around the man on the floor, and one of them searched for vital signs, the camera caught the woman's final act. The chromed, blunt muzzle was at her temple when she fired the final round.

Even the graceful arc of the ejected shell was visible on film. Velma fell backward into her casket as the trauma of her final shot brought the mourners back to encircle her. The man on the floor was already dismissed as dead.

The camera continued to grind on, because no one remembered to turn it off. Before it came to the end of its film, it picked up one scene the director might have liked. It showed the minister with his arm around one of the mourners. There had been a true bereavement after all.

CHAPTER 1

On opening night the Pyramids' dressing room sizzled with static electricity. Velma, the first position showgirl, was too focused on her own inner tension to notice the blue spark that leapt from her finger to any metal she neared. She had lived long enough in Vegas to get used to this stinging proof of low humidity.

The dressing room was crowded and strained with the nervousness of thirty-one other showgirls, all talking too loud, smoking too much, cursing and twitching with opening night jitters.

With her makeup as perfect as she could get it, Velma dropped her hand mirror and reached for the curl above her right ear. She had the habit of twirling it around her index finger to relieve anxiety. The lock she found felt wrong. It was not her hair. Then she remembered she was wearing a wig. The hairdresser slapped her hand.

Don't mess with it, honey. I just got it right.

The room was hazed with cigarette smoke. Most of the girls sought relief that way. But Velma could not smoke. She had tried, but the habit never took. Besides, she hated what tobacco did to teeth and nails. She unwrapped a stick of chewing gum, but her mouth was too dry to soften it. She dabbed Mum under her arms with a cotton ball.

Velma's wig was much hotter than her own hair. Her harem costume, a gossamer confection at which the wardrobe lady kept tugging, felt like a raincoat. Still, Velma knew the heat came from within, not from her clothes. There was nothing more to do but wait for her position call.

Earlier that day, the press conference had set off her nervousness. During weeks of rehearsal she had grown used to displaying her body before troupe and crew. Tonight's public viewing would be different. The reporters' questions poked a sore spot.

How do you feel about showing your breasts in public? one reporter asked.

Does your mother know? asked another.

Velma answered as she had been coached. She felt honored to star in Mr. Lambrusco's opening production. Actually, she had been lucky. The casting man was so impressed with her body that he set aside the industry's prejudice against freckled, green-eyed redheads.

Yes, her mother knew and approved. Anything that'll get you out of this crummy neighborhood, had been her mother's words. Pittsburgh is the pits. Her mother barely got by on a miner's pension, awarded after Velma's father died of Black Lung.

What's your last name, honey? asked another reporter.

Wieniowski, Velma answered patiently. I'm Polish.

No kidding? he whispered in mock wonder to a cohort. The PR guy said it was 'Voluptua'. No wonder we have one name stars, now."

ooo

From his rooftop post, Brian McCoy kept watch on the rows of bleachers lining the casino entry. He fiddled with the VHF antenna on a newfangled, transistorized walkie-talkie, on loan from a hopeful electronics supplier. The angle of the silver wand had to be just right or the signal would break into crackles and hisses. But the device enabled him to deploy his men quickly to the trouble spots. Finicky thing, he thought, looking over the weighty, hand-held box. Still, it beat stringing land lines all over the place.

Far below, Brian could watch Bob Hope, wearing Arabic garb from some prior Road picture, greeting arrivals with portable mike. Playing to the cameras, Eddie Fisher and Debbie were trading ad lib banter with Hope's scripted lines. Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd hovered off camera waiting their turn for the spotlight.

Then Brian spotted a flurry of commotion behind Hope. He swore when he recognized what was going on, exactly what he was there to prevent. A young girl behind Hope, certainly on camera, had hoisted her halter while she swung her torso in a sideways rhythm that caused some insolently eye-grabbing motion. No bra showed. Another bid for attention, like at the Cannes Film Festival.

Brian pushed the talk button. Larry, get the twit behind Hope. The one in the red Capri’s. She's flashing boobs.

Next came water-filled balloons tossed from the bleachers. Then several fights broke out over parking spaces. Someone set off a string of firecrackers. Brian felt like a fireman following a mad arsonist.

Las Vegas brings out the worst in everyone, Brian thought, with the security man's malaise of cynicism, born of sour experience. Even Saint Patrick's halo would corrode in this atmosphere. A cop is society's janitor, and he gets sick of sweeping up human trash. But the borrowed walkie-talkies helped a lot. He decided to order a dozen, enough for a whole shift.

From his vantage point, despite the gathering dusk, Brian could easily follow Mr. Lambrusco's movements throughout the Pyramids. His hulking shoulders, silver hair, and larger-than-life frame made him visible everywhere, backslapping with Hope, politicians and fellow Italians.

This night was Mr. Lambrusco's payoff for more than two years of turmoil and risk. He had earned his triumph, Brian grudgingly admitted, but he should leave Velma alone. Sure he had made Velma his star showgirl, all right. But soon Brian had noticed Lambrusco moving in on Velma smoothly, gradually, even though he knew damn well Brian and Velma were practically living together.

Tonight Mr. Lambrusco was on a winner's roll. Like a lucky Vegas mark, he knew he could not lose. He would scoop up Velma along with the rest of his winner's pot. Now waves of uneasiness warned Brian that he could lose Velma tonight. Velma would become part of Mr. Lambrusco's triumph, his self-awarded Oscarette.

ooo

The extravaganza in Las Vegas being already commonplace, tonight's production at the Pyramids was designed to dazzle the bedazzled. Not by costume and scenery so much as by special effects, and especially nudity, new to the Las Vegas stage.

Revolving, rising and descending stage platforms would intrigue the audience, as would gimmicks in the vast ceiling. The gilded armature high above center stage appeared to be a chandelier. Baroque turrets along the walls looked like mere decor. Velvet ropes, that appeared to be thematic Eastern tent stays, would function in unexpected ways.

The shock was to come with a star-burst of bare breasts, the first such in mixed company for legitimate Nevada showrooms. Till 1955 breasts were still private in the USA. Tonight would change all that. Chest nudity would hence become acceptable show business. The Pyramids that year guided the cutting edge of theatrical morality.

In contrast with the showroom opulence, backstage was crowded and ugly. The dressing room was scarcely larger than a boxcar, wherein thirty-two nervous girls were adjusting makeup and costume while the prancing stage manager hissed orders.

Keep it down, you silly geese.

Holden and Hepburn are at the center table.

No bouncing, now. Aim your titties, like artillery. We're not doing burlesque here.

There was not room backstage for the whole cast at the same time. Band members stood outside in the parking lot to grab a last-minute smoke. Most would rather have been inside to enjoy fortuitous rump or breast exposure by the jittery girls. There just wasn't enough room for girl watching.

Did you dig the ass on that redhead named Velma? the drummer asked the trombonist.

I'm a tit man myself, was the horn player's reply.

Well, Velma's titular head of this revue. The drummer punched the trombonist on the shoulder. The horn player looked warily behind him. Watch it. The Man's got her tagged.

ooo

Velma's costume was slight. The wardrobe lady kept fussing with the Scheherazade pantaloons that veiled her body stocking and G-string. Her breasts were draped now by a shawl, which she would remove on cue.

Lambrusco burst into the dressing room and bulldozed his way through the tittering girls. He was too tall for the room. His hulking shoulders, bunched like a bison's, cleared his path by intimidation. The stage manager danced behind him, despairing but afraid to show it.

Velma smiled up at him, shakier than ever in the presence of The Man, feeling a cold trickle down her side. Never had she looked into more vivid, blacker eyes. They were fixed with anticipatory pleasure on her. Velma's fear of him was heightened by her suspicion that she could not say no to him, not ever.

After the show, Lambrusco would be escorting her to the opening night party at his mansion on Lake Mead. She sensed she would not be returning to her apartment in North Las Vegas. She was half-way glad. There was a sense of destiny between them, a success to be shared, a preordained future with a hint of danger. She would be Lambrusco's girl, a living trophy of his triumph at the Pyramids tonight.

Everyone quieted as the band blared out the overture, an oriental medley of show tunes from Stranger in Paradise.

Positions, girls. Positions, everyone! the stage manager shouted in falsetto.

Lambrusco had lifted a corner of Velma's shawl. For a solemn moment he gazed at her breast.

Please, Mister Lambrusco. She's got to take her position right now.

Remember, we're not doing a strip act here. This is art, Lambrusco told her. Nothing to be ashamed of.

Velma nodded solemnly.

See you afterwards, honey. Knock 'em dead.

He lightly slapped her buttock as he turned for the door. The girls fluttering out drew back to make way for him.

Velma hated that slap, hated the way her flesh shook in response, making her feel fat and hippy. Her father had often done that to her, but she had never dared to ask him to stop. Her mother pretended not to notice.

She would get used to it, Velma knew. Men enjoyed slapping your rear. The rounded firmness must feel good to the hand. She could understand that. But it was more than a friendly pat. Men were branding you, too. They were showing you who was boss while telling other men to lay off. It was a territorial thing. Lambrusco had just marked her.

Velma took a final dab at her brow and hurried out the door. She had to climb a ladder high into the overhead, then follow a catwalk above the fake ceiling out over the center of the showroom. Then step into her golden cage, as she thought of the contraption, and wait for her cue.

Her signal came when the emcee said, ...the jewel of our harem. She felt the first shudder of motion as she was slowly lowered into the darkened room below. Spots were still on the emcee and the action onstage. At the end of ten slow counts, her cage was in position and began its slow rotation, high above the audience. She dropped the shawl from her shoulders. Then the pre-focused hot lights hit her and she stood motionless, her nipples erect, the vague gauze enhancing rather than hiding the nakedness of a perfect body.

An inhaled Oh! came from the crowd as the lights picked her up. Velma felt the heat from those mob eyes, or from those lights, feasting on her body. She was no longer afraid. Her armpits were finally dry. Her heart pounded. She moistened beneath the G-string. She exulted. She was the embodied theme of the whole extravaganza below, the prize of the harem, queen of the Pyramids.

The night, the show, her body would make her famous. The opening of the Pyramids was an event of the decade. The cover of Life, the celebrity interviews, the movie offers would all now be hers. She would be Lambrusco's. Sorry, Brian, she thought.

CHAPTER 2

Velma woke up in a strange bed. Her cheek was pressed to blue satin sheets. A man snored beside her. It was Mister Lambrusco. Mark. She did not remember going to bed last night. Glowing muscles and a sweet soreness in her groin told her that the lovemaking had lasted a long time.

There was a clock radio beside the bed, but she could not read the hands, washed out by sunlight. She squinted at the watch on her wrist. It was almost noon.

She remembered seeing a coffee maker in the kitchen. She decided to fix a pot and wake Mark with a morning cup. She sat up in bed, trying not to waken him, feet searching out the floor.

A wave of hangover surged through her, but it was not as bad as she expected, only a throbbing in her temple and fireflies in her vision. A crowd of Mark's partners, friends and employees, with wives and girls, had scarfed up the caterer's fancy food, depleted the open bar and danced to the live band playing show tunes from Cancan and My Fair Lady until dawn. Marcus Lambrusco's Pyramids was officially open.

Velma eased to her feet, then noticed her red bush and realized she was naked. She must bring a robe next time, she thought. Her pieces of clothing were spaced like steppingstones marking a pathway to the bed. Covering her front with a corner of sheet, she snagged the panties with her big toe and wriggled into them. She dropped the sheet. Hugging her breast with crossed arms, she followed her clothing trail toward the door, intent on closing it. As she reached the door, a short dark girl, wearing a maid's uniform and a sassy smile, appeared with a silver tray. Smiling knowingly at cross-armed Velma, she did a ritual knock on the doorjamb, then strutted into the room.

"Buenos días," she chirped, placing her tray on Mark's bedside table. Velma snatched up her clothing and backed into the bathroom. Mark sat up in bed, revealing a shocking amount of black hair on his chest. He stretched.

Thanks, María. You remembered the Bloody Mary.

María tittered. It's my name, in English.

In the bathroom, Velma slipped into her bra. She found a terry cloth robe of Mark's and rejoined him in bed. Velma was hungry despite last night's excesses. She took a sweet roll from María's tray and buttered it. María was decent enough to close the door on her way out.

When they had emptied the coffee pot, Mark took her in his arms and pulled her on top of him. He reached inside the robe to unhook her bra.

You were great last night, Velma.

I was so scared.

"In bed, I mean.

Oh.

You looked good swinging from the ceiling, too.

Mark made love to her again, at length. This time Velma would remember it. For the rest of her life.

ooo

It must have been some party. No one had gone