The Cop and the Chorus Girl by Nancy Martin Page A

it?”
    Dixie laughed at his expression. “In this show, it is!”
    Her Roaring Twenties’ flapper dress consisted of little more than a couple of feathers and the few rows of tassels that shimmered when she shook it.
    â€œYou’re not going on stage in that?” Flynn asked, amazed.
    â€œWhy not? I look damn good in it!” She sailed into the bathroom once more to dress.
    When she emerged a few minutes later, Flynn had to admit she did look good. Damn, damn good, in fact. The tight-fitting outfit managed to cover her with surprising good taste while still flaunting her figure to the max.
    Involuntarily, Flynn whistled.
    Dixie grinned and waggled her hips like a showgirl, clearly enjoying herself. She pulled on a pair of tap shoes.
    â€œFive minutes!” bellowed the stage manager.
    â€œHelp me with my mike?” Dixie asked, handing him an electronic box about the size of a small transistor radio. She spun around and presented Flynn with her bare back. “Just clip it to the inside pocket of the dress.”
    Flynn hesitated.
    He wasn’t afraid to touch her. He just feared he might not be able to stop touching her.
    â€œProblem?”
    â€œNo, no problem. No problem at all.”
    As delicately as he could, Flynn attached the microphone power pack to the lining of her dress.
    â€œSo far,” Dixie asked over her shoulder, “how do you like this job?”
    â€œOh,” Flynn replied, still dry in the mouth, “I’ll get used to it.”

Four
    D ixie enjoyed her share of the applause when the curtain was drawn at the end of the show, but she knew The Flatfoot and the Floozie was not exactly War and Peace. And her role, that of the floozie, was little more than a star turn. Eleanor Roosevelt could have played the part. All Dixie had to do was look great, flash her legs, sing a little and dance in place while everybody else showed off their talents around her. Basically, Dixie had to imitate her granny Butterfield—without taking off her clothes.
    The show relied on the far greater singing and dancing skills of the other actors as well as the pyrotechnics that had become so important to Broadway shows in recent years. Still, Dixie got a big kick out of performing.
    Unlike most of the cast, who dragged themselves downstairs in various stages of exhaustion, Dixie was bubbling over with energy after the show.
    She grabbed Flynn backstage. “What did you think? Did you enjoy it? I thought it went great tonight!”
    â€œIt was good,” Flynn replied, allowing her to drag him down the stairs. “You were terrific.”
    â€œI had a great time. Wasn’t Kiki wonderful tonight? Come on. Now we have to go to the greenroom and talk to everybody. I called a cast meeting.”
    The whole cast of the show assembled in the theater’s greenroom, a lounge where all the actors could relax. Some of the women slipped into bathrobes and drank directly from plastic bottles of mineral water to restore themselves after the strenuous singing and dancing. The men stripped down to their tights and wore towels around their necks to absorb sweat and the remains of their stage makeup.
    Dixie entered the lounge with Flynn, who made himself invisible in a far corner. Dixie took center stage in the crowded room.
    â€œOkay, Dixie,” said Charles Kenton, the male lead of the play. He was the uniformed beat cop in the show—one who could sing and tap-dance like nobody’s business. His powerful voice quelled the chatter in the room. “You’ve got to tell us everything now. Is Joey going to close the show or not?”
    The whole cast looked at Dixie and held their collective breath.
    â€œI’m not sure,” she said in all honesty, hating to deliver bad news. She had never intended to become a leader among the cast members. The role had been forced on her. She’d decided early on to hold nothing back. Especially the truth. She said,