Heart of Flame: A Tale Of Sauron

Jail Bird

The third time the police crashed the Gilded Cage, Ivy wasn't so lucky. They were in the middle of the last number wearing hot pants with dollar green sequins, shimmying to the latest dance craze. A sharp whistle sounded in the back, the orchestra fading to a confused, off key note as the audience turned to witness the commotion. A squad of New York City policemen crowded the aisle and pounded towards the stage.

"Beat it, dolls!" Myrtle hollered and the chorus line scattered.

The police chased after the dancers as they raced back stage, out into the theater, or slipped up stairs to balcony seats. The cop in charge argued with the stage manager and theater owner, the oily Jim Robin. The red faced stage manager threw his clipboard on the floor, running an agitated hand through his thinning blond hair.

"C'mon," Ivy urged Maryanne as they ducked behind the curtains. "The side exit."

"Where is Myrtle?"

"She said something about the fire escape on the second floor."

It was every girl for herself. Ivy and Maryanne kept to the shadows, slipping into the dressing rooms in front of another girl being handcuffed, weeping that her mother would never forgive her. The exit was hidden behind one of the dressing screens. Maryanne made it. Ivy paused to snatch their purses hanging off one of the mirrors.

"Where do you think you're going?" A male voice said as Ivy tip-toed towards the exit, Maryanne disappearing into the alley outside.

Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, lifting her hands over her head. "Just wanted to get a breath of fresh air. A little stuffy in here."

"It's going to be a whole lot stuffier where you're headed, Miss," he grumbled as he tugged her hands down and snapped the hand cuffs on her. "You going to make this easy for me?"

With a heavy sigh, Ivy nodded. "Yes sir."

"No crying for your mother?"

Ivy shot him a cheeky, red lipped smile. "Ain't got one, officer."

"Lucky you, now let's go."

Thankfully, she shared a cell with four other girls who were her friends. Two southerners, one native Brooklynite and a lonely little Californian who was still crying over how desperately disappointed her folks were going to be when they heard she'd been arrested.

"Oh knock it off, Betty," Daisy from Georgia droned, flicking the ash off her cigarette where she stood with her arms hooked through the bars. "Not like you'll miss out on anything when they write you out of the will. Her family are chicken farmers," she added in an aside to Ivy.

"What about you, Daisy? Your people back home going to have you drawn and quartered for landing in jail?" Ivy asked as Daisy lit her a cigarette.

Daisy blew out a mouthful of smoke with a snide grin. "They'll probably be shocked that it took me this long to spend a night in the clink. You?"

Ivy shook her head. She loosened the waistband on her shorts, the sequins cutting into her stomach past her black leotard. "Never had no one to be disappointed in me before, can't say I know how it feels."

"That's freeing."

"I suppose."

The sergeant wandered towards the cells, swinging the key ring around his forefinger. The girls rose to their feet shouting protests at him. "Hey, c'mon! What's the big idea keeping us locked up all night!?"

"Not any longer, you're all coming down to the courthouse. Standing before the judge for your hearing. Special circumstances have come up with the owner of the theater."