by Gene Wolfe
“No. I want — are you going to tell me the truth?”
Gideon nodded. “If I can, yes.”
“Good. Where are you taking me?”
“Back to your apartment.”
Cassie glanced at her watch. “I’ll need to get a cab to the theater before long.”
“I may be able to drive you. There’s something in your apartment I need to show you. After I do, you and I will have to talk a little more.”
“We won’t have much time. I hope you realize that our romance is going to be all over town after five o’clock.”
For a moment, Gideon’s eyes left the traffic ahead. “As fast as that? In a newspaper?”
“Not in the Sun-Trib. That won’t hit the streets till tomorrow, but Sharon does a gossip spot on Channel Three. It’s the same company that owns her paper. Want to watch in my apartment?”
“I do indeed.” Gideon was smiling.
“You want everybody talking about us?”
“Correct.” He nodded emphatically. “Fundamentally, there are two ways to find a man, Miss Casey. One is to go looking for him. The other is to have him come looking for you.”
“Okay...”
“I’ve tried the first, and failed. Now you and I are trying the second.”
“This is the man that cop wants, isn’t it? And it’s the man in those pictures.”
Gideon nodded.
In the elevator he said, “I want you to go into your apartment. Shut the door, but don’t lock it. When I knock in a minute or two, let me in.”
“What are you up to, Dr. Chase?”
“I want to see whether your neighbors have come home, that’s all.”
“They’re on vacation.”
The elevator stopped, its doors sliding open. He motioned urgently, and Cassie stepped out and unlocked the door of her apartment, entered, and shut it behind her. A moment later, she heard his loud knock at the door of 3B.
JIMMY’S smile fairly glowed as he opened the stage door for her. Jimmy was at least sixty, probably nearer seventy; he always smiled, but Cassie had never seen him smile quite so warmly.
She smiled back. “Everything all right, Jimmy?”
His smile widened. “Everything’s fine now that you’re here, Miss Casey.”
Her tiny dressing room seemed to be exactly as it had been the night before. Was the phone tapped? Was the room bugged? Cassie decided that the answers were no and yes. No, because there was no phone. Yes, because there were roaches.
Quite a lot of them, really; but everybody knew that it was the fly on the wall that spied on you. The roaches hid till you went to sleep, so they could raid your peanut butter.
By the middle of the first act, she had been in the wings for ten minutes at least, peering out at the audience (the lack thereof, really) through the spy hole and more than prepared to make her entrance as Veronica’s dearest friend, Mildred. The usual lines spoken in response to the usual cues from the usual people.
Except that when she stepped out onstage something was very different...
A lot of things, really. The theater was the same and the play was the same, but...
For one thing, Alexis Cabana was looking daggers at her. The eyes above that mocking smile wanted to kill, and that was utterly and completely new.
For another, Bruce Sandoz’s eyes were devouring her alive. He was (his eyes declared) a famished lion. She was a strawberry ice cream cone. When he licked his lips, Cassie wrote and underlined a mental sticky to lock her dressing-room door.
For a third, the play had become far more serious and real, a real life — hers — watched not at all strangely by several hundred people sitting in the dark. A real life (still hers) in which she herself was the center of every silent watcher’s attention.
Brad Kingsley was determined that he and Jane Simmons would tour the moons of Jupiter in his new hopper on their honeymoon; while she, knowing all they risked, was equally determined to stop them. Sorrow, fear, and determination poured from her lips unbidden, a triple stream that filled the theater with wailing ghosts and the echoing threats of drums.
She stole a glance at the audience while Brad was arguing and stamping around. A second-row seat that had been empty a minute before was occupied now — occupied by a big soft-faced man who wore glasses.
A man she knew at once.
When she had exited, she used the peephole again. Reis was no longer in the audience. Had she imagined him?
SEURAT strangled her — Act Two, Scene Two — and she lay gasping and trembling on the darkened stage until he helped her rise and supported her as he led her into the wings. In real life, Donny Duke was small and swishy and reeked of Nuit de Marseilles; but Cassie clung to him until he had to leave to take his bow.
There was a scattering of polite applause.
Hers came after his. “And now,” India Dempster’s voice echoed from the walls, “Mildred Norcott, Kingsport’s own Cassie Casey!” The applause rose as surf rises when a storm races toward the coast. In less than half a minute it was thunder. A man stood up, and another, and another. Women were rising as well, smiling and clapping. Someone was slamming something hard against the back of a seat. Somewhere a woman with a fine, strong contralto called, “Brava! Oh, brava!”
Cassie bowed and bowed again, and fled to the wings, only to be grappled by Mickey, the stage manager, and thrust out onstage once more.
At last it was over. Bruce Sandoz came out, the roar subsided, and the audience resumed its seats. By the time Alexis took her bow, the theater seemed almost silent.
The tiny, dirty dressing room that Cassie had always detested had become a place of refuge. She shut and bolted the door and sat down before the smeared mirror, ignoring both burned-out bulbs.
The woman who stared back at her was herself — was her true self, and not the foreign and slightly shoddy knockoff who had looked at her from a thousand other mirrors. “I am me,” she said, and only afterward realized she had spoken aloud. Before the mirror, she removed her stage makeup and combed and brushed her hair. That done, she stripped and practically bathed in her favorite cologne, a baptism of the new self by the new self: a ritual cleansing in Lily Delight performed while someone tapped very softly at her door.
When it was complete she called, “Just a minute! I have to put on a robe.”
With the robe in place and securely tied, she opened the door.
“Miss Casey.” A small, gray woman smiled hesitantly, bobbing her head. “You don’t know me, but I’m — ”
“You’re Margaret, Alexis’s dresser.”
“I was, Miss Casey.” The smile faded and returned. “For the length of the engagement, you know. Well, I’m at liberty now, so I thought I might give you my card. You’ll find me loyal and efficient. Hardworking, Miss Casey, and clean. An expert seamstress and laundress, and a discreet companion.” She was offering a somewhat battered business card.
Cassie accepted it.
“When I was with Miss Sinclair... You must know of her work? Miss Easter Sinclair, Miss Casey — ”
Margaret had been interrupted by India’s rapping the door frame with hard, directorial knuckles. “Can I see you for a minute, Cassie?”
Cassie nodded and pointed to Margaret. “How much?”
“Only nine-fifty a week, Miss Casey, and — ”
“That’s too much.” Cassie looked around for her purse, found it, and opened it. Neither cop, it appeared, had taken her money. “Here’s twenty. I want a sandwich with lots of meat in it. Hot pastrami, understand? On rye with thousand island. A big coffee to go, sweetener but no creamer. Go get them, and we’ll talk about your pay when you get back.”
India shut the door behind Margaret. “I see you know,” she said.
Cassie, who had not the least idea what she was talking about, nodded.
“If you’d played Mildred like that from the beginning, we’d still be running. Hell’s belles! By this time you’d be Jane Simmons.”
“Somet
hing was different tonight,” Cassie said; mostly to herself she added, “I don’t know...”
“It sure as shit was.”
“And now I’m about to hire a dresser who’ll cost me — do you happen to know what Alexis was paying her?”
“Eight twenty-five? I think I heard that.” India dropped into the dressing room’s one tattered chair, leaving Cassie the stool.
“A man owes me a hundred thousand.” Cassie sighed. “I guess I’ve started spending it already. I’d better collect.”
“Good luck. Can I tell you what I wanted to talk to you about?”
“The cast party? If you’d rather I didn’t go, I won’t.”
“Screw the cast party. No, I take that back. You’ve got to go. It’ll look bad if you don’t.”
“Bad for you?”
“Hell, yes.” For a moment, India seemed worried and a trifle angry. “Bad for me and bad for you, too. Bad for everybody in the show.”
“Alexis has decided she hates my guts.”
“So what? She won’t be there.”
“How do you know that?” Cassie wondered whether she looked as surprised as she felt.
“It stands to reason. All the bees will be buzzing around you. She can join the buzz or stand in the corner and pout. Or not go. Which one would you pick?”
For a moment, Cassie could only stare.
“You think I’m kidding? I’m not.”
“All right, I’ll go. Now tell me why you want me to.”
“See here, Cassie...” India’s voice dropped to a stage whisper. “I’ve got this angel. Heavy, heavy guy. Wants to back a big musical. You sing, right?”
She nodded. “Not so you’d notice. I try.”
“And dance?”
“Last time I looked.”
“Well, you’ll wow him. Give him the smile, give him the voice, and we’re in.”
“I’ve got a question, India. Don’t string me on this. I want an honest answer, and I want it now.”
“How much? We’re not talking hard numbers yet, but it’ll be big.”
“How long have you known this guy?”
Someone knocked. It was neither Margaret’s soft tap nor Mickey’s rapid pounding. Cassie motioned India to silence and opened the door.
Jimmy stood there holding his watchman’s cap, looking resolute and a trifle embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Casey, but I have to deliver a message. There’s a man in the alley, and he’s got a nice present for you. That’s what he said. I... Well, I promised I’d tell you right away.”
India said, “Okay, you’ve told her. Disappear.”
It seemed to Cassie that Jimmy’s normally ruddy face paled somewhat. “Don’t go yet.” Jumping up, she caught his arm. “I need to talk to you.”
India rose, too. “Well, I don’t. You’re coming to the party, right? We can talk more there.”
Cassie nodded. “I’ll be along.”
“I won’t be,” Jimmy muttered.
“Got it.” Cassie motioned for him to come in, and closed the door. “I like you, Jimmy. I consider you a friend, and I stick by my friends. If somebody’s out to get you fired or something, I’m on your side. I mean it. Is that clear?”
“Thanks, Miss Casey.”
“You’re scared about something. If it’s India I can fix it, but I don’t think it is. What is it?”
“Nothing, Miss Casey. Honest. Everything’s fine. It’s just...”
“Just what?”
“Just that he gave me a hundred to come up and tell you he was waiting. Waiting, and he’s got this present for you. Something really nice, he says.”
Cassie slapped her dressing table, jarring four jars. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t accept gifts from men I don’t know. There are a thousand guys out there who give you something and feel like they’ve bought you. If I know the man, maybe I’ll take his gift and maybe I won’t. If I don’t know him, forget it.”
Jimmy nodded. “I’ll tell him.”
“Great. Next point. If he wants his hundred back, tell him you earned it. You found me and told me about him and his gift, and that’s what you promised to do. You can’t deliver me like a package. Nobody can. Call the cops if he gets ugly.”
Jimmy did not nod.
“Last point. What did he look like? Did he give you any kind of name? First name? Nickname? Anything?”
Jimmy shook his head. “He just gave me a hundred — it’s a hundred-dollar bill, I could show you — and said to tell you he was waiting for you with a nice present.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t see him very well, Miss Casey.” Jimmy was backing toward the door. “It was real dark.”
“Big? Small?”
“Big. He sounded big.” Jimmy turned, almost bumping into Margaret.
Then he was gone, walking away so quickly that Cassie suspected he would have run, had he still been capable of running.
“Here’s your change, Miss Casey. Is everything all right?” Margaret was carrying a white paper bag.
“No.” Cassie dropped into a chair. “Things are not all right. Far from it. You got the coffee and sandwich?”
“Yes, Miss Casey. Sweetener, no cream. Hot pastrami on rye.”
“Good. Let me have ’em. There’ll be food at the party, but I’ll be talking to people and it’s... an hour and twenty minutes. Besides, we don’t want to be there when it starts. Half an hour late should do it. You’re coming?” Cassie had opened the white bag and was looking over her sandwich.
“Thousand island,” Margaret told her. “It’s what you said, Miss Casey.”
“Right. They should’ve used more. Tell them next time, if you’re working for me. What about the party?”
“I don’t think I’m invited, Miss Casey.”
“Phooey. They didn’t give you a straw?”
Margaret shook her head.
“You should have asked for one. Preserves the makeup. I don’t have lots of money, Margaret. If I hire you, we may hit a place where I can’t keep paying you. You’ll be free to split, of course. But that may not be long. I don’t know.”
Margaret smiled. It was a very small smile but a smile just the same, a tiny candle lit in her colorless face. “I know how it is in show business, Miss Casey. I’ve been doing this quite a time.”
“Good. I’ll pay you eight hundred a week. That’s firm. Do a good job, and you’ll get raises. But eight hundred to start. Want it?”
Margaret hesitated. “I wasn’t... Miss Cabana owes me back pay, Miss Casey. It’s over three thousand dollars.”
“I don’t know how I could put the arm on her.” Cassie gave it a few seconds’ thought. “But I’ll do it if I can figure a way.”
“If you could just let me have the first week in advance... ?”
“Like that, huh?”
Margaret nodded.
“Are you going to cry on me?”
“No, Miss Casey.”
“Good. Don’t. I hate criers. I do it way too much myself. If I had the money on me, I’d give it to you. I don’t, and you probably can’t take a card.”
“No, Miss Casey. I can’t.”
“I didn’t think so. I’ll give you the eight hundred tomorrow. It’ll mean you’ll have to wait two weeks for another payday. That’s firm. No more advances.”
“I understand, Miss Casey.”
“And I’ll get you into that party, if I can. It’ll be a good test, and I think we’re going to pass. Now go find Mickey for me. Tell him I need to get out of the building without being seen. Not the stage door and not the front. Something else. Scoot.”
DATING THE VOLCANO GOD
The Red Spot party was at Rusterman’s, upstairs. “Cast only!” announced a Teutonically uniformed attendant at the door. “Cast and guests,” Cassie snapped, and sailed into the room with head high and Margaret bobbing in her wake.
India was nowhere in sight. Ebony, her assistant, was loading a plate with beautiful brown
fritters and terrine de lièvre. “Don’t get fat,” Cassie warned her. “What are you going to wear when you can’t fit into a size four?”
Ebony grinned. “I never get fat. You tasted these?”
“Not often enough. How’s life in India?”
“Ha, ha. Listen, Cassie, you got a new gig?”
“Right now?” Cassie shrugged. “Yes and no. Let’s just say I don’t want one.”
“India’s got an angel.” Ebony’s voice fell. “This’s humongous stuff — try it out here and maybe Springfield and open on Broadway.”
“So I heard.” Cassie selected an oyster wrapped in something that might have been prosciutto but probably was not. She twirled it on its toothpick, studied it with a dietician’s eye, and set it back down.
“Okay if I ask what Alexis’s dresser’s doing here?”
Almost inaudibly, Margaret said, “I’m Miss Casey’s dresser now, Miss White.”
Brian Kean appeared at Cassie’s elbow. “Can I get you something? Champagne? Highball?”
Cassie smiled. “Just a glass of Chablis, please. Would you like anything, Margaret?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I’ll fetch my own,” Ebony announced. Brian appeared not to have heard her.
At Cassie’s other elbow, Tabbi Merce whispered, “You were devastating tonight, Cassie. Absolutely devastating! They were throwing flowers at the stage.”
“They weren’t!”
“Oh, yes, they were! Boutonnieres and corsages. Orchids and carnations. You were seeing — I don’t know what. Counting the empty seats or something while the audience went bananas.”
Cassie smiled. “If you’re trying to make me feel good, you’re succeeding.”
Brian pressed a glass of white wine into her hand, and someone else handed her a midget’s plate heaped with food. She smiled again. “What are these fritters, anyway?” It was a general question, directed to the group around her. Norma Peiper, perhaps the heaper of the plate, said, “Wild mushroom. Delicious!”
“I’d like an anchovy fritter. This place is famous for them, and I’ve never had one.”
