by N. C. Lewis
"Acting," echoed Danielle.
"Lots of amateur dramatics with sprinkles of paid professional work. It's a tough gig, that's why I wait tables and take any part-time job I can get. Without the support of my special friends—" Megan halted as if she had only just remembered where she was. "Are you ready to order?"
After Megan had taken their order, refilled their glasses with water, and disappeared into the kitchen, Amy turned to her friend. "Odd woman."
"Austin-weird, but harmless," Danielle responded. "Anyway, compared to dancing Siamese cats, she seems positively normal."
Amy took a sip of water. "Suppose so. How's Stan?"
"Back home at last," Danielle answered. "The band goes back on tour in the fall."
Amy pointed a finger at Danielle's chest. "It must be cool to wear a T-shirt with a picture of your hubby on the front."
Danielle smiled. "People stop me in the street and tell me how much they love the band. I get a kick out of telling them Stan is my husband."
Amy played with a napkin. "Are you going to travel with Stan in the fall?" She didn't want to lose her only worker but would understand if Danielle toured with her husband.
With a vague gesture of the hand, Danielle said, "No, I'm gonna return to school as a teaching assistant. I thought this would be my last year, but no, I'm going back."
"Great," Amy said with relief. "Bookings are coming in fast. I'm relying on you, but think it is time to add another team member. What do you think?"
"Fantastic! I'm all on board with that." Danielle's enthusiasm was infectious. It was one of the things Amy loved about her friend. "Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Not yet. It is a seasonal position."
Megan appeared with two steaming, hot bowls of soup, placing them on the table with two side salads. "I overheard your conversation. I'm down on my luck and need more work." She fished in her apron pocket pulling out a business card and handed it to Amy. "Would you consider me? I'd love to be part of your team."
Amy examined the card. It was yellow around the edges with a picture of Megan twenty years out of date. The uneasy sensation deep in her gut returned. She didn't like the intensity with which Megan looked at her. Something felt wrong. "Have you any experience in the staging business?"
Megan looked away, shuffled her feet and cleared her throat. "I learn quickly." She smiled. It was a disarming smile, the kind that took your mind off what you had just asked.
Amy slipped the business card into her purse. "Let me think about it."
For several long moments Megan stared at Amy and said nothing. Finally, she smiled. "Enjoy," she said stepping away from the table and turning toward the kitchen. "Split pea soup with salt pork is one of my favorites."
Chapter 3
Excited chatter filled the restaurant as Amy and Danielle began their lunchtime meal.
"What's happening in your world?" Danielle asked taking a spoonful of soup.
"Well," replied Amy, dipping her spoon into the soup bowl. "Victoria, my daughter, was due to arrive this week, but she has delayed her flight until next week, so her husband can travel with her."
"Oh, it will be great to see them both. I'm eager to hear all about life in England." Danielle leaned forward. "What about Ruby? How are things going with her and Noel?"
"Improving," Amy answered. "Their marriage was rocky for a while, but things between them are much better now."
Amy's youngest daughter, Ruby, had been through a rough patch with her husband, Noel. He'd struggled to hold down a job, eventually securing a senior position at Battles Equity Partners, an international investment firm with offices in London and Austin. Unfortunately, the firm went bankrupt, and Noel was once again out of work.
Amy continued. "Nick is taking me out for dinner Tuesday evening. Ruby and Noel will have the house to themselves for some smooch time alone."
"Oh, that's so romantic," said Danielle taking a sip from her spoon. "Is Noel still looking for work?"
"Yes. I hope he finds something soon, so he can have the dignity of renting or buying his own place. I love having them around, but a man and wife need their own space."
Danielle nodded. "What about having him join the staging business? You could do with the help."
"I've asked but he says it is too close to home. I think he might be right on that."
Danielle put down her spoon and murmured in agreement.
"You know," said Amy taking a sip of water. "I've had a weird morning."
"How so?"
"I woke up with words going around in my head."
"Words?"
"Yes, like a radio jingle. It lodges in your mind, and you can't shake it. I think they are from a movie or something." Amy half closed her eyes and concentrated on getting the words correct. Then haltingly she spoke, "Life is a trick of the light. It's all in the mind, Jimmy. Nothing more than a flicker in the mind. Who would fardels bear?"
Danielle listened politely, then shook her head. "Can't say I recognize those lines." She thought for a moment. "Say it again, this time slower."
Megan reappeared and cleared away the soup bowls.
Amy repeated the words, this time more in line with how it sounded in her mind.
"Whoa, that's amazing!" Megan was standing beside the table, her hands clasped tight around a tray full of plates. "You said it like him. Whoa!"
Amy glanced up at Megan, and for a moment hesitated. "Him?"
Megan stepped forward and placed the tray on the table. "Danny Fontane, the star in the movie Alistair's Blanket. I'm his number one fan."
"That's it!" Amy cried, standing up. "That movie was running the other night on the community service channel. Quite a twisted tale, not sure I followed it fully."
Megan placed her hands on her hips, her eyes danced with excitement. "It's about a small boy who loses his nighttime blanket and stumbles into a time machine that takes him back to England. He meets the boy Shakespeare who helps him find his blanket and way home. I love Danny Fontane; that was his best role, and he's from Austin!"
"I know," chipped in Danielle. "He went to California for a while but is coming back home."
Amy sat back down. "Do you know him?"
"Oh no, not really," Danielle replied, again flashing that mysterious smile.
But Amy knew better than that. She could tell by the look on her friend's face there was more, and she wanted to know it. "Can't put me off that easily. Danielle, what's the big news?"
"Well, it's Danny Fontane."
"What about him?"
"Someone has booked Stan's band to play at his relaunch party."
"Wonderful!" interjected Megan. "Alistair's Blanket was Danny's biggest hit. That was over twenty years ago, though. He played a few minor roles in Hollywood, but mostly he's been on the stage, or like me, between jobs."
Danielle continued, "Danny Fontane's manager, Vinny Snyder, said that Miles Block is the event organizer for Mr. Fontaine’s relaunch party."
Megan leaned a hand against the table, her jowls quivered in excitement. "The Boston acting agent, Vinny Snyder?"
"Yes, he handles all of Danny's social media, emails, and tweets as well. They are old friends." Danielle replied. Then she turned to Amy. "And it gets better."
"How?"
"We are invited."
Chapter 4
At eleven thirty Megan Finney hurried along the rutted driveway that led to her small studio apartment in a converted Edwardian house on Canterbury Street. A silvery moon illuminated fifteen yards of bleak ground, part scrubby grass, part dirt, that separated the house from the road.
Everything from a rusted washing machine to old bicycles cluttered the yard, and a twenty-year-old Toyota Corolla was propped up on concrete blocks, its doors missing and windows smashed, stood in front of the weathered garage. On the front porch plastic bags filled with trash littered the entrance to the doorway.
Inside the dimly lit hallway, the still air filled with a mixture of fried food, tobacco, and som
ething rancid that turned her stomach. Faint traces of graffiti remained on the walls where the landlord hadn't applied enough cleaning product. Megan stepped over a shallow pool of an unidentified liquid, the source of the rancid odor, to her front door with its broken lock.
"Anyone could just walk in here and steal my stuff," she muttered under her breath. She'd complained to the landlord. He'd said he would get around to it; that was a week ago. She made a mental note to complain again. "Got nothing worth stealing anyway," she mumbled glumly to herself.
The door opened with a rusty creak, and her eyes swept across her small drab, run-down living space with contempt. It was little more than a sparsely furnished room on the ground floor with windows looking out onto the dreary yard. The room, divided by a folding screen, contained a sleeping area, and a tiny kitchen with two stools, and a folding table jammed up against a wall.
"Home sweet temporary home," she told herself, shaking off her shoes, pouring a glass of water, and sitting at the kitchen table. As soon as she got back on her feet, she would move out. But for five years she had rented the room.
Megan wearily tried to remember the last time she had enough money to make the rent on time. She drew a blank. The landlord was always accommodating, though, and would give her a few extra days provided she let him do as he pleased with her. She sighed. It was what came with being an out-of-work actress.
One day the breakthrough would come; at least that is what Sage Oats at the temple told her, and she believed it. Sage Oats was the leader of the Austin chapter of the Natural Mystic Order of the Organic Temple, a cult-like order of robe wearing individuals who spent their days preparing organic meals and chanting for world harmony.
Megan finished the glass of water and stood in front of a small, cracked mirror that hung at an angle on the kitchen wall, and thought about her man. "I don't look much different from when I was sixteen," she said as if uttering a mantra. "When he sees me, he'll sweep me up in his strong arms. Then I'll get my big break. I know it is just around the corner." She glanced in the mirror again. What she saw was a youthful, vibrant woman, but in truth, she looked every bit her fifty-seven years and some.
"I wonder if he has returned my email from this morning?" Megan said with a sudden burst of energy and scurrying into her sleeping quarters. She picked up a battered laptop computer and logged into her email account. With eager anticipation, she peered into the screen. "Why doesn't he respond?" she cried after several moments, throwing the laptop on the bed.
Megan sat on the bed, dejected, waiting for her sister Hillary to appear. She didn't always join her, but when she did, Megan wasn't surprised or even nervous as she had once been. Her sister was murdered. It wasn't until three months after the funeral that she began appearing. At first, Megan was terrified, but by now she had gotten used to it. She knew the apparitions were not real, only in her mind, but felt comforted seeing her beloved sister again.
She leaned against a pillow remembering the day's events at Hansel's House. A forgettable day except for the two women she had served at lunchtime. The older woman, whose name she had learned was Amy by eavesdropping on their conversation, mentioned a part-time job. And the younger woman, Danielle, had invitations to a party where Danny Fontane and his manager, Vinny Snyder, would be present.
"Wait!" Megan had called after them as they left the restaurant. "Err, wait a second. Err, you have my business card, but why don't you leave me your name, address, and phone number. That way I can follow up with you on the staging job. Maybe we could be friends?" She knew it sounded desperate. It was. She wanted the address of the party, a chance to meet Vinny Snyder, and… Danny Fontane.
It didn't work.
Amy and Danielle left a big tip but no names, or addresses, or telephone numbers. Another opportunity missed, and Megan sighed. Why was it so difficult for her?
She thought about Dr. Walden, and how far she had come since beginning his treatment, but it wasn't far enough. Perhaps, she thought, she should visit Sage Oats. His counseling always gave her a lift. But there had been some trouble in a nearby bookstore, and the temple folks were jumpy, not as welcoming to outsiders as they once were.
"No, I'll stick with Dr. Walden for now. But I can't tell him about Hillary, yet," she said and slumped onto her bed, flipping on the bedside radio.
This is ACFM 95.5 FM. Tomorrow we'll have a mix of clouds and sun with some scattered showers and thunderstorms. It will be a very humid day, and we will have only light winds. This could lead to downpours with thunderstorms hardly moving.
Hillary appeared at the end of the bed, her hand outstretched, pointing at the radio.
Megan turned it off and waited. She didn’t hear words as much as feel them from her sister. After a few moments she picked up her laptop. "Yes, Hillary you are right. I'll send him another email."
Megan typed a message to her man and then glanced at the bedroom wall. Hundreds of images of him were pinned, tacked, and glued to the bare wall, and in the center an oversized headshot. After a long moment she felt Hillary communicating with her again.
"Okay Hillary, I agree with you," Megan said with finality. "If he doesn’t answer my email by tomorrow evening, I'll have to kill him."
And it didn't matter that Danny Fontane, whose images plastered her bedroom wall, had never heard of Megan Finney.
Chapter 5
Duke Savage sat on the barstool nursing a draft beer he'd paid for with his last ten-dollar bill. His wrinkled suit bagged at the ankles, jacket tight across his stomach, and the elbows shiny with wear. Dabbing at beads of perspiration on his forehead with a grubby handkerchief, he glanced apprehensively around the dingy, dim tavern.
It was a little before seven in the evening, lull time for the Armadillo Hole, a blue-collar bar on the east side of town. Too late for the day workers, who jammed the place from four to around six thirty. And, too early for the hard-core drinkers who showed up between eight and midnight.
There were only two other customers: a furtive-looking, middle-aged man sporting a bushy mustache and wearing a leather jacket and his female friend. His sunken eyes darted from his companion to the entrance with the regularity of a ping-pong game. The woman was maybe half his age, a bright-eyed redhead with a sharp angular face and a bulbous nose that exposed a passion for liquor. She wore a low-cut, slinky dress that stopped at her muscular thighs. Her hands waved around with little darting motions like a trader at an Egyptian bazaar.
The bartender, a rotund man with shifty ferret eyes, wiped the countertop with a filthy rag. "New to the area?" he asked as he sponged at a sticky stain.
Duke took a sip of his beer. "Business."
The bartender sniffed, glanced nervously at the entrance. The bar would soon fill with regulars. They'd suspect a stranger. "What type of business?"
Duke didn't answer directly but reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a laminated card. He waved it in the stale air like a flag then asked the question he had asked two dozen other bartenders over the past month. "Have you seen this woman?"
The bartender gave it a cursory glance, then continued wiping the bar. "Detective?"
Duke shook his head. "Not a detective or private eye. I'm on your side, a reporter." At least that is what he told people, but full-time reporting jobs had gone the way of the dodo, and infrequent freelance assignments didn't pay the bills. So Duke worked as a part-time security guard. Not in a fixed location, like a bank, but as an event security guard. He'd worked museums, music festivals, and private events. It paid a minimum hourly wage. No sick pay, no vacation, no benefits, not even a bonus at Christmas.
As soon as he'd finished his latest investigative article, he'd have more money than he needed. Then he would ditch his on-and-off girlfriend and find a beautiful young woman to hang off his arm. For now, though, he was filling in time as a casual security guard.
The bartender shook his head solemnly. "Reporter, you say? Wish I could help."
Duke's shoulders slumped. He was
working on the biggest story of his career. Had the actor Danny Fontane told him what he wanted, he'd have written the article, and his big payday would already be here. But Danny wasn't talking. So Duke had to go old school and follow leads. Now, he was visiting bars on the east side of town, one by one, hoping to catch a break. If he could track down the woman, he'd have it made. But it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
"What time do you get busy? Maybe I'll show it to some of your patrons?" Duke asked hopefully.
The bartender's eyes spoke before words came out of his mouth. "My regulars come here for a quiet drink. They don't take kindly to strangers asking questions, and neither do I. Now drink up and be on your way."
"Darn it," Duke hissed. "I'm working on the biggest story of my career. It's been a long day and… nothing!" He took a long gulp from his glass, then another. "I'll wash this down with a gin and tonic, then I'll be on my way."
The furtive-looking man in the leather jacket stood up, waved through the gloom at the barman and left.
"Time waster," the bright-eyed redhead woman yelled. "I got bills to pay, you know."
The bartender prepared the drink hurriedly, one eye on the stranger, the other on the bar entrance. "On the house," he said, placing the drink on the bar in front of Duke.
Duke put the glass to his lips, closed his eyes and let the alcohol seep deep into his stomach. "Going to be the biggest story of my life," he repeated dreamily.
"You don't say," answered the barman as if he had heard it all before. "What'd you say your name is?"
"Savage, Duke Savage."
"Can't say I've heard of you. Are you a hotshot television reporter?"
"Not yet. I'm working on it."
The barman leaned against the counter. "Still paying your dues, then?"
"Yep. Work security for events—weddings, concerts and the like. But this story will make me rich."
"How rich?" asked the bright-eyed redhead. She was standing next to Duke, very close.
The bartender gave a little frown, made a move as though to say something, then changed his mind.
