by Gene Wolfe
Cassie picked it up, laid it on the coffee table next to her cell phone, and told Margaret to let Zelda in.
“You’re getting measured for your costumes. That’s great! This show will make you famous.”
“This show sucks.” Cassie held her arms out to let Margaret measure her chest.
“Cassie, Cassie, Cassie!”
“Zelda, Zelda, Zelda. It still sucks.”
“There’ll be beautiful costumes...”
Cassie raised a hand. “Stop right there. I play a missionary’s daughter. Gingham. High neck, long sleeves, and a long skirt. What’s anybody going to do with that?”
Margaret muttered, “A lot.”
“Right.” Zelda nodded. “Plus there are two dream sequences. India told me.”
“In other words, you haven’t read it. I heard the readings, Zelda. And it sucks. I told you that.”
“And I told you over and over why you ought to sign.” Zelda dropped heavily onto the sofa. “Let’s have this out here and now. Tell me why it sucks.”
“People make speeches. Everybody makes speeches. Brian makes speeches about God. Norma makes speeches about whatever pops into her head. I make speeches about Kansas, and I don’t even get to holler for Auntie Em. Vince makes speeches about coconuts for Pete’s sake! My sailor makes speeches about love. You want more?”
“She needs to measure your hips.” Zelda’s tone was dry. “Stand up straight, hold out your arms, and put your feet together.”
“I know how to do it!” Cassie took a deep breath. “And I don’t think she’s got a tape measure long enough.” She stood up straight, held out her arms, and put her feet together.
“Only thirty-seven and three-eighths, Miss Casey,” Margaret muttered.
“This is a new show, Cassie.” Zelda was firm. “It’s not Shaw, it’s not Ibsen, it’s not Oklahoma. It’ll try out here, try out in Chicago and half a dozen other places, and it’ll be fixed. New shows have to grow up. They do, and this one will.”
“I won’t — ”
“I’m not through! Shows fold. I’ve seen a few of them fold. They fold here or in Rubesburg — in little towns you’ve never heard of. There are two reasons for folding — just two. Lack of money and lack of talent.”
Margaret muttered, “Stand up straight, please, Miss Casey.”
There was a knock at the door, and Cassie sighed. “Get that, would you, Zelda?”
“All finished, Miss Casey.” Margaret was smiling. “You’re going to get some lovely low-neck costumes. Lovely spring-green outfits that show skin in the middle. You’ll see. All right if I take a few pictures?”
Zelda grinned as she opened the door. “She’ll sell ’em to a tabloid, Cassie. Do you mind?”
“I wouldn’t, Miss Casey.” Margaret sounded shocked. “I’d never do a thing like that.”
“She’s kidding,” Cassie told her. “How do you want me to pose?”
“With your arms above your head, please. I’ll take front, back, and one side.”
From the chained door, Zelda said, “It’s a man from the building. He won’t talk to me. Only you.”
Margaret’s little camera flashed.
“Tell him I’m not dressed. I’ll call him.”
“Want to see how you look, Miss Casey? I can show it to you.”
“Fat. No, spare me the trauma.”
“In back now. Hold still.”
“Fatter,” Cassie said under her breath.
The camera flashed again.
“Sell it to the tabloid, Margaret. It’ll make a great headline — CASSIE’S CONTROL TOPS. Then everybody will want to know who Cassie is.”
“Side now, Miss Casey. You wait ’til they see your profile!” The camera flashed a third time.
“Right here,” Zelda murmured; she had taken a gold pen and a little leather-bound notebook from her purse.
“Can I relax?”
“One more, Miss Casey. I let it wiggle a little.”
“Tell him I’ll call him later,” Cassie told Zelda.
Sharon Bench’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Cassie! Tell this woman to let me in!”
The little camera flashed for the final time as Cassie said, “I thought you said it was a man.”
“It’s Sharon!” Sharon called.
“There’s a woman, too,” Zelda reported.
“Wait ’til I get my clothes on.”
The telephone rang.
“Should I get it, Miss Casey?”
Cassie shook her head. “It’ll be one of the neighbors complaining. Let it ring.”
Margaret did, buttoning Cassie’s blouse instead.
Zelda shut the door and took off the chain. “Should I let the woman in, Cassie? She says she’s a friend.”
“Wait ’til I get my skirt on. Then you can let them both in.”
“It’s too big,” Margaret told her when the telephone had fallen silent. “I can fix it for you if you want me to, Miss Casey.”
“Not now.”
“He’s gone,” Zelda said. “He wrote you a note, but I don’t understand it. What about the woman?”
Reluctantly, Cassie nodded.
The security chain rattled, and Sharon burst into the room. “Any news?”
“You’re supposed to tell me.” Cassie pointed toward her worn blue couch. “Sit down. You’re going to referee.”
“Between us?” Zelda asked. “If that’s what you mean, you’d better introduce us.”
“Sharon’s the star of the Sun-Trib.” Skirt in place, Cassie dropped into her reading chair.
“Straight news,” Sharon announced. “Gossip, and human interest. Sports. You name it. Seen me on vid?”
Zelda said, “You know, I think I have.”
“Monday through Friday,” Cassie told her. “Channel twenty-three. Afternoons only.”
“Unless I’ve got something really big,” Sharon added.
“Unless she’s got something really big. Sharon, this is Zelda Youmans. Zelda’s my agent.”
Sharon said, “Hi,” and waved.
“Your job,” Cassie told her, “is to decide between us. Zelda wants me to sign for Dating the Volcano God. She’ll tell you why she thinks I ought to. But not about her ten percent. I’ll have to tell you about that.”
Sharon nodded.
“I’ll tell you why I think it’s a bad show and a bad contract.”
“Then I decide?”
“Then you decide. Here I go. The show stinks. It’s a turkey from the gitgo. It will maybe, if they’re lucky, play on two or three stages. Could be eight weeks in all. After that, flopsville.”
Sharon nodded.
“That was my first point. Second point. The money’s not anywhere near what I’m worth to — to the people who are organizing things. To the director and the angel. I’d be ashamed to tell you what they’re offering in this contract. I’ve known secretaries who made more than that.”
“She hasn’t,” Zelda said firmly.
“Third point. The angel expects me to sleep with him. He’s — ”
Sharon leaped to her feet. “Wallace Rosenquist? He’s romancing you, Cassie? Oh, wow!”
“You know who he is?”
Sharon’s hand had strayed to a pocket of her jacket. “I — oh, my God! This is so big... Cassie, Wallace Rosenquist controls half the banks in this city, and from what I hear he could control the other half tomorrow if he wanted to. All the financial people knew he was here the minute his hopper landed. It’s the size of a super tanker, so how could they miss it? They’ve been as jumpy as stray cats ever since. Can you get me an interview?”
“No,” Cassie said firmly, “I can’t. And if I could, I wouldn’t. Should I sign or not?”
“She should.” Margaret’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Hold on!” Zelda snapped. “Wait up, everybody. I get equal time. Can I call you Sharon?”
Sharon nodded.
“Good. Sharon, Cassie’s been talking as if
this were straight salary. It isn’t. She had points and I’ve got more. The money’s okay, to start with. It’s more than she was making in The Red Spot. That’s Zelda’s point number one.”
Sharon nodded again.
“Number two. For each quarter after the first, her salary goes up ten percent. Say that it runs a year, and a good show will play New York, then London, then Melbourne, then back to Broadway. You probably know that, and by the time it hits Broadway again it may have been running for five or six years. If not more.”
Zelda paused for breath, and Cassie said, “A good show, which this isn’t.”
“But say a year. Just one year. For the final three months of that year Cassie will be making thirty percent more than she’ll make on opening night.”
Sharon said, “I’ve got it.”
“Next point...”
The telephone rang. More quickly than a woman without experience might be expected to, Cassie unplugged it.
“My next point,” Zelda continued, “is that she’s down for two percent of the gross. Not two percent of the profit, two percent of the gross. Let’s say the theater seats two thousand. That’s small but let’s say it. Let’s say that tickets average twenty bucks, which is dirt cheap for a hit show. The gross is forty thou a night. That’s eight hundred over and above salary per night. If there are six performances a week, which is low, one month is about twenty thousand. Should I give you the figure for a year?”
Sharon shook her head. “I can to the math.”
“Meanwhile, her salary keeps going up and up and up.”
“If,” Cassie muttered.
“Not if. Here are my next to last and last, and I’ll make ’em fast. There are months of rehearsal ahead. A bad book can be fixed. Bad songs can be fixed, and dance numbers the same. Shows fold because they don’t have backing. I don’t have to tell you who’s backing this one.”
“Rosenquist?”
“Exactly. Last point, shows fail because the talent’s not there. The redhead in the big brown chair’s going to star in this one. You may think she’s ordinary now — ”
“I’m not blind,” Sharon said.
“When we did lunch, everybody looked. Men, women, even kids, and they kept looking. By the time we’d gotten a table and ordered, I knew I was sitting across from a fortune. Something happened before Red Spot closed. I don’t know — ”
Cassie rose and Margaret said, “What is it, Miss Casey?”
“There’s too much noise in here, too many people talking. I need to be alone, and I’m going out on the balcony for — for as long as it takes me to sort things out. You can go home if you want to, or stay.”
She scooped her cell phone off the coffee table “I know this isn’t polite, but I’ve got to think or scream. Screaming wouldn’t help, so I’m going to step outside.”
Zelda asked, “Is this about signing?”
“You can make coffee or tea, or have a glass of wine. Or leave. Whatever you want. Watch vid.” Cassie opened the French doors through which she had, not long ago, seen a chauffeur shut the rear door of a white limousine.
The air on her balcony seemed purer and sweeter than the atmosphere in her apartment, delightfully cool rather than cold. Autumn was on its way, but today it dallied by the roadside.
She shut the French doors behind her, turned her back to them, and scrolled up a number she had by now memorized.
“This is Gideon Chase, but my telephone is temporarily out of service. I have to sleep sometime...”
It was the familiar message. Cassie pressed OFF.
Five floors below, pedestrians hurried past the narrow strip of lush green lawn in front of the building. Parked cars littered the street, although cars were not supposed to park there. Trucks and buses made far too much noise, and cabs dawdled, hoping to be flagged down by a doorman. Across the street, a man in a dark doorway lit a cigarette, his face visible for a second in the flare of his lighter.
Above it all, an aching blue sky assured her that it cradled Mariah’s island even as it stretched over her dirty northern city. “I hope you’re nicer there,” she told it. “I wish I could be there instead of just playing at it.”
“ARE you ready?” Zelda asked when Cassie stepped back into her living room.
“I think so. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Margaret clearly wanted to hug her but did not. “It was only about ten minutes, Miss Casey.”
Sharon said, “I’m going to report what I hear here, unless you ask me not to.”
“About sleeping with Wallace Rosenquist?”
“I won’t say it like that. I’ll hint. You know.”
Zelda said, “Good publicity, Cassie.”
Sharon nodded. “It will be. They’ll want to come to see you, and maybe see him.”
“I don’t think so,” Cassie said, “but I don’t know. Maybe they will.”
Sharon asked, “Do you want to know what I’ve decided?”
“I ought to feel terribly tired,” Cassie mused. “I know I should, but I don’t. I’m getting my second wind or something. Have you ever wanted to help out somebody you loved, and known that the only thing you could do for him was some tiny stupid thing that was a lot of trouble? And done it anyway? Any of you?”
Margaret nodded.
Sharon said, “Not me.”
Zelda said, “Yes, for Joe-Boy. I don’t think you ever saw him.”
Cassie shook her head.
“He was my son and he was in the hospital, getting ready to go. He wanted one particular toy. I ditched work and went looking for it. It took all day to find it, but I did and brought it to him. He couldn’t talk by then, but he smiled. It was the last time I ever saw him smile. He passed away that night.”
Cassie nodded, finding she could not speak.
“The boss called me in the next day and fired me. And — listen, Cassie. Listen really, really carefully.”
She nodded again. “I am.”
“That was when I opened my own agency. Inside a year I was taking in more than I ever had in my life. Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I didn’t know any of this,” Cassie said. “Thank you. I owed you a lot already.”
Sharon said, “Enough to sign?”
“Yes. And if I weren’t such a bitch I’d have done it straight off.”
Zelda cleared her throat. “I thought I was done, and I ought to be. Now I may queer a deal that would make me rich — but I feel like I’ve got to do this. Remember the note the building guy wrote?”
Cassie nodded, seized by a sudden dread.
“I’ve read it and I’ve got no idea what the heck he’s talking about, but it sounds like it might be personal. I was going to hang on to it until you signed. Or didn’t. Now...” Zelda shrugged. “I guess I’m chicken.”
Margaret took the note and passed it to Cassie.
Five words, written in a hasty scrawl: Infected. He is getting treatment.
“That settles it,” Cassie said. “Have you got a pen?”
SHE waited until they were gone before playing the message the first call had left on her answering machine. The voice was male, deep, and somewhat harsh.
“This is Wallace Rosenquist. I’ll pick you up for dinner at seven. I realize you may not want to join me, and may have other plans. But I assure you that if you will consent to dinner you will learn something to your advantage.”
DATING WALLACE ROSENQUIST
Usually, Cassie reflected, the question was one of dressing to make the best possible impression. This was more like the blind dates she had suffered through in high school and college. Did she even want to make a good impression?
Perhaps not.
After much thought, she wore her second-best black dress, black pumps, and a little necklace her mother had given her long ago. Those, and her watch.
She had expected him to be prompt, but his white limousine pulled up to the curb at seven fifteen. The chauffeur got out and w
ent into her building without opening the rear door. She was about to turn away when the rear door opened. She waited and watched until her telephone rang.
She picked it up and said hello.
“Miz Casey? This is Preston, the doorman. There’s a driver here who says he has a message for you. I think you can probably see his car out front if you look out your window. The big white one?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Cassie said.
“Should I let him up?”
“I don’t think so. Is it a note?”
“I’ll see, Miz Casey. Wait a minute.”
There was a lengthy pause during which Cassie sat down; she could hear the voices of two men arguing.
“Miz Casey?”
“Still here, Preston.”
“He says he has to speak to you. He won’t tell me what it is.”
“All right. Put him on.”
Another pause and more argument.
“He won’t, Miz Casey. He wants to come up.”
Cassie grinned. “Please tell him I’m not about to let anyone who won’t talk to me on the telephone come up.”
“I will, Miz Casey.” Preston sounded pleased.
After a brief pause, an accented voice said, “I am Carlos.”
“Señora Casey. What can I do for you, Carlos?”
“You must let me in.”
“I won’t,” Cassie said, and hung up.
There was no local news on vid at this hour. She watched the state news channel instead, waiting for the telephone to ring.
As it did, ten minutes later.
“Hello.” She tried not to sound smug.
“This is Wallace Rosenquist, Cassie. I had planned to escort you from your apartment to my car. An urgent matter intervened. I’d like to apologize.”
“I understand.” She made it sympathetic.
“My driver takes my instructions a bit too seriously at times, I’m afraid. Would you be willing to meet me at Rusterman’s? Carlos will drive you.”
“I’d love to. Meet you when?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. It shouldn’t be long.”
“Wonderful. I’ll go right away.”
After hanging up, she switched on the alarm system.
Carlos held the door of the white limousine for her. He looked taller and darker than the uniformed man she remembered seeing when she had looked down at the white limousine. A sheet of glass — thick glass that looked as if it might stop bullets — separated them. There was a speaker below it through which he could presumably have spoken to her, and a microphone through which she could presumably have spoken to him.