An Evil Guest

by Gene Wolfe

  “Would it help to see them dancing with me?”

  “It might.” India turned to Ebony. “Go ask Pfeiffer. Tell him Cassie’ll dance with them so he can see it.”

  When it was over, India said, “You must be ready for a teddy, but if you’d like a drink, I’m buying.”

  “No drink, I’m swearing off. What I’d really like is some hot tea.”

  “Yeah.” India licked her lips. “You know, I could go for coffee and a cheeseburger.”

  Ebony said, “There’s a little place down the street that’s open all night.”

  It was all white save for polychrome plastic stools, and self-consciously old-fashioned. “Pfeiffer didn’t like any of them,” Ebony said as they found places around a small white table.

  “We know.” India sounded gloomy.

  “Well, what about you? What about Cassie?”

  The counterman said, “What about four Doubleburgers?”

  Cassie and Margaret asked for hot tea, India a Giant Doubleburger and coffee, and Ebony a grilled cheese on whole wheat with bacon and a glass of milk.

  “I’m swearing off grilled cheese sandwiches, too,” Cassie announced. “I just decided. No more grilled cheese. Nothing but cooked veggies, raw veggies, bottled water, and maybe a little fruit.”

  “You look great,” India told her. “Tired, sure. But great otherwise.”

  “No more ice cream.” Cassie sounded pensive. “Hit me over the head, Margaret, anytime I look like I might order ice cream.”

  “You’re not fat, Miss Casey.”

  “If I get any fatter that grass skirt’s going to slide down to my knees. Live and onstage.”

  India muttered, “We should all be that fat. You can’t go much over a hundred pounds.”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid to get on a scale. I kind of liked the blond one.”

  India shook her head.

  Ebony said, “The thing is, Cassie — India explained it to me. We need somebody who will make you look as good as possible. That doesn’t mean somebody who’s as good as you are, which we couldn’t get anyway. It means somebody who’s pretty good, but in a mix-and-match way. You’re female. Very, very female, but in an energetic sort of hoydenish tomboy style. He ought to be a supercharged bad boy, and very male. Isn’t that right, India?”

  “Exactly. That kind of a tenor, who can act a little and dance a little, too. The blond guy you liked was a scarecrow. A good scarecrow but a scarecrow, and that’s not what we need. Dean’s just bad. Male, but a second-rate tenor and a third-rate dancer. Donny Duke can dance the paper off the wall, but he’s not male and he can’t sing for shit.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Cassie asked.

  “Keep looking. That’s all I can do. I’ve buzzed all the agencies.” India heaved a sigh that bid fair to blow the chrome napkin-holder off the table. “If it gets any worse, I’ll put an ad in the paper.”

  As he set her coffee in front of her, the counterman said, “There was a guy in here earlier. I bet he could do it.”

  “Send him over,” India told him. “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Ebony tittered, and pretended she had not when India glared at her.

  A stocky man in a Delft sack suit was chatting with the desk clerk when Cassie got to her hotel. He followed her to the elevator and flipped open a badge case as soon as the doors had closed. “I talked to you on the phone, ma’am. Remember? I’m Agent Martin of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  ROYALTY IN REALITY

  “The show won’t start for another hour, Miss Casey.”

  “You’re here.” Cassie was staring out the dressing room’s small and dirty window.

  “I always come to the theater early, Miss Casey, to make sure everything’s all right before you put it on.”

  “That’s good.”

  “What’s troubling you, Miss Casey?”

  Cassie pointed. “See that phone? I’m waiting for it to ring.”

  “Really, Miss Casey?”

  “Yes, Margaret. Really.” Cassie took a deep breath. “Margaret, I’m going to tell you something that I’m not going to tell India. I left a note for her, and I left a note for what’s his name? The stage manager?”

  “Mickey, Miss Casey. Mickey Urbani.”

  “I left a note for him to send India in here as soon as she came in. Remember the man in the gray suit? He was waiting in my dressing room last night.”

  “Yes, I do, Miss Casey.”

  “This phone rang while he was in here. I didn’t want to spill the beans, so I pretended it was Norma Peiper. It was really Gideon Chase. This is confidential, Margaret. Don’t repeat it to anybody.”

  Margaret was opening her sewing kit. “I understand, Miss Casey. I won’t.”

  “So he’s still alive, and I want — I want to see him again.”

  “Yes, Miss Casey.”

  “I want to help him if I can, even though I don’t know what I can do. I’ve been waiting for him to call.” Cassie paused. “I just thought of something, Margaret.”

  Margaret nodded while biting a thread.

  “How did he get the number? They have directories for these old-fashioned land lines, but I doubt that this one’s in there. The only number for this theater is probably the box office.”

  “I can look, Miss Casey.”

  “Do that, whenever you have time. Well, anyway, I’m going to tell India about the tall man in the gray suit and another man. You’ll probably hear all that, but I’m not going to tell her about Dr. Chase.”

  Later, onstage, Aunt Jane sang.

  “And how I love his boiling lava

  Steaming like a cup of java.

  His passionate voice, his skin like guava...”

  Cassie, standing in the wings beside Vincent Palma, whispered, “Where the heck is India?”

  Palma only shrugged.

  A few minutes after that, when they were deep in the second dream scene, Cassie glimpsed India in the wings — and a familiar face next to hers. They were gone by the time the scene was over, and Margaret was there instead.

  A small folding screen shielded Cassie from prurient eyes while she exchanged her faux-grass skirt and flowered bra for Mariah’s ankle-length white cotton nightgown. “I saw Zelda, Margaret. She was standing here with India, so something’s up. Do you know what’s going on?”

  Margaret shook her head. “I don’t, Miss Casey. They went into your dressing room. Miss Dempster has a key. I told them they shouldn’t, but they said they’d leave if you didn’t want them in there. Shall I tell them to go?”

  “If necessary — how’s my hair?”

  “Beautiful, Miss Casey. Only I really ought to braid it.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  At which point Cassie had to sneak onto the darkened stage and into bed.

  IN her dressing room after the show, she leveled fingers like pistols at her visitors. “I told Margaret that I’d drive you two out with a stick if I had to. I might do it, too, but not before Zelda tells me what made her take a hundred-mile drive.”

  “I hopped.”

  “Well lah-de-dah!”

  “You’re down for two percent of the gross, Cassie, and I’m down for ten percent of you. I get two-tenths of one percent of everything this show brings in. I’ve got a cute little pink hopper now with three years to pay, and I don’t think they’re going to be repossessing it.”

  India announced, “We’ve been negotiating a recording contract for you, Cassie. I represented Wally — he owns the songs. Zelda represented you.”

  “It doesn’t mean a darned thing...” Cassie’s voice was muffled as she struggled out of her green gingham gown. “Unless I sign it.”

  “Until you sign it,” Zelda said firmly. “You will. Wait ’til you see it. For one or two mornings’ work.”

  “I sleep in the morning.” Cassie switched on her fan.

  “Ten to one, maybe. We can work that out with the studio.”

  “I get up at eleven
, don’t I, Margaret?”

  When the contract had been signed and Zelda had left for her hotel, Cassie said, “I meant to talk to you about the FBI. I said I would, and I want to. But darn it, I need tea. I want to sit down and breathe and drink tea. Cookies, too. Gingersnaps or something. Only we can’t talk about this in a restaurant.”

  “That stuff,” India said firmly, “is what assistant directors are for.” She got out her cell phone and gave orders.

  “There was a man in here who said he was from the FBI,” Cassie began. “I’d gotten a call from the FBI, from an Agent Martin.” She recounted both conversations.

  “This guy wasn’t for real?”

  “No. He said he was from the FBI. He showed me his badge and everything, and he was carrying handcuffs.”

  “He had a gun, too,” Margaret added softly.

  “I didn’t see it, but he probably did. He said he was Agent Martin and he was looking for Gideon Chase. He gave me his card. Wait a minute.”

  Margaret handed Cassie her purse.

  “Are you sweet on this Chase?” India asked. “There was something in the paper about you two.”

  “No! He’s just a friend.”

  “Right.” India sighed. “Got it. Come to think of it, you’re supposed to be sweet on Wally.”

  “I’m not!”

  “One word, Cassie. Diamonds.”

  Cassie looked up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just keep it in mind. Diamonds.”

  Margaret said, “Get a box at the bank, Miss Casey. Miss Sinclair’s jewelry was stolen while I was with her. One of those bank boxes is a lot safer.”

  “You two are so out of it!” Cassie held up the tall man’s card. “ ‘Bernard B. Martin, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.’ Read it for yourself.”

  “Buy some card stock,” India said, “and you can print up all the cards you want on your computer. You ought to know that.”

  “Well, I believed him, and I was supposed to call him and tell him anytime I saw Gid. Then I went back to the hotel, and the real Agent Martin was waiting for me.”

  India nodded thoughtfully. “You made sure the second guy was the real deal?”

  “You bet I did. I looked at his ID and read every word and wrote down the number on his badge. Then I called the FBI office here and got the woman to describe the real Bernie Martin. After that I badgered her into looking up his badge number. She was even meaner than most cops, by the way...”

  “What is it, Cassie?”

  “I just remembered something, that’s all. Back home, I saw a guy. It was only for a second, and I couldn’t think who he was. It just hit me.”

  “None of my business?”

  “Right. It isn’t important anyway. He’s a friend of a friend, and he gave me a ride one time. That’s all. I was going to say I called Sharon Bench, too. I got her to describe the FBI guy who’d been talking to the people who lived in that apartment. The one Gid was in when he was shot. I had to promise I’d tell her the next time I dated Wally. I’ll do it, too, if there is a next time.”

  India sighed. “You’re our star, Cassie, and you’re knee deep in something I don’t understand. Knee deep, and sinking.”

  “I don’t understand it either. But I don’t think I’m getting in any deeper.”

  Margaret said, “I do, Miss Casey.”

  They were arguing about it when Ebony appeared with a pot of steaming water, half a dozen tea bags, four thick china mugs, six cookies, and four sandwiches.

  “Reuben on rye. That’s yours, India.”

  India nodded. “You bet it is. Only I’m not sure you’re invited to this tea party. Cassie?”

  “Oh, let her stay.” Cassie was dousing Earl Grey with hot water. “Margaret’s here, and I know you trust Ebony.”

  Ebony smiled her thanks. “Ham and Swiss. That’s on rye, too.”

  Margaret took it.

  “BLT on white. That’s mine. So this one’s yours, Cassie.”

  India winked. “No calories, right?”

  “Right,” Cassie said firmly. “How about filling Ebony in while I eat?”

  “If you want.” Grunting, India shifted her position to face her assistant. “Cassie’s been getting visits from the FBI. The first one was a fake. Is that right, Cassie?”

  Chewing, Cassie nodded.

  “The second one was for real. She told him about the fake, right?”

  Cassie nodded again and swallowed.

  “What I want to know,” India continued, “is what the second one wanted. Cassie will have to tell us.”

  “That’s not what I want to know,” Cassie said between bites. “What I want to know — what I’d love to know — is why the first one was so hot to find Gid.”

  “That’s Dr. Gideon Chase,” Margaret whispered.

  Ebony nodded gratefully.

  “Was he?” India asked. “Really anxious?”

  “He didn’t seem like it, but he had to be. Posing as an FBI man is serious. You can go to prison. He went to the trouble of faking a photo ID and a badge. He even had handcuffs. But why?”

  Ebony said, “Why’s India been looking so hard for somebody new to play the sailor?”

  India said, “That’s different.”

  “I don’t think so. India’s looking for somebody with a better voice. For a better dancer.”

  “I think I’ve found somebody, too.” Briefly, India looked pleased. “It’s freaky and Cassie will have to okay it, but I like this a lot. He’s my Hitler.”

  Cassie sipped tea. “I don’t see what it has to do with Gid.”

  “Well, it’s always the same.” Ebony was smiling, but sounded serious. “I don’t know your Gid, but either he’s got something this fake guy wants or he can do something this guy wants done.”

  “Okay.” India sighed. “Sure. Gee, Ebony, I’m glad I let you sit in on this. Now that we know — ”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  “About the fake, what was it the real one wanted him for, Cassie?”

  “It wasn’t that he wanted something. He said that the president knew him, and now that he’d dropped out of sight the president was worried about him. He’s asked the FBI to find him, and it’ll protect him if he needs protecting.”

  India grunted. “Smooth.”

  “You don’t believe him.”

  She shook her head.

  “He was the real thing. I told you.”

  “Yeah. I believe that. What I don’t believe is that business about the president being worried. Nuts.”

  Margaret put down the sandwich she had been nibbling. “If someone wanted to get Cassie to cooperate... ?”

  Frowning, India nodded emphatically. “If somebody wants Cassie’s cooperation, they couldn’t have dreamed up anything better. Only it’s too damned good to be true.”

  Ebony said, “Are you going to, Cassie? Cooperate?”

  Cassie swallowed the final bite of her sandwich and reached for a cookie. “I haven’t decided.”

  “She’ll ask him.” India stood. “That might be smart. I don’t know.”

  “Wait!” Cassie waved her cookie. “Aren’t you going to tell me about this new dancer you found?”

  Ebony said, “If she won’t, I will.”

  India grinned. “Have you ever seen anybody dance on one leg, Cassie?”

  She shook her head.

  “Neither had I, but he can do it. He had a peg leg made up, like a pirate. He can dance on it, and he’s got one hell of a voice.”

  Ebony murmured, “Good tenors are terribly hard to find, Cassie.”

  “I know. Can he act?”

  “That,” India told her, “is what we’re going to find out. Can you come in early tomorrow night? I’ll have him here then. His name’s Corby.”

  “He’s kind of short, too.” Ebony bobbed like a cork in India’s wake. “We want somebody who’ll make Vince and Tiny look bigger.”

  THE white limousine was waiting fo
r Cassie when she left the theater. She stopped abruptly, staring at it and at its driver.

  “For you, señora.” The driver opened the rear door with a flourish.

  “You’re wearing a gun, Carlos.”

  “Sí, señora.”

  Reis’s voice floated through the open door. “I got him a license.” There was something slightly spectral about that voice. “Under the circumstances, it seemed advisable.”

  “Hello, Wally. I was hoping you weren’t here.” Cassie had not taken another step.

  “Am I as bad as that?”

  “No. I am. I’ve been eating... well, sardines and onions. A sardine and onion sandwich. I love them, but my breath would gag you. Let me get a cab, please.”

  Reis chuckled. “Get in. I have a gift for you, and news. I only regret I can’t kiss you — I’m eager to test your theory.”

  “Really, Wally — ”

  “Unreally, Cassie. I’m not here. I’ll see you and hear you, but I cannot touch you, however much I wish it. Nor can I smell your breath.”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re frightened.”

  She smiled. “Not frightened enough to admit it if I am, Wally.”

  “Then why won’t you get into my car?”

  “Because I’m knee deep in a terrible mess already. And sinking. That’s what your friend India says, and I’m afraid she’s right. On top of that, I’m as tired as five-cent roses. I want to go back to the hotel and go to bed. Nothing else. No side trips.” Cassie turned away.

  And discovered that Reis’s driver was standing in front of her. Very softly he said, “No, Señora Casey.”

  “Allow me to offer a compromise, Cassie. Will you listen? Carlos could fold you like a paper doll. I won’t have him do that, you understand. I wouldn’t even think of it.”

  Less loudly than she had intended, Cassie said, “No indeed. Of course not.”

  “Right.” If Reis had been struck by her sarcasm, his ghostly voice conveyed no sign of it. “First, let me say that I’m a man of my word. I may break the law at times, and in fact there are so many that nobody can live without breaking them. Now and then I may cheat a man who would’ve cheated me if he could. My word is good, however. Good always. Good to everyone, but particularly to you.”