Michael smiled when he saw me, and beckoned me over to their table.
“I mean it,” he was saying, as I came within earshot. “You’re the one who got me into this. If you can’t fix it, I’ll find someone who can.”
“I’ll try,” Francis said, standing up hastily when he saw me. “I really will.”
Michael was shaking his head as I took Francis’s chair. I could see Francis leaving the room—almost running, with his hand in the tweed pocket whose edge was starting to show a faint, chalky residue of crumbled TUMS.
“So,” Michael said. “What have you been up to?”
“No good,” I said. “I’ve been ticking off Her Ladyship.”
“Good,” he said. “She needs ticking off.”
“Will you still say that if I get you fired?” I said.
“I’d love it if you got me fired,” he said. “It’s more than Francis can do.”
“Michael!” I exclaimed. “You don’t actually want to be fired, do you?”
“I’d rather get fired by the QB than by the college,” Michael said.
“Is there any danger of that?”
“The department was testy about how much time I spent away from campus this year,” Michael said. “And the QB told me last night that she wants me in a lot more episodes next season. There’s no way I can do that and keep up with my teaching, but the way the contract’s written, I can’t get out of it without a lot of expensive legal hassles. If Francis can’t negotiate a compromise—Francis, or the replacement I’m actively looking for as of today…”
Michael shook his head, and took a long sip from the cup of hot tea he was drinking.
Just like Blademaster Chris’s contract, I realized. Breaking it would take time, and money. Maybe too much time and money. I sighed, remembering all the seemingly necessary things that had eaten up so much of his acting income. Travel expenses, replacing his ancient car, preparations for the house…
“I’m pleased to see you’re not dazzled by the cult stardom thing,” I said aloud.
“Ten years ago, I would have been,” he said. “Walker still is. But today—hell, it’s been a lot of fun. But it’s a bubble; I don’t want to jeopardize a tenure-track position for a bubble. So what did you do to tick Her Ladyship off, anyway?”
I told him about Eric’s program.
“Why is she so upset by this Maggie West person?” I asked. “Who the hell is Maggie West, anyway?”
In answer, Michael pointed across the green room.
Yes, it was the same face I’d seen in the program. Attractive rather than conventionally pretty. I guessed she was in her early fifties, like the QB, but there the resemblance ended. She hadn’t had multiple facelifts, like the QB, and she wasn’t wearing much makeup. I could see crows feet around her eyes, and laugh lines around her mouth, and the unruly mane of reddish hair had more than a few gray streaks.
When I looked at the QB, I found myself depressed at the inevitable damage time and gravity does to us all. Looking at Maggie West, I had the reassuring feeling that life wasn’t over at any particular age; that maybe in some indefinable ways it got better.
She was listening to Walker—evidently he was telling her a joke. A few seconds later, she burst into laughter. It was a good sound, an exuberant, from-the-gut laugh that made people across the room look up and smile even though they hadn’t heard the joke.
Half the men in the room had gravitated to her table, and most of the rest looked as if they wanted to.
“She and the QB aren’t friends?” I said.
Michael laughed.
“If Maggie and the QB are both on-screen, who do you think the audience watches?” he said with a laugh. “I only heard about it secondhand, from Walker and the others who were there first season, but I understand things got pretty hot before the QB fired Maggie.”
Just then, I saw Nate walk into the green room. The writer’s reaction to Maggie was atypical. He started, and then headed for her table.
I was curious, so I signaled Michael, and we strolled over so we could eavesdrop.
“Please, Maggie,” Nate pleaded. “You know how she gets.”
“You mean she’s not looking forward to our reunion?” Maggie said, in a husky voice.
“She practically took off some kid’s head because he tried to get her autograph on a program you’d already signed. And if she sees you and—Oh, God, not you, too!” Nate moaned, catching sight of me.
“Someone else who has the temerity to displease the Great and All-Powerful Porfiria,” Maggie said. “Nate, my enemy’s enemy is my friend; please introduce me to my new friend.”
“Maggie West, Meg Langslow,” Nate said. “Now will you both please leave before she gets here?”
“So what’s your crime against Amblyopia?” Maggie asked.
“It was my nephew she savaged in the autograph line,” I said.
“So you’re the one who rubbed her nose in it,” Maggie said, with another hearty laugh. “Walker just told me.”
Even Nate smiled at Maggie’s laugh, but only faintly.
“Maggie, please,” he said.
“Oh, all right,” Maggie said, standing up. “I’m supposed to be going onstage at four—do you know where I can find the Atlantis Ballroom, Meg Langslow? Last time I tried to find my way around this dump, I ended up in the laundry room.”
“I’ve been to the ballroom, though that doesn’t mean I can find it again,” I said.
“We’ll give it a try together, shall we?” Maggie said.
I glanced at my watch. Only three-thirty—maybe Maggie wasn’t that eager to meet the QB, either.
“I should stay here and take my turn on the front lines,” Michael said. “Can you meet me for an early supper—about four-thirty?”
“Four-thirty it is,” I said. “Yes, Nate, we’re going now.”
Maggie and I left through one door just as the QB sailed in through the other.
Chapter 13
“Actually, I’d love to stay and rile up the old cow,” Maggie said, linking her arm through mine as we strolled down the hall with her official escorts trailing behind. “But I don’t want to spoil the convention for these nice people. Not the first day, anyway. Maybe Sunday; these things usually get deadly by Sunday afternoon. So you’re the reason tall-dark-and-handsome Mephisto is out of circulation.”
A trio of fans came up to talk to her, and no sooner had she finished autographing their programs and moved on than another group appeared, and I realized that it probably would take Maggie a full thirty minutes to work her way through the crowd to the ballroom. Watching her in action, I had flashes of recognition. I had seen her in movies after all—as a madam with a heart of gold in an otherwise forgettable western, and as a wise and caring therapist in a tear-jerker that had starred Julia Roberts or possibly Sandra Bullock.
After I dropped Maggie off, I checked back in the dealers’ room. Things were slow. As I approached the booth, Steele was shaking hands with the sword-and-sorcery producer. Had they been talking the whole time I was gone? Maybe the guy was serious about hiring Steele.
“Sorry it took me a while,” I said.
“No problem,” he said. “Your sword-crazy friend Chris seems happy to spell me if I need to step out.”
“Have you eaten yet?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“I can mind the booth while you do,” I said.
He shook his head, and I saw his eyes following the producer, who stood nearby talking on his cell phone. I still didn’t trust the producer. And more than ever, I suspected Steele didn’t mind my absences because he was nervous that I’d snag the commission instead of him. I could have told him that from what I’d seen of film work, I didn’t want the commission. But I didn’t think he’d believe it. And for all I knew, I’d change my mind if the big shot dangled a large enough check.
“Or if you like, I can bring you something,” I said. “There’s a fantastic spread in the green room; I can raid that
.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” he said.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said.
“No rush,” he said absently. The supposed Hollywood big shot was hanging up.
The QB had departed, fortunately, and the green room was more crowded than before. Probably because they’d just laid out an additional wine and cheese spread.
I stepped aside to avoid being trampled in the mad rush to the new food, and found myself standing by a table where Walker was sitting.
“Hi, Meg,” he said.
“How’s it going, Walker?” I said.
“Don’t ask,” Walker said. “Have a beer. Sorry, I forgot; you don’t like beer. Have some wine. Have any damn thing you like.”
He sounded as if he’d been acting on his own advice already.
“Walker, don’t you have to go on stage later?” I asked. “For the auction?”
“For what it’s worth,” he said. “My swan song.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Duke of Urushiol is dead,” Walker intoned. “Long live the Queen. Long live Queen Porfiria, the biggest, meanest ballbuster in the jungle.”
“What do you mean, dead?” I asked.
“Dead as in deceased,” he said. “That’s usually what they do when they don’t want to renew your contract. Kill off your character. Throw you a big, hokey death scene as a sop, and by episode four of the new season, no one remembers you.”
“It’s not really that bad, is it?”
“Yeah, I suppose the die-hard fans will remember,” Walker said. “I mean, they still love Maggie. Hell, they still remember Ichabod Dilley, and he’s been dead twenty years.”
“Thirty, actually,” I said. “But I meant, is it definite that they’re not renewing your contract?”
“Herself told me an hour ago,” he said. “I should have seen it coming. Nate stopped calling me by name. He’s been calling me ‘Pal’ for weeks.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Have you told Michael yet?”
“If Michael hasn’t noticed he’s the new royal favorite, he’s an idiot,” Walker said.
“Maybe the fans will organize a write-in campaign,” I said.
“My one big chance and it’s over,” Walker said. “I should have done what Michael did, a long time ago. Kick this rat race, get a real job, and settle down with a nice girl. I want Michael’s life.”
He frowned, as if thinking deeply. I had a feeling I knew where his thoughts were heading, and I looked around for an excuse to leave.
“Of course, now Michael has my life and his life,” Walker said thoughtfully. “That’s not fair, is it?”
Luckily, Walker found this idea so absorbing that he forgot I was there. I slipped away.
I felt bad for Walker. But if he was out and Michael was in, I was the last person Walker needed around right now.
Okay, the second to last. I spotted Michael coming in. Which mean he’d delivered QB safely to her lair. I went over to steer him away from Walker.
“Mission accomplished?” I asked.
“Next time, I want the easy job,” he said. “Walker can bring Herself down; I’ll go wrestle the damned tiger. Let’s eat.”
I figured Steele wasn’t in a hurry for me to interrupt his tête-à-tête. We filled plates from the buffet and found a table in the corner. I snagged the seat facing out, so I could glare away anyone who tried to interrupt us. Michael looked exhausted.
“All in all, it went better than expected,” he said. He lifted a sandwich and eyed it, as if trying to decide if it was worth the energy of taking a bite.
“And it’s over,” I said.
“Except that I have to do it again in a couple of hours,” he said, putting the sandwich down and leaning back against the chair. “If I’m still alive in a couple of hours.”
He closed his eyes, and I realized that he really did look quite ill.
“Let someone else do it,” I said.
He shook his head.
“I could try,” he said. “But they’d end up calling me in eventually.”
“Then take a nap,” I said.
“I only have an hour before my next panel,” he said. “And I’m too wired to sleep.”
“And too tired to eat,” I said.
He picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
“Try the nap thing again,” I said. “An hour’s better than nothing, and even if you don’t sleep, lying down will help.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “If you don’t mind, maybe I should. Only—damn.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, as he patted his pockets. “Lose something?”
“The card key,” he said. “I gave it to someone to fetch my throat spray sometime during the autograph session.”
“Someone?”
“One of the volunteers.”
“Who didn’t give it back?”
“No, he gave it back,” Michael said, rubbing his forehead. “I just remember putting it down someplace because I wasn’t wearing my coat, and apparently I never put it back in my pocket. Damn.”
“Use mine,” I said, fishing it out. “I’ll get the volunteers to look for yours.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Or if they can’t find it—”
“If they can’t put their hands on it pretty quickly, I’ll drop by the desk and have them cut another set,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. He wrapped the sandwich in a napkin and stumbled off. I had half an impulse to follow, and make sure he got to the room safely, but instead, I hunted down Michael’s two handlers. I sent one to guide Michael and made enough of a fuss to get the other highly motivated to find the missing card key. Then I loaded a plate for Steele and went back to the dealers’ room.
Steele had finished talking with the producer. Panels had ended for the day, and the ballroom was occupied by something called the Amblyopian Thespian Competition. The title intrigued me, and I slipped out long enough to see what it was, but the event itself proved tame—a dozen groups of fans reenacting scenes from their favorite episodes in front of an audience consisting almost entirely of other contestants.
“Everyone’s probably off getting dinner somewhere,” I reported.
“I’m told things will get even slower during the charity auction,” Steele said. “How soon will that be?”
“Nearly two hours,” I said. “It starts at seven; I know because Michael’s one of the auctioneers.”
“Unless things pick up between now and then, you might as well go watch him when it starts,” Steele said. “I can close up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I may take you up on that.”
If Steele continued to be this agreeable for the rest of the convention, I’d tackle him on the subject of sharing a booth at future craft shows and Renaissance Faires. I’d been going solo lately, but this weekend reminded me how nice it was to have someone reliable to watch the booth when I was gone.
Chapter 14
Maybe it’s different for a sales clerk on salary, but the self-employed craftsperson or vendor dreads a long stretch without customers, abject boredom relieved only by acute financial anxiety. For the next hour, I exorcised my guilt by minding the booth so Steele could get some fresh air, but with no traffic, any houseplant could have done as much. By six-fifteen, the vendors had voted to close at seven, and Steele shooed me out shortly afterward.
“I can close up,” he said. “Go get a good seat.”
The ballroom had filled up again, and the Amazon security guards tried to direct me to the Rivendell Room with the overflow crowd. I managed to hook up with Nate in the corridor outside and make my way backstage.
The last amateur thespians struggled through their skit, visibly suffering from acute stage fright. Silly of them—the deafening noise level in the auditorium proved that no one was paying the slightest attention to their performances. Not even the judges, who kept craning their heads to see if Michael and Walker had arrived.
The last skit finally ended. I fished the camera out of my pocket and got ready to shoot. The Amazon mistress of ceremonies introduced Michael and Walker. When they walked onstage, a roar went up from the crowd, and suddenly I felt terrified.
How could someone be the focus of this much adulation and not be affected by it? I watched Michael smile and wave to the crowd. What if all his talk of TV fame being a bubble was just because he was tired and sick? What if, at some point, he decided this was what he wanted?
I didn’t mind the occasional trip to a convention, or a set where Michael was filming. But if he got used to this—came to like it more, perhaps couldn’t get out of his contract…what would happen to him? And to us?
He didn’t look like the same tired, depressed Michael I’d seen a few hours earlier. The nap had worked wonderfully. The nap and the energy boost he always got from going on stage.
And I’d been worried about Walker, too, since I’d last seen him in the green room tying one on. He seemed, if not sober, certainly not incapacitated. Remarkably cheerful for a man who had just lost the biggest role of his career. If there was any animosity between the two, they certainly didn’t show it on stage.
The two of them, clowning and playing off each other, auctioned off a motley collection of Porfiria paraphernalia for obscene sums. Several hundred dollars for an original script, or a prop actually used on the show.
But wasn’t the auction hour nearly over? And yet Michael and Walker seemed to be stretching each item out. As if killing time. I glanced at my watch. Seven fifty-five. The QB was supposed to judge the look-alike contest at eight, and I didn’t see her backstage.
“Hey, Meg,” Nate stage-whispered at my elbow. “Can you donate something to the auction? Or sell me something, and I’ll donate it? We can’t get the QB out of her room again.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “Yeah, let me run to the booth and find something.”
We’ll Always Have Parrots Page 7