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.
