“A rumble?” Charlie asked.
“Like Jets versus Sharks,” Fontaine said. “To honor West Side Story. It’s a carving of two teenage hoods with switchblades. I don’t know, it wasn’t my idea. It looks pretty good, though.” He realized he was talking nonsense. “We need to go.”
Charlie turned to Margaret. “I need the file.”
She reached into her purse and grabbed a folder she’d rolled into something resembling a tube so she could wedge it into her stylish barrel-pouch bag. Charlie received the baton and headed off with Fontaine. Margaret second-guessed their decision to leave the film canister back at Street’s hotel suite; there was no room for it in her purse and it would have been too odd to carry it around at the Oscars. But now she worried that these thugs knew of its existence.
The auditorium was packed with ushers and publicists and members of various entourages who had somehow managed to access the event without tickets. There were also agents, managers, valets, and wardrobe and makeup artists. Fontaine steered them through the chaos to the meeting room. An usher checked their names and stepped aside.
“Charlie!” a woman cried from behind them.
Before they could enter the room, the congressman turned to see Janet Leigh, lovely in an emerald gown, drinking a Coca-Cola from a plastic cup and smiling as if she’d just won a gold statue.
“Already bored?” the actress asked.
Fontaine wiped an expression of irritation off his face and replaced it with a battalion of shining white teeth. “Hey, Janet!” he said. “Where’s Tony? Oh, wait, never mind. Sorry!”
Charlie knew that a smart, calculating publicist like Fontaine would never let something so mean slip out by accident. His intent was to wound her; God only knew why. These people were vicious, as casually cruel as their counterparts in the snake-infested swamp of DC politics.
“Where are you guys headed?” Leigh asked, ignoring the question. “The event’s in there.” She thumbed toward the auditorium. Charlie looked at Fontaine.
“Just grabbing a drink,” the publicist said.
Leigh hooked her arm through Charlie’s as naturally as putting a hand into a mitten. “Well, say no more,” she said. “Lead on.”
Charlie looked at Fontaine, who shrugged, and they entered the East Wing Meeting Room. Fontaine walked ahead while Charlie whispered to Leigh.
Beyond the bartenders and cocktail waitresses, three stocked bars lined the walls, their shiny bottles arranged in neat rows. Charlie felt a twinge of—what? Love? Nostalgia? Regret? He wasn’t sure. He changed his focus, examining the ice sculpture looming over a buffet of delicacies. It was even more impressive than advertised, a detailed rendering of Richard Beymer as Tony lurching and stabbing George Chakiris as Bernardo. A knife fight. Charlie recalled another knife fight on the banks of the faux Missouri river and that bilious taste in his mouth when it ended.
“Well, that’s sure weird,” said Leigh of the sculpture. She turned to Charlie. “Champagne?”
Charlie smiled, unsure. Fontaine grabbed her shoulder. “Why don’t I escort Miss Leigh to the champagne while you admire the melting artwork?” Fontaine said. He steered Leigh away.
Charlie stepped closer to the ice sculpture, bent down to tie his shoe, placed the papers on the ground, and pushed them under the folds of the tablecloth. He stood and watched Leigh accepting a flute of bubbly from the bartender. Fontaine winked at him as they walked back to Charlie.
After a few minutes of conversation, Fontaine observed it was probably time to head back to their seats, so they did. Leigh lagged behind, chatting with a cocktail waitress, sipping her champagne.
A young woman in a caramel gown with a pink rose corsage on her wrist was sitting in Charlie’s seat on the aisle. Upon seeing Charlie, she stood immediately. He was surprised but he eased back into his seat.
“She’s a seat-filler,” Margaret whispered to him. “That’s apparently a profession in this town. She and a whole bunch of other young people—all of them with pink roses as corsages or boutonnières—run around and make sure no chairs are empty should the cameras pan this way.”
Onstage, Hope began mocking George C. Scott, a Best Supporting Actor nominee for The Hustler, for not showing up to the awards ceremony, which Scott had called “a weird beauty or personality contest” that corrupted the craft of acting. “He’s sitting at home with his back to the set,” Hope said. “He’s the one person in our audience who will come back into the room for the commercials.”
“Manny came back a minute later.” Janet Leigh had suddenly appeared at Charlie’s side and was whispering in his ear. “He grabbed the file. I followed him down the hall. He was with a man I didn’t recognize. Also in a tux.”
Charlie looked up at her. “Thanks,” he said. Leigh smiled, waved at Margaret, and returned to her seat.
“Great idea to enlist her help,” Charlie said. Margaret had called Leigh that afternoon and explained that they desperately needed someone to keep an eye on a folder Charlie was going to drop off. It was seriously a matter of life and death, one Margaret would tell her all about later over drinks, but for now she needed her help. Leigh was tickled to be recruited for actual cloak-and-dagger work, not just playacting, and immediately agreed.
“So what now?” Margaret whispered.
Charlie scanned the audience. “Keep our eyes open,” he said.
“For?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “An anomaly. Maybe someone returning to his seat after meeting with Manny.
