I wondered if he really was worried about the company, or if that was just an excuse to get me to come and organize them.
“I was rather thinking Meg could come back to California for the last few weeks of my shoot,“ Michael said. “You'll have plenty of time to rest while I'm filming, and then we can spend time together in the evenings.“
Nice try, but I knew better. Oh, not that he didn't mean it. But I'd seen what Michael's life was like when he was filming these TV guest shots. He'd be up at dawn for makeup call. I'd twiddle my one working thumb during the twelve to fourteen hours he was shooting. And then, over dinner, when he wasn't mumbling lines under his breath, he'd be fretting about whether playing a lecherous, power-mad sorcerer on a cheesy syndicated TV show was really how a serious actor – not to mention a professor of drama – should spend his summer break.
Maybe not. But he enjoyed it so much that I didn't have the heart to say so. And besides, it paid well.
And while the few decent houses we'd found for sale in Caerphilly over the past year were well beyond the means of Professor Waterston and Meg the blacksmith, they might not be unreachable for Mephisto the sorcerer. Especially if they signed him for several more episodes.
And if you added in what my Mutant Wizards stock might be worth if the company continued successful, home ownership might eventually be within our means. Which, I realized, gave me more than an idle interest in why Rob thought there was something wrong at his company.
I glanced up to see that all three were looking at me expectantly.
“So, what's your decision?“ Michael asked.
I should know better than to make major decisions while taking Percocet.
I frowned at the ibuprofen bottle perched on the reception desk. Mutant Wizards had been so much easier to tolerate with Percocet. Still, having a clear mind had some advantages. I answered all the blinking lines in two minutes flat, cleared out the calls on hold, and was phoning in a cry for help to the temp agency when I heard the suite door open.
I looked up and froze with my lips halfway into a smile.
A pale young woman wearing a LAWYERS FROM hell T-shirt sidled into the reception area. She smiled in my general direction, but her eyes slid right over me and feverishly scanned the opening that led back to the main part of the offices.
“Hi,“ she said, absently fingering an ear decorated with at least a dozen varied rings and studs. “I wonder if you could help me.“
“Probably not,“ I said. “And anyway, why would I want to?“
I'm not usually that rude to visitors. But this wasn't your usual visitor.
“Huh?“ she gasped, finally looking at me.
“I was here last Monday when you came around, pretending you were from the plant-care service,“ I said. “And also on Wednesday, when you claimed you were bringing your boyfriend his lunch. And I'm the one who caught you trying to crawl in through a window last Friday.“
“You must have me confused with someone else,“ she began.
“Just give up, will you? Buy a copy of Lawyers from Hell II on December first, when it goes on sale. No one's going to give you a sneak preview before then, no matter how long you hang around here harassing people in the parking lot. I wasn't here when that CD-ROM found its way into your purse, but I heard about that, too.“
I'm not sure I'd have gotten rid of her, even after being so blunt – I'd been working at Mutant Wizards only for two weeks, but I'd already seen how persistent the rabid Lawyers from Hell fans could be. But help arrived: Katy, a 170-pound Irish wolfhound, strolled into the reception area and gave a gruff, bass bark.
Anyone who worked here would have known that the bark was Katyese for “Hi! Don't you want to feed me? It's been at least five minutes since I ate, and I might starve to death any second. So feed me! Please?“
The fan looked nervous, though. Not surprising; Katy was large, even for a wolfhound, and she had a disconcerting habit of not wagging her tail when she was trying to look pitiful. Or perhaps the fan was intimidated by the frantic growling that emerged from beneath the reception desk. If she could have seen Spike, the source of the growling, she'd probably have laughed – ironic, since Spike, though only a nine-pound fur ball, was much more liable to cause grievous bodily harm than mild-mannered Katy. Fortunately, Spike was confined to a dog crate, on the theory that eventually he'd calm down enough to participate fully in the Mutant Wizards' Bring Your Dog to Work policy. I wasn't betting on it.
Just then, the suite door opened, and a tall figure in a blue police uniform jingled his way into the reception area.
“Can I help you, ma'am?“ he said.
The persistent fan turned and fled. If she'd been paying attention, she might have noticed that the uniform fit rather badly. Or wondered if many real police officers wore black leather Reeboks and hung PEZ dispensers from their belts in addition to handcuffs and nightsticks.
“Ma'am? Ma'am?“ he called, following her into the hall. “Hey, lady, come back, please!“
The fan pressed the elevator button and then, when she saw he was following, bolted into the open door to the stairwell. Which was how most people came and went anyway, since the World War II – vintage elevators rarely arrived in less than ten minutes.
“Jeez, Meg, I'm sorry,“ he said, taking off his hat and wiping sweat from his forehead. I recognized the tall, gangly figure now. Frankie, one of the junior programmers. I was still struggling to attach names to faces for most of the thirty or so programmers and graphic artists on staff. Frankie I'd tagged the first day as “the eager one,“ because he was always underfoot, trying to help with anything anyone was doing. Anything, that is, except the apparently boring programming chores that actually constituted his job.
“Don't worry about it, Frankie,“ I said. “It was that rabid fan again.“
“The one who tried to get herself delivered in a Gateway box?“
“That's the one,“ I said. “So why are you dressed up like Caerphilly's finest?“
“The art department is going to use me as a model for some new characters,“ Frankie said. “What do you think?“
He twirled for me to admire his outfit.
“I'm amazed,“ I said. I was, actually. The uniform so emphasized Frankie's gangliness that he looked remarkably like a stork. And his habit of balancing on one leg and wrapping the other around it only enhanced the resemblance.
I must have kept a straight face, though. Frankie beamed with delight.
“Just make sure you're leading the pack if I have to push the panic button,“ I said.
“Panic button?“ he said, blinking vacantly.
“We went through this last week,“ I said. “This button under the desk that the receptionist can push discreetly if he or she feels threatened, remember? And it rings the bell back in the offices – “
“And we all run out to the reception area and rescue the receptionist from the intruder.“
“Very good.“
“Unless you're filling in for the receptionist, in which case we'd probably need to rescue the intruder,“ Frankie said, accompanying his words with a flailing gesture that was probably supposed to be some kind of karate move. Either that, or he was swatting gnats.
“Yes,“ I said, gritting my teeth. “That button.“
“Right,“ Frankie said. “No problem. I'd better go; the art guys are waiting.“
A model? I mused, as Frankie stalked off. True, Lawyers from Hell was populated with hundreds of characters – defendants, jurors, judges, bailiffs, arresting officers, witnesses, reporters, and, of course, lawyers. But they were represented on screen by cartoon characters, maybe an inch tall at the most. And while the graphic artists had done a wonderful job of giving them distinctive personalities, I had a hard time imagining the process required models.
Maybe it was just a practical joke to get Frankie to show up at the office in a police uniform, I thought, as I
