first week in advance . . . ?”
“Like that, huh?”
Margaret nodded.
“Are you going to cry on me?”
“No, Miss Casey.”
“Good. Don’t. I hate criers. I do it way too much myself. If I had the money on me, I’d give it to you. I don’t, and you probably can’t take a card.”
“No, Miss Casey. I can’t.”
“I didn’t think so. I’ll give you the eight hundred tomorrow. It’ll mean you’ll have to wait two weeks for another payday. That’s firm. No more advances.”
“I understand, Miss Casey.”
“And I’ll get you into that party, if I can. It’ll be a good test, and I think we’re going to pass. Now go find Mickey for me. Tell him I need to get out of the building without being seen. Not the stage door and not the front. Something else. Scoot.”
FIVE
DATING THE VOLCANO
GOD
The Red Spot
party was at Rusterman’s, upstairs. “Cast only!” announced a Teutonically uniformed attendant at the door. “Cast
and
guests,” Cassie snapped, and sailed into the room with head high and Margaret bobbing in her wake.
India was nowhere in sight. Ebony, her assistant, was loading a plate with beautiful brown fritters and terrine de lièvre. “Don’t get fat,” Cassie warned her. “What are you going to wear when you can’t fit into a size four?”
Ebony grinned. “I never get fat. You tasted these?”
“Not often enough. How’s life in India?”
“Ha, ha. Listen, Cassie, you got a new gig?”
“Right now?” Cassie shrugged. “Yes and no. Let’s just say I don’t want one.”
“India’s got an angel.” Ebony’s voice fell. “This’s humongous stuff—try it out here and maybe Springfield and open on Broadway.”
“So I heard.” Cassie selected an oyster wrapped in something that might have been prosciutto but probably was not. She twirled it on its toothpick, studied it with a dietician’s eye, and set it back down.
“Okay if I ask what Alexis’s dresser’s doing here?”
Almost inaudibly, Margaret said, “I’m Miss Casey’s dresser now, Miss White.”
Brian Kean appeared at Cassie’s elbow. “Can I get you something? Champagne? Highball?”
Cassie smiled. “Just a glass of Chablis, please. Would you like anything, Margaret?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I’ll fetch my own,” Ebony announced. Brian appeared not to have heard her.
At Cassie’s other elbow, Tabbi Merce whispered, “You were devastating tonight, Cassie. Absolutely devastating! They were throwing flowers at the stage.”
“They weren’t!”
“Oh, yes, they were! Boutonnieres and corsages. Orchids and carnations. You were seeing—I don’t know what. Counting the empty seats or something while the audience went bananas.”
Cassie smiled. “If you’re trying to make me feel good, you’re succeeding.”
Brian pressed a glass of white wine into her hand, and someone else handed her a midget’s plate heaped with food. She smiled again. “What are these fritters, anyway?” It was a general question, directed to the group around her. Norma Peiper, perhaps the heaper of the plate, said, “Wild mushroom. Delicious!”
“I’d like an anchovy fritter. This place is famous for them, and I’ve never had one.”
“I’ll tell them,” Brian said, and hurried away.
Ebony asked, “Want to sit down?”
Cassie nodded. “See if you can’t find us a table, Margaret.”
Norma touched her arm. “Come on. I’ve got one already.”
“So do I,” Tabbi protested. “Cassie can sit with us.”
“She certainly can.” It was Bruce Sandoz. In a tone only slightly lower he added, “We featured players should cleave together, Cassie.”
“I’d better sit with Ebony,” Cassie decided. “India will be coming, and I promised we’d talk here.” She called Margaret back.
Porter Penniman was seated there already, apparently holding the table. With a smile as broad as a piano’s, he raised his exceedingly impressive four hundred pounds and indicated the chair on his right. Like
“Like that, huh?”
Margaret nodded.
“Are you going to cry on me?”
“No, Miss Casey.”
“Good. Don’t. I hate criers. I do it way too much myself. If I had the money on me, I’d give it to you. I don’t, and you probably can’t take a card.”
“No, Miss Casey. I can’t.”
“I didn’t think so. I’ll give you the eight hundred tomorrow. It’ll mean you’ll have to wait two weeks for another payday. That’s firm. No more advances.”
“I understand, Miss Casey.”
“And I’ll get you into that party, if I can. It’ll be a good test, and I think we’re going to pass. Now go find Mickey for me. Tell him I need to get out of the building without being seen. Not the stage door and not the front. Something else. Scoot.”
FIVE
DATING THE VOLCANO
GOD
The Red Spot
party was at Rusterman’s, upstairs. “Cast only!” announced a Teutonically uniformed attendant at the door. “Cast
and
guests,” Cassie snapped, and sailed into the room with head high and Margaret bobbing in her wake.
India was nowhere in sight. Ebony, her assistant, was loading a plate with beautiful brown fritters and terrine de lièvre. “Don’t get fat,” Cassie warned her. “What are you going to wear when you can’t fit into a size four?”
Ebony grinned. “I never get fat. You tasted these?”
“Not often enough. How’s life in India?”
“Ha, ha. Listen, Cassie, you got a new gig?”
“Right now?” Cassie shrugged. “Yes and no. Let’s just say I don’t want one.”
“India’s got an angel.” Ebony’s voice fell. “This’s humongous stuff—try it out here and maybe Springfield and open on Broadway.”
“So I heard.” Cassie selected an oyster wrapped in something that might have been prosciutto but probably was not. She twirled it on its toothpick, studied it with a dietician’s eye, and set it back down.
“Okay if I ask what Alexis’s dresser’s doing here?”
Almost inaudibly, Margaret said, “I’m Miss Casey’s dresser now, Miss White.”
Brian Kean appeared at Cassie’s elbow. “Can I get you something? Champagne? Highball?”
Cassie smiled. “Just a glass of Chablis, please. Would you like anything, Margaret?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I’ll fetch my own,” Ebony announced. Brian appeared not to have heard her.
At Cassie’s other elbow, Tabbi Merce whispered, “You were devastating tonight, Cassie. Absolutely devastating! They were throwing flowers at the stage.”
“They weren’t!”
“Oh, yes, they were! Boutonnieres and corsages. Orchids and carnations. You were seeing—I don’t know what. Counting the empty seats or something while the audience went bananas.”
Cassie smiled. “If you’re trying to make me feel good, you’re succeeding.”
Brian pressed a glass of white wine into her hand, and someone else handed her a midget’s plate heaped with food. She smiled again. “What are these fritters, anyway?” It was a general question, directed to the group around her. Norma Peiper, perhaps the heaper of the plate, said, “Wild mushroom. Delicious!”
“I’d like an anchovy fritter. This place is famous for them, and I’ve never had one.”
“I’ll tell them,” Brian said, and hurried away.
Ebony asked, “Want to sit down?”
Cassie nodded. “See if you can’t find us a table, Margaret.”
Norma touched her arm. “Come on. I’ve got one already.”
“So do I,” Tabbi protested. “Cassie can sit with us.”
“She certainly can.” It was Bruce Sandoz. In a tone only slightly lower he added, “We featured players should cleave together, Cassie.”
“I’d better sit with Ebony,” Cassie decided. “India will be coming, and I promised we’d talk here.” She called Margaret back.
Porter Penniman was seated there already, apparently holding the table. With a smile as broad as a piano’s, he raised his exceedingly impressive four hundred pounds and indicated the chair on his right. Like
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