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come to his house, but he had made the call himself, not delegated it to some effeminate assistant. Sam played the message again, just to be sure. God, he thought, I really am hot. Well, he was happy with his representation, but he would call Sy back. He scribbled down the number.
    There was one more message. “Hi, big boy. And I’m talking to your dick when I say that. Hope the flight was fine. Give me a call.” Sam smiled. April Irons was so secure she didn’t bother to say who it was. He’d better erase this tape. Not that Mary Jane came to his place often, but just in case.
    The thought of her once again wiped the smile from his face. Because, despite April, despite the others, he did love M.J. He hoped she would decide to come to L.A., though he was ashamed of her. But he also knew that he needed her, now more than ever. Despite the heat, despite the shot he had at the big time, despite the buzz, or maybe because of it all, he was afraid. Afraid he’d lose his shot at the brass ring. Bungle it, and wind up living his life out in obscurity. Ah, well, he’d see M.J. tonight. That would be soon enough. And in the meantime, perhaps he would pay a visit to Bethanie.

3
    Mary Jane went down the stairs to the cavernous church basement that, for the last fourteen years, had been used as a rehearsal hall and showcase theater. Thank God for the warmth, she thought, walked into the large room, and stood for a moment, taking in the delicious sounds of actors gathered for a production.
    The vast room was low-ceilinged, with pillars breaking the big space into several areas. The walls were painted church-basement green, the floor a gray vinyl tile. Folding chairs of every design, color, and condition lined the perimeters of the room. At the far end was a small raised stage. A shabby deep-red curtain hung open, displaying the narrow backstage space and the klieg lights. Several people were already huddled in a small circle, running lines. Two women were adjusting the height of the lights, although the show was far from ready for lighting. Mary Jane spotted a table off to the side which held a big pot of coffee and several open boxes of supermarket cakes and chocolate-chip cookies. Thank God! Empty carbohydrates and caffeine!
    Sipping from a chipped mug, chewing one cookie and clutching another, she finally smiled. Mary Jane loved the animation, the excitement, whenever actors gathered in a room. Despite all her years in the New York theater scene, she never took it for granted. An actor could never afford to take the opportunity to work for granted, even if it was, here, unpaid. Because this ensemble group was good . Sam ran it, wrote for it, directed it. After he’d come back from L.A. the first time, almost seven months ago, he’d promised everyone that his next trip to California was only temporary, and that he’d come up with the idea for this revue. After directing Jack and Jill , he’d be back. Sam could never be happy in L.A., the town of false happy endings. His work was too real, too gritty, too involved with the realities of living life in good faith. The troupe had already had a few minor successes, along with the major one of Jack and Jill . If the rest of the actors felt any resentment or envy of Sam, they lived with it. Because you never knew what casting agent or director might turn up in the audience.
    She sipped the coffee again and felt herself thawing out. Everyone here is just like me, Mary Jane thought. She had known some of these people for almost a dozen years, and to her they were family. We’re all broke or just hanging on, all more or less talented, and we’re all determined to make it. Some would look and see a roomful of actors, but it was also a roomful of waiters, cab drivers, speech coaches, word processors, and bartenders. Everyone with a day job. What we do for love of the theater, she sighed.
    “Mary Jane.” She turned to see Bethanie Lake, the newest member of the ensemble, walking