Smoke and Mirrors Read Online Free PDF Page B

voices all complained about their agents at the same time.
    Passing by the bottom of the back stairs, the servants’ stairs, another sound caught his attention. A distant, rhythmic creak. Er er. Er er. Like something . . . swinging. Someone had probably left the door open on the second floor. He thought about heading up and closing it, then spotted the black cat sitting at the three-quarter mark and changed his mind. Uneven, narrow, and steep, the stairs had tried to kill him once already and that was without the added fun of something to trip over. A sudden draft of cold air flowing down from the second floor raised the hair on the back of his neck and consolidated his decision. Damp clothes, cold air—not a great combination. Besides, he was already running late.
    Sucking back his coffee, he hurried along a narrow hall and finally down the three stone steps into the conservatory.
    The house had been deserted of everyone but hired caretakers for almost thirty years and it seemed as though none of those caretakers had cared to do any indoor gardening. The conservatory was empty of even the dried husks of plant life. The raised beds were empty. The small pond was empty. The big stone urns were empty. The actual floor space, on the other hand, was a little crowded.
    Over on the other side of the pond, several men and women were changing into their own modern evening dress with the nonchalance of people for whom the novelty of seeing others in their underwear had long since worn off. Ditto the self-consciousness of being seen. Crammed between the raised beds and the stone urns, still more men and women—already dressed—sat on plastic folding chairs, drank coffee, read newspapers, and waited for their turn in makeup.
    The two makeup stations were up against the stone wall the conservatory shared with the house. Some shows had the supporting actors do their own face and hair, but Everett had refused to allow it and CB, usually so tight he could get six cents change from a nickel, had let him have his way. Sharyl, Everett’s assistant who worked part-time for CB Productions and part-time at a local funeral parlor, handled the second chair. Curling irons, hair spray, and a multitude of brushes were all flung about with dazzling speed and when Everett yelled, “Time!” Tony realized they’d been racing.
    â€œNot fair!” Sharyl complained as she flicked the big powder brush over the high arc of male pattern baldness. “I had more surface to cover.”
    â€œI had a more delicate application.”
    â€œYeah, well, I’m faster when they’re lying down.” She stepped back and tossed the big brush onto the tray. “You’re lovely.”
    Tony didn’t think the man— white, thirty to forty, must provide own evening dress —looked convinced. Or particularly happy to hear it.
    â€œNext two!” Everett bellowed over the drumming of the rain on the glass. He waved the completed extras out of the chairs, adding, “Don’t touch your face!” Tony couldn’t hear the woman’s reply, but Everett’s response made it fairly clear. “So itch for your art.”
    Waving at a couple of people he knew from other episodes and a guy he’d met a couple of times at the Gandydancer, Tony made his way over to the card table set up beside the coffee urn. He pulled the clipboard out from under a spill of cardboard cups and checked the sign-in page. It seemed a little short of names.
    â€œHey! Everybody!” The rain threatened to drown him out, so he yelled louder. “If you haven’t signed the sheet, please do it now. I have to check your name against our master list.”
    No one moved.
    â€œIf your names aren’t on both lists, you won’t get paid!”
    Half a dozen people hurried toward him.
    Other shows would have hired a daily PA or TAD—trainee assistant director—to ride herd on the extras. CB figured they were