The Devil's Opera(140)
“So will you do it?” Schmidt looked at him with hard eyes.
Ciclope let the silence build, until Schmidt looked ready to explode.
“Yes, I will do it.” He snorted as a look of relief passed over the other man’s face. “Just stay out of his sight until I can deal with him.”
“He has a lot of men around him all the time.”
Ciclope patted the pocket Pietro’s pistol was in.
“I can deal with that.”
* * *
Simon hoped there wasn’t anyone from the CoC around, because he didn’t have time to search for the outhouses they had insisted be built out by the arena. From the sounds he was hearing, he wasn’t the only one who had the same problem.
A couple of minutes later, business done and feeling at least a gallon lighter, he tugged his clothes back into order and started back toward the lights. Just as he was about to step out of a pool of darkness behind one of the light poles, he heard something that made him freeze against the pole, praying that no one could see him.
“You idiot! Couldn’t you have found at least one good fighter in all of the Germanies?” The voice was that of Andreas Schardius. That resonant sound couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. But the tone was so cold, and the words were so clipped. He didn’t sound anything like he did in the midst of the crowd. Simon shivered. Their voices, which had been quiet at first, were growing louder, like they were walking toward him. He shrank to the bottom of the pole.
“I thought I had.” That had to be Karl Elting, Simon thought. From the tone of his voice, he was angry, too. “That fool Recke was supposed to be the best. God knows I offered him enough to take Metzger out.”
“A fool brought by a fool,” Schardius snarled. Elting tried to object, but Schardius overrode him. “Shut up!”
They moved into Simon’s view. He could see Elting being pushed back by Schardius’ hand around his neck. Now he was afraid to stay, but also afraid to move. Staying won.
“Between the purse and the bets, you’ve cost me enough tonight as it is. Any more mistakes from you—well, after our talk the other day, you know what I would have done to that fool Vogler if the police hadn’t shot him. You’ll envy him if you say another word.” The last was delivered with a snarl that made Thomas shiver again. “We have to get back out there with the crowd. Smile. Be gracious. But don’t think that this is over. You owe me.”
Schardius stomped off, Elting following in his wake trying to explain.
Simon spared a moment for a big sigh, then headed back to Gus.
* * *
“Good job tonight,” Amber announced at the end of the rehearsal. “Tomorrow night’s dress rehearsal, the night after that we’re on for real. Everyone go home and get some rest.”
She watched as the cast and crew grabbed their coats and other things and headed for the door. A few of them still bounced with excitement, but most of them were dragging a little. Long days and nights of rehearsal were beginning to tell on all of them, she thought. It would be a relief to actually go to production.
“It feels like it’s coming together,” Marla said to her as she picked up her music folder.
“Yeah, I think so,” Amber replied, “which is a good thing, considering we raise the curtain in forty-eight hours.”
Amber looked at Marla for a moment, then looked around. Schardius hadn’t come that evening, for which she was thankful. No one else was close. Frau Frontilia and the props manager were getting the props table organized for the next rehearsal, and were definitely out of earshot. No one else was around by now.
“So,” Amber said, “has Herr Schardius come on to you yet?”
Marla shook her head, and said, “Nope. Not a whisper or a touch.”
“Good,” Amber said. “Sorry, I should have warned you even earlier that he might try that.”
“You knew?” Marla’s brows contracted.
“No, I didn’t know for sure he would try anything,” Amber replied. “But I was in community and professional theater for thirty years, girl. I’ve seen men like him before, many times. I even married one of them, God help me. So, no, I didn’t know, but it still wouldn’t surprise me if he tries something even now.”
“If he does, I’ll deal with it,” Marla replied. “He won’t get to first base with me, and if he tries anything he’s liable to be singing soprano right along with Master Andrea.”
Amber smiled. Andrea Abati had a magnificent singing voice with the power of a big man’s lungs to drive it. But the voice itself was a soprano because Abati was a castrato.