We'll Always Have Parrots(26)

“Use mine,” I said, fishing it out. “I’ll get the volunteers to look for yours.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Or if they can’t find it—”

“If they can’t put their hands on it pretty quickly, I’ll drop by the desk and have them cut another set,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. He wrapped the sandwich in a napkin and stumbled off. I had half an impulse to follow, and make sure he got to the room safely, but instead, I hunted down Michael’s two handlers. I sent one to guide Michael and made enough of a fuss to get the other highly motivated to find the missing card key. Then I loaded a plate for Steele and went back to the dealers’ room.

Steele had finished talking with the producer. Panels had ended for the day, and the ballroom was occupied by something called the Amblyopian Thespian Competition. The title intrigued me, and I slipped out long enough to see what it was, but the event itself proved tame—a dozen groups of fans reenacting scenes from their favorite episodes in front of an audience consisting almost entirely of other contestants.

“Everyone’s probably off getting dinner somewhere,” I reported.

“I’m told things will get even slower during the charity auction,” Steele said. “How soon will that be?”

“Nearly two hours,” I said. “It starts at seven; I know because Michael’s one of the auctioneers.”

“Unless things pick up between now and then, you might as well go watch him when it starts,” Steele said. “I can close up.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I may take you up on that.”

If Steele continued to be this agreeable for the rest of the convention, I’d tackle him on the subject of sharing a booth at future craft shows and Renaissance Faires. I’d been going solo lately, but this weekend reminded me how nice it was to have someone reliable to watch the booth when I was gone.





Chapter 14




Maybe it’s different for a sales clerk on salary, but the self-employed craftsperson or vendor dreads a long stretch without customers, abject boredom relieved only by acute financial anxiety. For the next hour, I exorcised my guilt by minding the booth so Steele could get some fresh air, but with no traffic, any houseplant could have done as much. By six-fifteen, the vendors had voted to close at seven, and Steele shooed me out shortly afterward.

“I can close up,” he said. “Go get a good seat.”

The ballroom had filled up again, and the Amazon security guards tried to direct me to the Rivendell Room with the overflow crowd. I managed to hook up with Nate in the corridor outside and make my way backstage.

The last amateur thespians struggled through their skit, visibly suffering from acute stage fright. Silly of them—the deafening noise level in the auditorium proved that no one was paying the slightest attention to their performances. Not even the judges, who kept craning their heads to see if Michael and Walker had arrived.

The last skit finally ended. I fished the camera out of my pocket and got ready to shoot. The Amazon mistress of ceremonies introduced Michael and Walker. When they walked onstage, a roar went up from the crowd, and suddenly I felt terrified.

How could someone be the focus of this much adulation and not be affected by it? I watched Michael smile and wave to the crowd. What if all his talk of TV fame being a bubble was just because he was tired and sick? What if, at some point, he decided this was what he wanted?

I didn’t mind the occasional trip to a convention, or a set where Michael was filming. But if he got used to this—came to like it more, perhaps couldn’t get out of his contract…what would happen to him? And to us?

He didn’t look like the same tired, depressed Michael I’d seen a few hours earlier. The nap had worked wonderfully. The nap and the energy boost he always got from going on stage.

And I’d been worried about Walker, too, since I’d last seen him in the green room tying one on. He seemed, if not sober, certainly not incapacitated. Remarkably cheerful for a man who had just lost the biggest role of his career. If there was any animosity between the two, they certainly didn’t show it on stage.

The two of them, clowning and playing off each other, auctioned off a motley collection of Porfiria paraphernalia for obscene sums. Several hundred dollars for an original script, or a prop actually used on the show.

But wasn’t the auction hour nearly over? And yet Michael and Walker seemed to be stretching each item out. As if killing time. I glanced at my watch. Seven fifty-five. The QB was supposed to judge the look-alike contest at eight, and I didn’t see her backstage.

“Hey, Meg,” Nate stage-whispered at my elbow. “Can you donate something to the auction? Or sell me something, and I’ll donate it? We can’t get the QB out of her room again.”