“Walker, don’t you have to go on stage later?” I asked. “For the auction?”
“For what it’s worth,” he said. “My swan song.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Duke of Urushiol is dead,” Walker intoned. “Long live the Queen. Long live Queen Porfiria, the biggest, meanest ballbuster in the jungle.”
“What do you mean, dead?” I asked.
“Dead as in deceased,” he said. “That’s usually what they do when they don’t want to renew your contract. Kill off your character. Throw you a big, hokey death scene as a sop, and by episode four of the new season, no one remembers you.”
“It’s not really that bad, is it?”
“Yeah, I suppose the die-hard fans will remember,” Walker said. “I mean, they still love Maggie. Hell, they still remember Ichabod Dilley, and he’s been dead twenty years.”
“Thirty, actually,” I said. “But I meant, is it definite that they’re not renewing your contract?”
“Herself told me an hour ago,” he said. “I should have seen it coming. Nate stopped calling me by name. He’s been calling me ‘Pal’ for weeks.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Have you told Michael yet?”
“If Michael hasn’t noticed he’s the new royal favorite, he’s an idiot,” Walker said.
“Maybe the fans will organize a write-in campaign,” I said.
“My one big chance and it’s over,” Walker said. “I should have done what Michael did, a long time ago. Kick this rat race, get a real job, and settle down with a nice girl. I want Michael’s life.”
He frowned, as if thinking deeply. I had a feeling I knew where his thoughts were heading, and I looked around for an excuse to leave.
“Of course, now Michael has my life and his life,” Walker said thoughtfully. “That’s not fair, is it?”
Luckily, Walker found this idea so absorbing that he forgot I was there. I slipped away.
I felt bad for Walker. But if he was out and Michael was in, I was the last person Walker needed around right now.
Okay, the second to last. I spotted Michael coming in. Which mean he’d delivered QB safely to her lair. I went over to steer him away from Walker.
“Mission accomplished?” I asked.
“Next time, I want the easy job,” he said. “Walker can bring Herself down; I’ll go wrestle the damned tiger. Let’s eat.”
I figured Steele wasn’t in a hurry for me to interrupt his tête-à-tête. We filled plates from the buffet and found a table in the corner. I snagged the seat facing out, so I could glare away anyone who tried to interrupt us. Michael looked exhausted.
“All in all, it went better than expected,” he said. He lifted a sandwich and eyed it, as if trying to decide if it was worth the energy of taking a bite.
“And it’s over,” I said.
“Except that I have to do it again in a couple of hours,” he said, putting the sandwich down and leaning back against the chair. “If I’m still alive in a couple of hours.”
He closed his eyes, and I realized that he really did look quite ill.
“Let someone else do it,” I said.
He shook his head.
“I could try,” he said. “But they’d end up calling me in eventually.”
“Then take a nap,” I said.
“I only have an hour before my next panel,” he said. “And I’m too wired to sleep.”
“And too tired to eat,” I said.
He picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
“Try the nap thing again,” I said. “An hour’s better than nothing, and even if you don’t sleep, lying down will help.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “If you don’t mind, maybe I should. Only—damn.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, as he patted his pockets. “Lose something?”
“The card key,” he said. “I gave it to someone to fetch my throat spray sometime during the autograph session.”
“Someone?”
“One of the volunteers.”
“Who didn’t give it back?”
“No, he gave it back,” Michael said, rubbing his forehead. “I just remember putting it down someplace because I wasn’t wearing my coat, and apparently I never put it back in my pocket. Damn.”
“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?