the far end of the hall. It had a small plaque and, in a burst of unoriginality, the ubiquitous comic and tragic faces found on green rooms and theater doors all across America. There was no bell, so he simply pushed open the door and entered. A plump redhead—who was unarguably overripe but probably not really a redhead—was talking on the phone, her expression indicating it was a friend (a very close friend) instead of a professional call.
Behind her, in a glassed-in office, a short man dressed in a good suit was waving his arms in front of a well-groomed couple. The couple was as sleek and plump as a pair of otters in the zoo. The short man's mouth opened and shut rapidly while his arms wind-milled. None of this seemed to be convincing the couple. They crossed their arms and rolled their eyes, almost in unison, and then the female half of the couple lit a cigarette and began to speak. The short man never bothered to slow down, so the two of them yammered at each other behind the glass in a furious pantomime of noncommunication. T.S. was glad the soundproofing spared him the details. He hated it when two people talked at once.
"Here's a big, juicy kiss," the receptionist cooed. T.S. looked up in astonished dread, but she was only bidding a fond farewell to her telephone mate.
"Can I help you?" she asked T.S. in what was her version of the perfect receptionist's voice, gleaned from years of watching television. Her accent was unfortunate. She hailed from the outer boroughs and it showed. If she was working here in hopes of breaking into show business, the accent would have to disappear—or she would.
"I'm looking for Mr. Lance Worthington," T.S. told her. That part was easy. What he intended to do with Lance Worthington after he found him was another matter. T.S. had no idea what he would say. He kept telling himself that all he wanted was a chance to evaluate the man. See if he was on the up and up. After three decades as a personnel manager, T.S. was pretty good at picking out the genuine articles from the phonies.
"Well, Mr. Worthington is in, but he's not available right now." She already had the phone off the receiver and was ready to move on to the next entry in her personal address book.
"That's him?" T.S. nodded toward the glassed-in office.
"That is he" she informed him importantly. "And he absolutely positively cannot be disturbed because he is in the middle of having creative differences with the writers."
"Creative differences?" T.S. asked. No one in the office looked particularly creative and the differences looked more like fatal divisions.
"That's what producers do," the receptionist told him crossly. "If you were in the business you would know. They have creative differences with the writers."
"Those two are the writers?" It was none of his business, but he couldn't help the question. The couple looked more like they should be wrangling for a better table at Sardi's than writing Broadway shows. The woman was decked out in a fur wrap, for God sake. If they were writing a show, it had to be the sequel to How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.
"It's a musical about Davy Crockett," the receptionist explained patiently while making it plain that she was being patient. "He writes the book. She writes the music."
Davy Crockett? If those two knew anything about pioneers, T.S. was Ponce de Leon. "I'll come back later," he quickly told the receptionist as he scrutinized Lance Worthington, trying to determine if this was the man who'd been seen at Emily's building three times the night before. He was certainly smarmy enough to fit the description, which had been rather vague. But that was hardly enough for a positive identification. Wait—the man reached up and rubbed his ears, an action T.S. didn't begrudge as the stout woman was still stalking around the office, bellowing. But the short man's ears were very interesting. They were tiny and shaped like cookies. In fact, they looked just like a chimpanzee's ears. Either the man had a habit of pulling at them or he was undergoing aural torture. What was it that Herbert had said? Oh, yes: Mr. Cashmere Coat had very small ears.
The man's next movement confirmed his identity. He shook his head vigorously and looked at his watch, turned his back on the couple and headed for a hook on the back of his