Amberlough(31)

“Delly!” Tory stood on his chair and waved for her to come over. She went, reluctantly. She’d tried to avoid him, the last month, just to keep out of the pot with Malcolm. But the tight cliques and couples of the theatre were unraveling right now. Hearsay flew between the tables about Acherby, and Nuesklend. The air was electric with nervous laughter and cocky assurances that Staetler would put the old Ospies in the corner quick enough.

“How’s it turning?” she asked, sliding into a seat.

“How’s it look like?” Tory stubbed out the butt of a twist and let his hands rest on the table for a moment. Then, unable to stop fidgeting, he got out his tobacco and rolling papers and made up another one. “Plague and pesteration, but what must’ve happened last night in Nuesklend?”

“They counted their cards,” she said. “Paperfolk are all saying it. No matter if the fat fish were backing the Ospies, everybody knew Riedlions was going to win the seat.”

“You seem fair confident. Not worried about the Ospies taking over and shutting down all Amberlough’s tit shows?” He licked the edge of his rolling paper and twisted it into a neat tube, pinched at each end. “I s’pose you’ve always been a day-to-day type.”

She didn’t think he meant it as an insult. Not Tory. “It’s better than sitting on my ass, smoking all my shag.” She flicked the end of his freshly rolled cigarette. “It’s a heavyweight kinda battle. Nothing any of us welters can do about it.”

“No?”

“Not unless you’re packing a snubby and planning to cozy up to Acherby some night soon.”

“I can poke a hole in a man without a gun, Delly.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. The firepower of a good joke.” She rolled her eyes. “Killing him with comedy.”

“And why not?” He struck a match and lifted it to his face. The firelight shadowed the frown lines in his forehead. They ran deep, for such a funny man. “I’ve known a good, hard laugh to bring on apoplexy.”

Cordelia was going to tell him she’d known a couple other things to bring on apoplexy too, but Malcolm came barreling onto the stage with a fistful of wrinkled sheet music and the morning’s stubble darkening his jaw.

“Am I paying you all to sit around and bark at one another?” His voice carried across the space, turning heads. “I didn’t think so.”

That projection was wasted off the stage. Then again, Cordelia couldn’t think what kind of act would fit him. Maybe strong man. Or a lion tamer.

“Curtain goes up same time tonight as every night.” He strafed his employees with narrow black eyes like machine gun barrels. People cringed, but he held his fire till he struck on Tory and Cordelia. “You all better be on your toes,” he said. Though he meant it for the company, Cordelia knew it was aimed at her. “I ain’t above sackin’ anybody who lets this election get in the way of their performance.”

It would’ve been a solid threat, but it didn’t hold up long. The double doors at the back of the house swung open like a set piece, revealing Aristide Makricosta like the climax of a campy drama. The entrance was perfectly timed; Cordelia didn’t think he was above listening at the keyhole for the right cue.

“Awfully sorry I’m late,” he drawled, stripping off a pair of claret kid gloves. With theatrical surprise, he took note of them all gathered in front of the stage, half in street clothes still. “My, my. What is happening here? Haven’t we got a show to put on?”

Malcolm turned a dangerous shade of red, not too different from Ari’s gloves. “Makricosta.” He leveled his crumpled sheet music like a baton and thrust it at the target of his rage. “What kept you?”

Aristide’s smile was thin and sharp as the blade of a Market Street fish knife, and he broke out the central city stutter. “Apologies, Malcolm. It was a t-t-trifling matter, and obviously it could have waited. I didn’t realize what a state the place would b-b-be in when I arrived.”

Malcolm let his fistful of music fall to his side. “You and me both.”

“It’s ‘neither,’” said Aristide, and flounced off to change. His departure seemed to signal the rest of the cast, who rose from their chairs. Cordelia followed in the general rush, hoping to avoid a scene. For once, she was grateful to that overgrown, overrated blush boy. He’d drawn enough of Malcolm’s ire that she might make it out unnoticed. But just before she gained the downstage entrance, Malcolm grabbed her by the arm. The overlarge sweater made him miss her flesh, and he ended up with a handful of knitted wool. Still, it was enough to yank her from her path.

He scanned her face without meeting her eyes. “You don’t even have your paint on yet.”

“Trolley was running late,” she said, thrusting her chin in the air.

“Swineshit.”

She huffed. “Look, Mal, the whole city’s hung right over, or still asleep, or they’ve got their noses in their rears over the headlines out of Nuesklend.” She grabbed her sleeve and tugged it from his grip. “What do you want from us? We ain’t no different from the rest of ’em.”

“Oh, you are,” he said, “and you’re a damn sight worse.” Then he did a double-take, half reaching toward her arm again. His face went soft, then crumpled back into a frown. “Delia, what are you wearing? You look like a rag lady.”