Chet Williamson - Reign

Abe nodded solemnly. "I seen her once years ago. The afternoon of Halloween day. I was dustin' the front rail of the mezzanine, and I hear this moanin' sound and turn around and there she is!" Abe jabbed a finger toward the balcony and Harry jerked his head around to look.

"Where!"

"I mean there she was, dummy. She was standin' right at the top of the balcony steps, her long white gown and hair flutterin', her arms reachin' toward me, and before I knew what was happenin' she was swoopin' down on me fast as hell, comin' right at me. I started to jump back, but I was right on the edge of the rail, and then…"

"What? What? "

Abe thrust out his lower lip and shook his head slowly. "She went right through me."

" Through you?"

"Her face came right up to mine, and I was starin' into her yellow eyes, and she went through me and disappeared. She was tryin' to scare me into fallin' off the mezzanine, Harry. They say she can actually scare ya to death, so I guess I'm lucky to be alive." A slow smile settled on Abe's wrinkled face. "You be careful this afternoon."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"When you're cleanin' up there alone."

"Me? Up there alone? On Halloween? Aw, Abe!"

"Harry, don't you be no pussy boy now."

"I ain't, Abe, but dammit -"

"I gotta clean the pool this afternoon, Steinberg told me to."

"But why can't I help you?"

"'Cause you gotta do the balcony, boy. You just be brave, and -"

" Abe," Donna said. Harry, already spooked, jumped at the sound, while Abe turned slowly, regarding her with the eyes of a recalcitrant boy caught cheating but not caring. Donna's voice had been angrier than she had meant it to be, and for a moment she thought she would call his name again, soften it. But no, she decided. The son of a bitch deserved that kind of harshness. "I'd like to speak to you alone, please."

She walked down the stage steps and up the aisle, not looking back to see if Abe would follow her. When she got to the inner lobby she stopped and turned. He was right behind her. "Why do you keep doing that?" she asked him.

"What?"

"Teasing Harry that way. It's very cruel. Mr. Steinberg's spoken to you about this before, hasn't he?"

"Yes ma'am, he has. And I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I like Harry a lot. He's dumb as a post and he's real lucky to have this job, but he's a good boy and does what he's told. Now I admit I tease him a little bit now and then, but Jesus Christ, what have I got to talk to him about? I mean you try workin' with a retard all day and see what happens."

"Abe, I don't think that -"

"It's like a cat, Miss Franklin. You tease 'em. You dangle a string or give their tail a little tug, it doesn't do 'em no harm, it's fun for you and it gets their juices flowin' a little, so where's the harm? Sure I tease Harry, just like I tease Crissie sometimes, but it doesn't mean I still don't love the old cat." Abe crossed his arms and gave an impatient puff. "Now if you got any complaints about my work…” He left it unfinished.

"No, Abe," Donna said. "No complaints. I'd just like to see you treat Harry a little more kindly, that's all."

Abe shrugged. "Okay then. You don't want me to tease him so much, I won't tease him so much. That make you happy?"

"Yes. It would."

Donna had seen no point in further discussion, and had walked to her office, imagining Abe muttering imprecations behind her. He was a bastard. There was, she thought, no "teasing" in him, only cruelty, pure and simple. One day he would go too far when Dennis was around, and then…

And then what? What would Dennis do?

The man had changed. It had been so slow and gradual that no one had noticed at first. But now more and more decisions were being made by John Steinberg. Oh, it wasn't as if John hadn't always plotted Dennis's career and finances, but Dennis had always wanted to be kept aware of what was going on. He had used to be omnipresent in their New York or Los Angeles offices, or wherever John and Donna established their temporary offices on the road, but now, in spite of his enthusiasm for the New American Musical Theatre Project, a long held dream of his, he seemed to show only a mild interest in the details of his life and his millions, and it bothered Donna, just as it bothered John.

He had been shorter with her than usual lately, and it was unlike John Steinberg. Donna had been with Steinberg since she was a twenty-year-old business school graduate who landed a minor secretarial position with his investment firm. Though not distinguishing herself by her brilliance, she proved to be an extremely hard worker, and soon her reputation drifted even as high as Steinberg's ethereal office. He had her promoted to his personal staff, and, when he gave up his firm to become Dennis Hamilton's manager, chose Donna to be his assistant.

The work had taken over her life, and her devotion to Steinberg was boundless. She had never known her father, who died when she was two, and so welcomed Steinberg's avuncular manner. He had always treated her in the most gentlemanly way, and it was not until she worked for him for four years that she learned he was gay. His relationships were few, however, and grew more infrequent as the years passed. Now there were no partners at all that she knew of, and she would know.

But this morning John had been unusually bitchy, indeed had actually barked at her when she came into the office on the second floor. He apologized immediately, but still his uncustomary sharpness had startled her, and only added to the sense of disquiet that her showdown with Abe Kipp had caused.

The woman who applied for the production assistant's job was like a breath of fresh air in contrast to Donna's previous confrontations of the morning. Perhaps it was because she was a woman, or perhaps her ebullient enthusiasm for theatre and, Donna thought, life in general was so evident. Whatever the reason, her presence was sufficiently disarming for Donna to stow her usual Cerberus-like attitude when it came to interviewing prospective employees. Even before she examined the woman's resume, Donna had decided that she would take her in to see John, the next step toward the ultimate goal of employment.

Fortunately the resume was adequate if not outstanding, and, after all, what was there for the production assistant to do? A lot of paperwork – filling out the multitudinous forms that Actors' Equity required for the performers and stage managers who were members, state and federal tax forms, form letters to everyone involved in the productions, and more. It wouldn't take a genius, just someone who had some clerical background and could work well with people, and this applicant seemed to fill the bill.

"You know," Donna said, "there's just one thing that puzzles me. You've done so much volunteer work, I'm curious as to why you suddenly want a fulltime job, especially one that pays just a little above the minimum wage."

The woman smiled and looked down at her lap, then up again. "The volunteer work alone isn't enough to fill my time anymore, and this theatre project seems like a worthwhile thing. The money really isn't a factor. It's not that I need it, so it really doesn't matter what I make. Actually, minimum wage would be fine. I'll probably contribute it anyway."

The statement, Donna thought, was sincere in its artlessness. She heard no pride or self-infatuation in it. "That's very generous of you."

The woman shrugged, making her honey-blonde hair bounce healthily. "It's not generosity, I just don't need it… you see," she finished rather lamely, a bit embarrassed, Donna supposed, by her wealth.

"Still…” Donna aligned the resume and references with a sharp rap on the desk top. "I don't see any reason why you couldn't handle the position. Frankly, I think you'd be excellent. So what I'll do now is introduce you to Mr. Steinberg, Mr. Hamilton's manager."