Chet Williamson - Reign

Or even, Robin considered, the lighter weight of a bitch.

"So what's the occasion?" Dennis asked John Steinberg. "The last time you took me to lunch was when the theatre sale was wrapped up."

Steinberg smiled. "Special times, Dennis. I only wish that this town had someplace a bit fancier than the Kirkland Inn. But it's the gesture that's important, I suppose, and not the quality – or lack of same – of the food." He took his wine glass, swirled the liquid, sniffed, and drank. " Craddock is now fully financed, Dennis. Completely backed. We have every cent we need."

A grin spread across Dennis's face. "That's wonderful, John. You've done a fabulous job."

Steinberg shrugged. "I do what I'm paid for."

"No, you do it because you love it."

"And I love it because I'm good at it. But whatever the reason, the company should be able to come in at the end of March as scheduled." He pursed his lips. "Now that the good news is over, I've got a question for you."

"Yes?"

"Supposing we hadn't been able to raise enough money. Would you have financed it?"

"No."

"You would have let the project die? Something you've been planning for years.”

“Yes."

"Do you mean that? We both know that three million dollars would put only a slight dent in your resources. If the show didn't make a cent, you could still afford to lose it."

"I won't do a vanity production. I've told you that. I won't have people saying that Dennis Hamilton is financing this show so that he can direct it. If we couldn't have raised the money from investors, I'd…”

"You'd have what? Sold the theatre? Forgotten about everything? Began your second retirement at forty-three?"

"Maybe."

"My ass you would've. But that same concern brings me to my next subject. The next show."

"Aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves?"

"I don't think so," Steinberg said. "We'll be staging Craddock beginning in May. Three months here, then opening in the city. If it succeeds, we'll have no problem getting backing. If it fails, not that I expect it to, but if it does, we may have problems. You won't consider using your own funds, I take it?"

"No. Not out of penuriousness, John, but out of -"

"I know, I know, sheer pride. Then may I suggest what I think would be a spectacular fund raiser? What if, for one night only, right here in the theatre where he had his birth, we resurrected the Emperor?"

Dennis was silent for a moment. "I don't understand."

"One final performance of A Private Empire. Twelve hundred seats, and each seat reserved for an investor of $5000."

"No, John." The reply was unequivocal.

"Dennis. That's six million dollars. We can stage one performance for less than seven figures. The second show would be instantly financed."

"I said no. I've given my last performance as the Emperor. How long do you expect me to keep beating a dead horse?"

"Dennis -"

"No, John. I'm surprised you'd even ask me that. I won't even consider it. That part of my life is over. The Emperor is dead." Dennis drained his wine glass. "He's dead."

~* ~

It's here, isn't it… yes, right where she left it, here in the top drawer of her desk.

Pretty thing. Look how it smiles at me. And look how its other face frowns. Comedy and tragedy, those two great extremes of life without which there is no drama.

No drama. Terrible thought. But there will be drama now, when the dear lady finds this pin where it should not be, oh yes, there will be such drama.

And I think it will be tragedy.

~* ~

The next morning, Robin found Ann Deems's pin in the Hamiltons' bedroom. She knew it was Ann's because she had seen her wearing it the previous day, had noticed it when Ann had come in in the morning. It was a small but striking piece, a representation of the masks of comedy and tragedy. Robin knew jewelry, having received fine items all the years she was with Dennis, and she could tell that the pin was expensive. What she would not have been able to tell was that, like her own pieces, this one had been a gift from Dennis as well.

Robin had been about to enter John Steinberg's office for a minor business matter when she heard Sid's voice from Ann's office and stopped.

"Very pretty pin."

"Thank you," Ann said. Robin thought she sounded uncomfortably self-conscious, and wondered why.

"I think I remember it."

"Do you?"

"Dennis gave it to you, didn't he? Way back when?"

"Way back when," she repeated, and Robin felt a chill in her heart. "Do you think it's smart to wear it now?" Sid asked.

"I… I don't know." Ann gave a little laugh. "I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Maybe you should. It might send a signal that shouldn't be sent."

"Sid, I -

"No, Ann, listen to me for a minute. Now I don't know how you feel about Dennis, but I love the man. Like a brother. That's why I've put up with him all these years. He's been… troubled lately, and I think you've been a part of it."

"Sid, nothing's happened between Dennis and me."

Lying little bitch!

"Good. I hope it stays that way."

Robin could listen to no more. She turned, and quickly and silently walked away.

And now here was that pin, the subject of that hated conversation, on the bedside table, nearly hidden beneath the clock radio. How had it gotten there? There were two possible explanations. The first was that Ann Deems had given it back to Dennis, a gesture intended to end whatever relationship still existed between the two of them. The second, and the one to which Robin subscribed, was more realistic, utterly vivid. She could both see and hear how it had happened:

God, God, how I love you.

Oh, hold me, hold me, Dennis.

Ow! What the hell…

My pin, just my pin. Here, let me take it off…

Yes, the pin first, and then the sweater, and then everything, and the two of them fucking like dogs on her bed…

Her bed, the bed she shared with Dennis, with her husband, God damn it!

Robin clutched the pin so tightly in her hand that it hurt her, and when she unclenched her fist, she saw the impressions of the two faces, a smile and a sneer, on the pale skin of her palms. And as those four faces, the two of gold, the two of flesh, looked up at her, the plot fell into place, and she knew that this pin had been given to her for a purpose, and that purpose was to end Ann Deems's life.

"I understand you'd like to see how the star ceiling works."

Ann Deems looked up from her desk and saw Robin standing in her doorway. She was surprised. The woman had not spoken to her for weeks, and Ann doubted if she ever would again. Yet here she stood, smiling, seemingly as friendly as anyone else in the Venetian Theatre. Ann smiled back and shrugged. "Yes, I would. Sometime."

"How about now?" Robin said.

Ann looked at her watch. There was only a quarter of an hour remaining in the lunch break. "Could we make it by one?"

"Sure. There's not a lot to see, really, but what there is is interesting."

Ann thought for a moment. There was no reason not to, since she was with the boss's wife if she was late getting back. Besides, Donna had never been a stickler for punctuality, and often returned late from lunch herself.

Another reason for going was that she didn't want to refuse Robin. She had been feeling guilty over her desire for Dennis, unfulfilled or not, and a chance to form even this tenuous bond of friendship with his wife was not something Ann wanted to let slip past her.

"All right," she said, and got up from her chair.

Got you, you bitch, thought Robin, slipping her hand into the pocket of her slacks. Yes, the pin was still there. Though Robin was an actress, she needed no false emotions to make her smile and chat cheerily with Ann Deems as they walked up the flights of stairs that led to the ceiling. Robin was happy for the first time in ages.