Beate called hello from the bottom of the steps, hidden beneath an oversize umbrella.
Andreas turned towards her voice and asked, “Here for the emergency?”
“No, I’m here forFernando’s One-Man, One-Monologue Stage Spectacular. Rather,weare.”
The umbrella lifted, revealing…Harry?
Oi. Fucking. Da.
Sterling’s jaw dropped. So did Andreas’s.
Beate kissed Harry’s forehead, scarred from her altercation atthe Orient. Harry tossed the umbrella aside, then swept Beate into a passionate kiss. So much tongue.
“Get a room. But please, anywhere besides the Orient,” said Sterling, grimacing.
“Don’t be such a prude,” said Andreas, smirking.
“Oida. Don’t you people have better things to think about than sex?” she said, hiding her smile beneath an indignant stare.
He snorted. Beate broke free from Harry, smoothed her outfit, and eyed Andreas. Sterling attempted to interpret the silent conversation between them.
Beate shrugged as if in explanation. Andreas surveyed Harry from head to toe, then gave a frowning nod of tentative approval. Beate’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. His eyebrows raised with a question Sterling interpreted asSo, does this mean you’re a lesbian?Beate wiggled her head from side to side as if to say,Maybe? I’m not sure yet.
Damn. Beate had found her way out of Narnia. Fernando would love this.
Sterling cleared her throat with anahemworthy of a Catholic schoolteacher and directed them inside.
Andreas was captivated by a schadenfreude-inducing poster from a low-budget, off-brand, Bavarian-German production ofCats,calledKatze. The lead actor was tall with a chiseled jaw, his long black hair gelled into bizarre attempts at cat ears. Despite the layers of shoddy pancake makeup, Sterling recognized him, but couldn’t tell where from. Actually, all three cats onstage were familiar.
Thunder roared outside. The theater was humid but at least it provided refuge from the storm.
As if on command, water dripped from the ceiling and into a bucket beside her. Which felt like their cue. Sterling ordered everyoneinto their seats. Rita lingered, staring at a poster, lost in thought. During the day, she got confused. Especially outside the Orient.
Sterling caressed her arm. “You okay? You want to go back to the Hotel?”
“I’m good, I’m good,” said Rita.
Sterling cocked her head towards the poster. “Do you remember the show?”
“An elephant never forgets. Let’s get in there.”
And never forgives either.
Inside, Christoph sat on a spotlit folding chair placed stage left, clipboard in hand. Sterling sat in the front row beside Andreas, who read an old playbill by the light of his cell phone. She batted his arm with the bouquet. “Put your phone away. This is a prestigious theater.”
“No, it’s a perilous safety hazard. But look, one of your guests used to be an actor here.”
She turned away, nose in the air. Orient policy meant she could neither confirm nor deny. “You must be mistaken.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” he said, tucking the paper into his pocket.
She realized that if Andreas recognized the guest, it must have been one of the suspects. What a small, strange, slutty world Vienna was.
Christoph motioned to the control booth to dim the house lights. The theater went completely black. Christoph shouted, “Too much.”
The spotlight returned. Fernando stepped into it and was met with uproarious applause, which Christoph silenced with an icy glare.
“My name’s Fernando Figueroa, and I’m auditioning for the role of Inspector Booker. Originally, I’d prepared the act-two monologue, but I’ve made a last-minute change,” he said.
