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“No.”
So much for conversation.
At precisely eleven o'clock, Ranger arrived, walked straight to Brenda's door, and knocked.
Nancy opened the door a crack and looked out at Ranger.
“The car is here,” Ranger said.
Nancy grimaced. “She can't get her eyelashes on.”
“And?”
“She can't do television without eyelashes.”
Ranger looked over at me. “You want to step in here and translate?”
“False eyelashes,” I told him. “Doesn't the station have someone doing makeup?” I asked Nancy.
“No. Budget cuts. We have hair and makeup coming in from New York for the concert, but there was a scheduling screwup and they won't arrive in time for this television show.”
“Good grief,” I said. “This isn't rocket science.” I pushed past Nancy and found Brenda in the bathroom, fiddling with her hair. She was wearing a white stretch wraparound shirt that tied in the front and showed a lot of cleavage and a lot of skin between the bottom of the shirt and the top of her jeans.
She had her hair in two ponytails. She looked like Daisy Duke.
I looked at the mess of makeup spread out on the bathroom counter. She had individual lashes, which would take an hour to get on, and she had strip lashes, which any idiot could glue to her lids in ten seconds.
“I can do this,” I told her. “We'll go with the strip lashes. You don't have time for the individuals.”
“Are you a professional?” she asked.
“Even better. I'm from the Burg. I was putting lashes on my Barbie doll when I was seven. Close your eyes.”
I glued the lashes to her eyes and swiped on liquid eyeliner. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes late. Could be worse.
We maneuvered Brenda through the lobby to a side exit, where three black Rangeman SUVs idled. Ranger, Nancy, Brenda, and I got into the middle car, and we all cruised off into traffic.
I was in the backseat, and I was thinking I should be sort of excited to be part of Brendas entourage. After all, she was a star. And she was going to be on television. And I was going to be a backstage insider for the concert.
That's a big deal, right? Problem was, she didn't look like a star up close.
She looked like she sold real estate to people with more money than brains.
It was a
short ride to the station. We signed in at the front desk and followed an intern through a maze of shabby corridors to the green room, which turned out to be painted tan. Some pastries and fruit and coffee had been set out. There were some dog-eared magazines on a side table. The upholstered couch and chairs were leather and slightly shabby. The carpet was the color of dirt.
We all took a seat and watched the television set that was tuned to the station. This was midday news and the anchors and guests were wearing conservative suits. Brenda looked like she was ready to get raffled off at a hoedown.
“How do I look?” Brenda asked Nancy. “Do I look okay? Is my hair okay?” She reached in and rearranged her breasts. “Are the girls okay?”
“Remember to plug the concert tonight,” Nancy said. “We need to sell tickets.”
The producer popped in with the soundman, and they hooked a mic to Brenda and led her away.
“I don't have to do this,” Nancy said. “I could get lots of good jobs. I could sell shoes at Macy's, or I could clean kennel cages.”
Ranger was on his cell phone, conducting business. His eyes were on me, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Nancy and I, smelling disaster, nervously scarfed down doughnuts.
