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I watched them collect their beer, and then follow Reitman off to a side door. When they were gone, I looked at the stage. There was really nothing to it, except for a backdrop of a nighttime cityscape. Hanging from the top of that was a bright and spangly sign about eight feet tall that said, RENNY. In front of that, close to the edge of the stage, was a stool with a bottle of water on it, and a wireless microphone on a stand. No glitz, no gimmicks; it was all up to Renny.
I looked at my watch; miraculously, it had not been torn off my arm or smashed to pieces by the crowd, and it was even still working. The time was seven twenty-eight; I was supposed to meet Rita in the lobby at seven thirty, so I sauntered back up the aisle and into the lobby.
Based on Rita’s past performance, I was quite sure I would have to wait for fifteen or twenty minutes; she lived on Cuban Time, even though she was a blond Anglo. She had never been less than twenty minutes late for anything in all the time I had known her.
But I had reckoned without her girlish obsession with all things Hollywood, and as I moseyed into the lobby, I stopped dead, stunned at the sight that met me. It was Rita, already there and pacing nervously as she waited for me. S
he reached the far end of the lobby and turned, and the filmy almost-negligee she wore swirled around her. Even at this distance I could see the worry lines on her face, and she was nervously rubbing the back of her left hand with her right. Then she saw me; her face lit up and she practically sprinted across the floor.
“Dexter, my God,” she said. “I think I just saw Andy Garcia? And they said the mayor— Is that your shirt?” She put the palm of her hand on my guayabera and stroked it, as if she could turn it into something more acceptable. “Oh, Dexter, there’s a hole in it right on the front—is that really what you’re wearing?” She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and looked worried.
I bit down on the impulse to tell her that no, it wasn’t my shirt; it belonged to Andy Garcia, and I was just about to change clothes with him, right here in the lobby. “It’s perfectly all right,” I said. “This isn’t a formal ball—it’s a comedy show.”
“Yes, I know, but really, it’s a hole,” she said. “And another on the back—and what’s this on your sleeve?” With a frown, she rubbed at something, and I realized it was the lipstick from Jackie’s kiss that I had wiped on the sleeve.
“Oh, it’s just, you know,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. “Somebody in the crowd or something.”
Rita shook her head and, happily for me, didn’t seem to hear how feeble my answer was. “The whole shirt is— You’re a mess, Dexter—and it doesn’t even go at all with what I— I mean, now I look like some kind of— How much time is there until— If I really … I could change into—”
“You look fine,” I said, although in truth, when I compared her ensemble to what Jackie was wearing, she was brutally overdressed.
Rita ran both hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there. “Yes, well, fine,” she said, and she shook her head dubiously. “I mean that’s— You should have told me that this was— What is everybody else wearing?”
I know a great deal about many things, but I will cheerfully admit that couture is not one of them, and I did not think the lobby of the Gusman was the place to learn. So I mustered my most commanding attitude and put a hand on her arm and pulled gently. “Let’s go inside,” I said. “You can see for yourself.”
Rita dug both feet into the carpet and did not budge, and a look of alarm spread across her face. “Everybody? My God, I don’t think I can—”
I tugged a little harder. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll introduce you to Robert Chase.”
If I had thought Astor overreacted to Robert, it was only because I hadn’t seen her mother’s response yet. Rita turned bright red, and she began to tremble, and for the first time ever, she had trouble getting out even one word. “Ro, Ro, I real,” she stammered. “Is— You—Rob … Robert Chase is here? And you …?”
I watched her performance with annoyance. In all the time I had known Robert, he had revealed nothing to indicate he deserved to be shown even the mildest kind of respect—and here was Rita falling into a weak-kneed reverent trance at the mere thought of being in his presence. And I was pretty sure I had told her Robert would be here, so there was really no excuse at all for her collapsing into a drooling coma that threatened to ruin the Gusman’s carpet. Would she be less nervous if I told her Robert was gay?
On the plus side, in her weakened state she was in no condition to resist; I tugged once more on her arm, and she stumbled forward. “Come,” I said. “Miracles await within.” And I led her through the lobby and inside the theater.
I had been given a pair of seats only two rows back from the stage, in the center section and on the aisle. Whether it had been the network’s idea or Captain Matthews’s, I was supposed to be seated right next to Robert. I suppose it had been set up that way so the cameras would find the stars sitting happily next to Real Police People. Whatever the reason, it made introducing Rita to Robert almost unavoidable, but as we came down the aisle toward the stage, Robert was nowhere in sight. But as we approached our row, he came out of the door where Jackie and Debs had disappeared, and strode toward us, smiling and waving at the crowd.
It had been my naive thought to perform a simple intro as we slid into our seats, and then get on with life. But once again, I had reckoned without the abject reverence of Rita’s Robert worship. The moment she saw him she stopped dead, went pale, and started to tremble again. “Oh, no,” she said, which seemed an odd thing to say if she really wanted to meet him. “Oh, my God, it’s him, it’s him.…” She started to bounce up and down on the balls of her feet as she said, “Oh, my God, oh, God, oh, God!” and similar evocations of a deity that, as far as I could tell from brief acquaintance, had absolutely nothing to do with Robert.
Around me in the theater I could see heads turning toward us, some amused and some curious. It is true that I had liked the reflected attention of the crowd as they adored Jackie, but this was very different; I smelled amusement, condescension, even scorn in the many looks that came our way, and this I did not like. I pushed Rita forward once more and she went, with short and jerky steps. I finally got her to our seats, although she refused to sit. Instead, she just stood there jiggling and staring at Robert, until I realized that if I didn’t do something we would be standing in the aisle all night.
So I stepped into the aisle and waved to him, and he came at us, smiling. “Robert,” I said. “This is my wife, Rita.”
Robert held out a hand. “Hey, terrific!” he said. “Really great to meet you!” Rita just stood there with her face frozen into a numb and staring mask. I hoped she wouldn’t actually drool.
After an awkward pause, Robert reached over and took her hand. “Wow, I can see where Astor gets her looks,” he said, shaking Rita’s limp hand. “Terrific kids you’ve got, Rita.”
Rita spoke at last. “Oh, I ahaha,” she said. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe— I am such a big fan of— Oh, God, it’s really you!”
“Well, I think it is,” Robert said with an easy grin. He tried to drop her hand—but now, even though she hadn’t been able to reach forward to shake hands with him, Rita clamped onto Robert’s hand in a desperate, sweaty death grip. “Um,” he said, and he looked at me.
“Rita,” I said, “I think Robert would like his hand back.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, and she flung his hand away and jumped back, landing firmly on my toes. “I’m so sorry, so sorry; I just—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Robert said. “Great to meet you, Rita.” And he smiled at her and then pushed past us and sank gratefully into his seat.
Rita stared for a moment longer, in spite of the way I prodded her in the back, and I finally said, “Shall we sit down now?”
