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one o’clock interview that had begun at four o’clock.
    “Actually, Phyllis was impressed that you’d taken the initiative to come out to the club. She said it showed dedication.”
    “So what am I going to be doing out there?”
    “Oh, I’m sure Phyllis will want to dictate letters, go over stuff. It’s just that opening night we’re getting everything set up. I’ll bet you’ll have plenty to do the rest of the time. By the way, take the cab fare out of petty cash,” Karen said.
    “I can’t do that. It wasn’t Phyllis’s fault that I wasn’t downstairs.”
    “Well, it wasn’t yours, either. Don’t pay for that out of your own pocket. That’s part of miscellaneous expenses.” I argued halfheartedly, but then acquiesced.
    “Hey,” I said, wanting to change the subject, “I was really impressed with Warde’s act. He’s a terrific singer. Why isn’t he better known?”
    “You’ll see.” Karen refused to say more.
    Two nights later, we were in the suite, Phyllis half-dressed and going over the next day’s schedule, when her head shot up.
    “He’s doing it!” she barked, staring at the speaker. “Karen, quick!”
    Karen was ahead of her, holding out the costume for Phyllis to step into. The dog collar came next, then they were out the door, Phyllis pulling on her gloves as she pounded down the stairs with Karen close behind, grasping the cigarette holder.
    I had been taken totally off guard. Warde had been onstage only a few minutes.
    “What’s happening?” I whispered to Karen when I caught up.
    “That’s his closing number,” she said and nodded toward the stage.
    “How come?”
    She shrugged. Then Warde came offstage, heading for the stairs, and the stage manager introduced Phyllis. As soon as Phyllis took the stage, Karen grabbed me and headed outside.
    “We don’t want to be around for the fireworks,” she said. We went to the coffee shop and ordered dinner.
    “Why did he stop in the middle of his act?” I asked as soon as we were seated.
    Karen shook her head. “Phyllis calls it ‘attitude.’ He acts as though these people are a bunch of yokels, and it comes across.”
    I remembered his sneer and condescending attitude the first day I met him.
    “He doesn’t like them, and they don’t like him,” Karen added. “A couple of times he’s actually been booed off the stage.”
    Our dinners came. Karen dug into her spaghetti, but I’d lost my appetite and simply toyed with my food. This isn’t good. Not good at all.
    We prudently waited until after Warde had gone onstage for the second show before returning to the suite. Phyllis was in a towering rage. She sat at the dressing table, picking up makeup bottles and slamming them down so hard I thought they might break. She got up and paced the room. “That’s it!” she snapped. She paused midpace and turned to look at me. I cringed as anger radiated from her. “That’s the last time he does this to me. He’s never going to work with me again. I’ve told him and told him.” She drew her mouth into a thin line. I wondered if she might hurl one of those bottles across the room, but I realized she had a tight rein on her emotions.
     “Do you know how hard it is to follow something like that?” she said and continued to glare at me. I gulped and shook my head.
    “Do you know what that does to an audience?” she persisted.
    Rhetorical question, I told myself, and kept my mouth shut.
     “By the time I get out there, they are so hostile that I have to work twice as hard. I might as well throw away the first half of my act—it takes that long to bring them around. The opening act is supposed to warm up the audience!”
    She resumed pacing. “By the time I get out there, those people should be relaxed and in a good mood. That’s what they paid for!”
    She stopped and sat down. Her shoulders sagged. There was near total silence in the dressing room for several minutes. I could still hear Warde over the speakers, but