Free Whiskey Tango Foxtrot by David Shafer Page A

on that woman’s show today.”
    “Yes, sir. Margo. Backstage now, actually.”
    “I told you, Mark. Don’t call me sir. I feel that we’ve become much closer than that.” Straw had said this a couple of times, but he had not yet said what form-of-address level they had reached.
    “Indeed we have…Mr. Straw. Indeed we have.”
    The dead air that followed was weird. Straw usually let you know quickly what it was he wanted. After a moment, Mark had to prompt him. “What did you want to speak about, Mr. Straw?”
    “Calm down, boy,” said Straw cheerily. “I’m calling you to wish you good luck. Big day for you, I know. I want to help you get that laserlike clarity that you’ve given me so many times. Even I get some nerves before a board meeting, or with that nasty business with Congress last year. You taught me a way through all that.
    “Now, I’ve heard that this Margo lady can be tough. One minute she’s saying, That’s so sad, that’s so interesting, and then, wham, she’s caught you in some lie.” Mark hadn’t even been considering that. “Well, I want you to know that I know you can shine on her show. And just to be safe, I’ve made it very clear to Margo’s organization that everyone at SineCo—and I, personally—have every faith in you and your work.”
    “Well, thank you, Mr. Straw. That, um, that means a lot to me.”
    Someone knocked at the door. “Mr. Deveraux. Two minutes.”
    “They’re calling me now. I should go.”
    “Of course. Of course. Listen, Mark?”
    “Yes?”
    “I probably don’t have to point out that today would be an excellent opportunity to engage in some of the cross-integration that we spoke of. That you agreed to.”
    It was a moment before Mark understood. “Yes, of course. I’m excited about that part.” Shit. What exactly had he agreed to?
    “Excellent. Excellent. Well. Look it in the eye, Mark. Look it in the eye!” This was one of the maxims in Mark’s philosophy: Whatever you want, you should look it in the eye.
      
    There were clipboards and headphones all around him as Mark was shepherded from Makeup to the little on-deck circle backstage. He heard Margo say his name and imagined his mother’s thrill and pride at hearing it also. The chief clipboard told him to go, and he went. Into the spotless pretend living room of the stage; into the one-way gaze of ten million people.
    He gave Margo’s hand a squeeze, did the wave-into-the-lights thing, seated himself in the guest chair with slightly exaggerated settling-himself motions, and—this was the easy part—nodded bashful confirmation while Margo told the story of the sudden, stunning success of his book.
    The way Margo made it sound, Mark might have found the cure to a terrible disease or brought clean water to Africa. She said he had changed millions of lives. Then she mentioned, as if it had just occurred to her, that she was an early promoter of Bringing the Inside Out .
    “I’m not sure that had anything to do with its success,” Mark said, interrupting her, and he smiled, mid-sip, over the rim of the mug of fair-trade green tea that had been awaiting him on the little celebrity side table. Margo seemed caught short. Was he really saying this? Who would think it wise to cross her?
    Then he winked at her. Mark had an excellent wink. There should be no cranial scrunch in a wink, no lip work. Too slow, and it’s silly; too fast, and it’s a tic. (Mark also had a great whistle; it could summon taxis from across the avenue.) Camera two caught Mark’s wink perfectly, and camera one recorded something like a blush rise on Margo’s face.
    “Okay, you’re joking, I guess,” she said.
    “Yes, Margo, I’m joking. You pretty much made me.”
    “Oh, I think your work made you, Mark. Wouldn’t you say so?”
    “I have and do and will. But who would believe us if we pretended that I’ve earned all this?” He put down his tea and made a gentle gesture at the lights and cameras.
    “Well, as