Free An Evil Guest by Gene Wolfe Page B

‘O’ for a real angel—Mr. Wallace Rosenquist!”
    The applause was loud and prolonged. Cassie took advantage of the cover it afforded her to open her purse and glance at two photographs she took from it. Nodding to herself, she crumpled them and let them fall to the floor.
    The man Gideon Chase had called Bill Reis took the mike from India, coughed once, and smiled. “First of all, I want to say that our show’s still in the planning stages, very much so. India and I hardly know each other at this point. We haven’t even started looking for a set designer and a choreographer.”
    From his left, India put in, “Tomorrow, Wally.”
    “I have the book, however, and some ideas about the music. Plans already made and plans I’m still shaping. What’s more, I have the money and the determination. This afternoon I found my director.”
    Raising her arms, India shook her own hands like a prizefighter.
    “I talked to her over lunch, and she was good enough to give me a ticket so I could watch a fine example of her work. I did, and want to say how much I enjoyed it. You are artists, and I mean that sincerely. There won’t be parts for everybody here in our new show, and I realize that some of you will already have commitments elsewhere. That will be our loss. We’ll be talking about commitments and contracts, roles and all the rest of it in the days to come. Right now, tonight, I just want to say that I wish I could have all of you.”
    There was a burst of spontaneous applause and some scattered cheering.
    “Having said that, there’s one member of your cast I’d like to pay particular tribute to. You’re well ahead of me now, I feel sure. I’m told Miss Cassie Casey is at this party.”
    Palma hissed, “Stand up, Cassie!”
    She did not.
    “I have a gift for her,” Rosenquist continued. “I want to give her this little keepsake, whether she will consent to be our leading lady or not.”
    India said, “Come on, Cassie! Who the hell ever heard of a shy actress?”
    Rising, Cassie handed her purse to Margaret, pushed back her chair, and came forward smiling. “You want a Dumb Dora, don’t you, Mr. Rosenquist? If that’s what it is, I’ll be perfect.”
    “Has anyone told you, Miss Casey, that you’re even more stunning in person than onstage?”
    She dropped him a mock curtsy. “Make that stunned.”
    Rosenquist was reaching into his coat pocket. “I had this designed and fabricated months ago. At that time, I didn’t know to whom I would give it. When I saw
The Red Spot
tonight, I knew I had found her.”
    The leather-covered box he handed Cassie was eight inches long, two and a half inches wide, and remarkably heavy.
    “I should have had it wrapped,” he told her, “but I’m afraid the ribbon will have to do.”
    “Open it,” India directed.
    Ebony seconded her from the audience:
“Show us, Cassie!”
    She slipped the gold ribbon off, and found that her hands were trembling. “I don’t think I can. I feel like I’ve just won something I don’t deserve.”
    “You deserve much more,” the man who had given it to her said.
    Bill Reis
, Cassie told herself.
Bill Reis said that
. India had given him another name, but she had forgotten it.
    Her fingers found and released the catch. Reis took a step backward and urged India forward.
    “Show me!” India sounded eager. “I want to see it.”
    From the table Cassie had left, Donny called, “What is it?”
    “It’s . . . a bracelet. A great big gold bracelet.” She pulled it from the box and dangled it above her head. “It’s—well—massive.”
    “Solid gold,” Reis told her. “Eighteen karat, which means it’s pretty soft. Be careful with the clasp.”
    “Put it on,” India said. “Here, hold out your arm. I’ll do it.”
    She did, adjusting the catch and wrapping the heavy bracelet around Cassie’s wrist. Cassie, who already hated it, said, “It’s very pretty.”
    “Lovely,” India muttered. “Simply lovely.”
    A large