At the appointed hour, Gary introduced Alicia Carroll and the celebrated Mr. Q in a small private dining room on the main floor, concealing his merriment with difficulty. Qwilleran had handed him a slip of paper:
“Call me Lish,” she said in a throaty, husky voice that suggested too much smoking. She had a no-nonsense haircut and no-color pantsuit and a serious but relaxed manner. Her face was basically handsome—with a high brow, high cheekbones, and a firm jaw—but in need of a little makeup.
He opened the tape recorder and handed her a cue sheet. “I sit at a table with a fake mike and the audience hears my newscast live. To introduce other voices and sound effects, you press a button on cue, and the audience hears them over the loudspeaker. It’s simple enough, but it requires exquisite timing on your part—to convince the audience that it’s real.”
She nodded. “Shall we give it a try?”
“You understand,” he said, “that this is the show we did last year. There’ll be a new script and cue sheet in a few days.”
Calmly and precisely Lish pressed the right buttons at exactly the right time, then asked, “Is that all there is to it?”
What could he say? He ignored her question and went on. “There’ll be eight shows: the first one on the night of July fourth, the others on alternate Saturday nights in July and August, requiring absolute regularity on your part. This is showbiz,” he added lightly.
“No problem,” Lish said. “What does it pay?”
Fortunately he had been warned that she was a mercenary type. He said, “The entire two-month spectacle is produced with hundreds of unpaid volunteers, but if you feel you must have remuneration, notify Gary Pratt.”
He spoke in a cool, businesslike voice. “If you’re interested in a research assignment, I could suggest one that pays the usual hourly rate.”
“What is the assignment?” she asked in a detached manner.
“Nothing of vital importance,” he replied. “Next time you’re in Milwaukee, you might find out whether there is anyone there by the name of Mountclemens or by the name of Bonifield. Also, you might check the catteries listed in the phone book, if anyone specializes in breeding Siamese.”
“I could do that. When would you need the information?”
Qwilleran recognized a glint in her eyes, and he chuckled to think, This is a gamble, but . . . no harm in trying. “It’s like this,” and he explained his curiosity about Kao K’o Kung’s antecedents—just enough to capture her interest.
After that, he went home and waited for Gary’s phone call.
“How d’you like that greedy little monster? Everyone knows her parents left her a big trust, and she’ll inherit from her grandmother!”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her we have two hundred volunteers working on this celebration for nothing, but we’d be glad to take up a collection from the audience at each performance—to benefit Mr. Qwilleran’s assistant. She backed down. But we’d better have an understudy on hand. She could get her revenge by being a no-show.”
“Got any ideas, Gary?”
“Tell you what, my wife could handle the job, although she has her hands full with running the marina and organizing the parade of boats. Have you met her, Qwill? Maxine’s as smart as they come!”
“Then what’s she doing married to you, Gary?” Qwilleran quipped, and the conversation ended in an outburst of friendly jibes.
Qwilleran began work on the script for “The Great Storm.” There would have to be a few introductory words of welcome to the audience. Previously, Qwilleran’s assistant had done the honors, but both Hixie Rice and Nancy Fincher had been personable young women with pleasing voices. Alicia’s classic features were not made for smiling, and her throaty voice, when projected to fill the banquet room, might sound like a croak. In an emergency, Gary himself might extend the welcome, although his high-pitched voice and bearish hulk would surely produce titters in the audience. And Qwilleran still preferred a woman—a young woman.
Then he thought of Gary’s wife. He had said she was sharp, but was she personable? What kind of woman, Qwilleran had often wondered, would marry the eccentric, hairy hotelier—no matter how amiable his personality? The matter would bear investigation.
Meanwhile, he went to work on the script, starting with the welcome to the audience:
Welcome to “The Great Storm of 1913,” an original drama written and performed by Jim Qwilleran, based on historical research by Thornton Haggis. You will have to imagine that home radios actually existed in 1913, as you listen to a broadcast covering the worst storm of the century—sinking ships and destroying communities along the shore. The scene is the newsroom of station WPKX in the tower of the county courthouse.
(Room lights black out)
