“Unless they’re Sulwhat’s?”

“Sulawesi. Go! And smile, you’re in show business! So . . .” As Veronica ran for the door, she sat back down and flipped a strand of fuchsia hair back off her face. “. . . Zev’s still in with Mr. Bane, which gives you time to tell me all about last night.”

Tony shrugged. “What’s to tell? I’m just not as used to this stuff as Daniel’s guys, so I panicked first.” Four years with Henry had taught him the most believable way to lie usually involved the truth. “You think it’s safe sending her for coffee? Isn’t that how you lost the last one?” Deflecting attention he’d always been good at.

“Trial by fire. If she can handle Starbucks at lunchtime, she can handle . . . CB Productions, can I help you? One moment please.” Jabbing at the hold button, she leaned across her desk and yelled, “Barb, line three!”

A faint, “Thanks, sweetie,” drifted out of the accounting office.

“Intercom busted again?”

“Still. Too bad it wasn’t Lee in the car. You could have given him mouth to mouth.”

“It was a car crash; he wasn’t drowning.”

Amy looked arch. “So?”

Before Tony could think of a suitable reply, the boss’ door opened and Zev emerged carrying a stack of CDs.

“Well?” Amy asked.

“He wants Wagner.”

“Under the stunt? Isn’t that a little . . . Wagnerian?”

Zev grinned. “Actually, yes.” Spotting Tony, he flushed and nodded toward the office. “CB says you can go right in.”

The static in Tony’s radio seemed to be making patterns that were almost words.

“Tony?”

He flicked at his ear jack and shot Zev half a reassuring smile as he started toward the open door. “It’s nothing.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“Oh, yeah.” No. Maybe.

To give CB credit, he’d spent no more cash on his office than he had on anyone else’s. The vertical blinds had come with the building, the rug that covered the industrial tile floor was the same cheap knockoff they used in Raymond Dark’s study, and the furniture had been jazzed up by the set builders to look less like Wal-Mart and more like Ethan Allan. The tropical fish tank and the three surviving fish had been used as a prop in episode two.

Not that it mattered because at six six and close to three hundred pounds, Chester Bane dominated any room he was in.

As Tony stepped onto the rug, he lifted his head slowly.

Like a lion at feeding time . . .

If lions had significantly receding hairlines and noses that had been broken more than once while playing pro football.

“Tony Foster?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lying flat on the desk, the huge hands covered a good portion of the available space. “You’re the set PA?”

“Yes.” Tony found himself staring at the manicured fingernails and had to force himself to look away. They’d met three or four times since he’d started working for Darkest Night—Tony couldn’t decide if CB really had forgotten him or was just trying to screw with his head. If the latter, it was working.