The deep chords of a pipe organ filled the arena, conveying menace. The sound almost drowned out Fontaine’s words. She stepped carefully along the narrow metal plank. Goddamn high heels.

“I don’t have it,” she said.

He jumped to the end of her plank, causing it to wobble and wheel. They both braced themselves as if they were surfing.

“You do,” he said. “And we have your friend.”

She suddenly realized he was right; she did have the real papers—not the forgeries Charlie had delivered earlier that evening. They were rolled up into a tube and crammed at the bottom of the purse she still had over her shoulder, though she wished she had remembered to ditch it along the way. She could just give him the papers, she thought, but then she’d have no leverage.

“Is this all worth it?” she asked, jumping to a lighting rig that swung back and forth like a carnival ride. “To cover up your sleazy sex club with little girls?”

“You’re an idiot,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, continuing toward her like a cat.

The door above them opened again. From her new vantage point she could see the same man whose name had been recorded earlier as requiring a seat-filler, the United Artists executive Les Wolff.

“Cut the shit,” Wolff hissed.

One slip and she or Fontaine or both of them could crash to the stage while tens of millions watched on television.

“You can chalk it up to hap-pen-stance!” Sinatra sang, the choreographed section over. Even in this state of hyper-attention to her balance and her goddamn high heels and the movement of the lighting rig, Margaret couldn’t help listening, and she glanced down at the stage. He was really cooking now, impassioned and selling it with his whole heart.

You convince yourself and you’re entranced

And the devil may dance

The devil may dance

What does Satan have on you now?

What have you done that fills with remorse?

A corruption, an evil, you cannot disavow

And you’re fearing no clearing, so it’s jail or divorce

The realization hit her like a punch. “You’re not just running a kiddie-sex ring, you’re running a blackmail ring,” she said to Wolff.

He didn’t respond.

“You film everything!” she said. “And Chris Powell found out. Maybe through the church.” She was deducing it all on the spot, but for the first time the randomness made sense.

“What a diabolical scenario,” Wolff said. It was dark, but Margaret could discern a smirk.

“It’s brilliant,” Margaret said. “A bunch of predators—why not victimize them? They deserve it. And they won’t complain about it!”

Wolff chuckled. “You’ve seen too many movies where the bad guy confesses everything before he kills the pretty girl,” he said. “You’re not Ingrid Bergman, and I’m not Charles Boyer. We just want the papers.”