Hot Ticket by Janice Weber Page B

her.”
    Peered into an airy room with paisley curtains, canopied bed, four television sets: Aurilla’s mission control. Passed a gym,
     again with four TVs, then a pair of guest rooms with less media presence but more canopied beds. I would not be able to sleep
     with all that lace hanging over my head. No sign of the girl so I climbed another round of stairs. “Gretchen?”
    Her room looked like FAO Schwarz after a cyclone. Maybe she had used the walls for batting practice. Gretchen sat on yet another
     canopied bed fit for a czarina. She appeared to be reading a book. “Get out of my room,” she said, not looking up.
    “Your mother said you wanted to play a few things for me.”
    “I don’t want to play anything. Go away.”
    Couldn’t do that so I waited as Gretchen nonchalantly turned a few pages. Then the phone next to her bed rang. “I’m sure it’s
     for you,” she said.
    “No one knows I’m here.”
    “
He
knows.”
    The phone stopped midring. Gretchen kept turning pages. After a few moments we heard footsteps on the stairs. “Miss Frost?”
     the maid called. “For you.”
    Gretchen suddenly lunged at the phone. “Don’t answer,” she whispered, clutching it to her chest. “He’ll take you away. Like
     Polly.”
    I tried to smile. “Who’s Polly?”
    “My friend.”
    “She came here to your house?”
    “Yes. She was prettier than you.”
    “Miss Frost?” the maid called anxiously.
    “Give me the phone,” I told Gretchen. “I’m not going anywhere.”
    “Yes you will! I know it!”
    “I’m counting to three then I’m picking up downstairs. One. Two.” Gretchen threw the phone at me and buried her face in the
     pillows. “Yes?” I snapped into the receiver.
    “Aurilla mentioned you’d be with her daughter today,” said Bobby Marvel. “How’s it going over there?”
    “Fine, thanks.”
    “I enjoyed our talk last night. You’re a fascinating woman.”
    “Could we pick this up some other time? I’ve got my hands full here.”
    “Wouldn’t you rather have your hands full of me?”
    Wasn’t this idiot supposed to be running the country? I hung up. “Did you hear that, Gretchen? I’m not going anywhere.” Her
     face peeped from the pillows as I sat at the foot of the bed. “Tell me about Polly.”
    “She helped with my science homework. I liked her a lot. She played in the backyard with me and Wallace and Herman.”
    Wallace was the gofer. “Who’s Herman?”
    “My friend.”
    I kept smiling. “How do you know Polly’s not coming back?”
    “Because Mom couldn’t find her anymore.”
    I sat miserably through an hour of Gypsy dances. No visitors and Gretchen refused to talk further about her friends Polly
     and Herman. When I returned to the hotel, a fresh bouquet of purple orchids waited on the dresser.
See you soon.
Bobby? Louis? My message light was blinking: Justine Cortot commanding me to call the White House at once and Bendix Kaar
     wondering if I were free that evening. Rather than disappoint either of them, I flew to New York. Too damn muggy down here.
    My accompanist blew backstage at Carnegie Hall about four minutes before show time. “Traffic was unbelievable,” Duncan cried,
     heaving his garment bag over the dressing table. He began stripping. “Grab my shirt, would you?”
    I stared a moment at his pink string bikini. In ten years I had never seen Duncan in anything but voluminous boxer shorts.
     Fingernails had recently raked three delicate, parallel lines between his nipples. “Wildcat attack?” I asked, handing over
     his pants.
    “Where the hell are my cuff links?”
    A knock: Justine, tousled and radiant, with Duncan’s patent-leather shoes. “You left these under the bed,” she chided.
    “Oh my God! Thanks, doll!”
    “And take this for your nerves.” She tucked a few pills into his palm.
    Duncan had told her about his stage fright? That was one of his deep, dark secrets, buried far back in the closet along with
     fantasies of