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I dressed for the party in another gown purchased by Eric. It was blue with white touches, reminiscent of my Temporary Superheroine uniform. Cut down to there and up to here, it showed a large amount of flesh, but decently enough for an evening party, and I could move fast in its short skirt if required. I ditched the tiny jeweled designer evening purse he’d bought me—spider-shaped, the cost of which was five times that of the dress, making it quite the status symbol—and instead snagged my more capacious black silk bag with the shoulder strap. Still appropriate for this kind of party, but something I could fill with supplies, including the very illegal cherry bomb from Damien.
Eric had left me a ticket to the party on the hall table. Out on the street, sound trucks went by, with enormous posters advertising the comicon and various superheroes. Despite being two blocks from the convention center, the streets were thronged with attendees wearing their distinctive red badge holders and hauling their enormous tote bags filled with swag.
A couple of Jedi Knights strolled by in full costume, followed by several women in pink suits and pillbox hats, aping Jackie Kennedy circa 1962. I had a pillbox hat at home myself that I’d once put to good use.
People were moving in every direction, some back toward the convention center and its evening programming, others away, to eat or whatever. All the hotels on the block were seething with people coming in and out constantly, many of them in costumes.
It was nearly 10 p.m., time for the party. I wended my way through the crowds of t-shirted fans and hailed a cab. In the distance from the hotel to the Walker Mansion, the crowds of obvious convention goers thinned. Upper Michigan Avenue was jammed, but with the usual tourists doing late night shopping. The center of the comics universe, only half a mile away, might as well have been in another galaxy for all these crowds cared. No, wait, there were some people in costume on the island in the middle of Michigan Avenue.
Three people, one dressed as a space adventurer, one as a furry animal, and the third as a slave girl, posed in the center of traffic, as bright television lights caught them.
Professionals, or amateurs? The geeky goodness of comicons included people who spent countless hours replicating complex movie costumes. Or they could be hired actors here to remind Michigan Avenue shoppers that a big media event was happening only a few blocks south.
At the Walker Mansion hotel, I was shown outside to the garden. The whole area had been turned into a fairyland of tiny white or gold LED lights in the trees, more outlining the pool, and more following the lines of the architectural features of the antique garden. These included a gazebo, a long pergola walk, and a fountain. The LEDs gave off a surprising amount of light, plus gas braziers had been placed around the garden strategically, providing light and ready to provide heat if the evening cooled off. The gold LEDs turned everything a strange color, as if we were in a sepia tint.
True to the exclusive nature of this party’s invitation list, most of the attendees were television actors and others allied to the field, all here to push their current gigs or pick up new ones, as Ashley Friedlander had said last night. This was a different group, though. Some washed-up actors, people who’d had minor roles in James Bond movies, or who had worn red shirts in Star Trek episodes were also in attendance. They could hardly be said to be industry movers and shakers. Perhaps Jeff Kane had a soft spot for them. I didn’t see many oldsters from the comic book business, though. His soft spot didn’t extend to the very people who had made CP Comics what it was today. No sign of Jean Westover, for instance.
I identified only a handful of comic book writers and artists. Everybody else was a media type, easy enough to distinguish from their buff bodies, regular features, and poised appearance.
Extremely attractive, heavily made-up girls my age roamed the party serving canapés or delivering drinks while dressed provocatively in gold-and-diamond bustiers, tiny mini shorts, and gold stockings with sky-high, “eff-me” heels. A few handsome young men were similarly attired, although without the bustiers and the heels. They carried trays of drinks and sashayed around the guests as if they were on a mission to please, which of course they were. The waitstaff was composed of out-of-work actors hoping for their big break at this party where so many people were movie industry movers and shakers. Hadn’t I gotten my big break after a minute’s chat with Jason? The servers hoped they’d make important contacts tonight, or even hit the jackpot and be hired on the spot for an upcoming television show or a movie. It could happen.
The effort to emphasize the seventy-fifth anniversary of CP Comics made for shiny diamond-and-gold decorations and diamond-and-gold-costumed servers, but most people were here for the media opportunities. A few elderly men in suits were also present, some with equally elderly wives. These appeared to be the tame artists whom CP Comics paid to be their spokesmen, who typically did the rounds of the media events whenever a new CP superhero movie premiered. They weren’t the A-list guests, of course. Those were the actors. I stood next to one briefly whose hefty build and gym-produced muscles were impressive. He held a drink and was dressed casually. He moved slowly instead of flashing by me.
I wandered the party, looking for people who didn’t have happy expressions on their faces, whose body language was out of sync, or who weren’t actively partying. The large garden made it possible for people to roam on their own, as paths forked and split again and again. No doubt it would be charming in the daylight and romantic at night—if the guests could be trusted. Not tonight, when trouble was likely.
Howard Hogarth was here. How had he even obtained an invitation? He was the kind of anomaly I was on the alert for. At present, all he was doing was listening intently to a conversation taking place a few feet from him, between two high-powered actors best known for their roles in Star Wars movies. He still had that shabby Army messenger bag hanging from one shoulder.
A quartet of classical musicians played chamber music softly in the background, so the guests could hear themselves as they held their important business conversations and did their deals. It was a pleasant change from the ceaseless noise of the convention center. Some people stood to eat, and others sat at the small tables casually set among the trees. I chose not to sit, wanting to be near to wherever the action might be. I was close by when Eric walked in with Leslie on his arm. Kane did a double-take. As he greeted Eric and Leslie, dawning comprehension came over Kane’s face. Then he wiped it clean, and put on a mask of host bonhomie. Leslie looked a little troubled, but Eric was cool. They proceeded toward the buffet, as I shrank back into the half-light of the trees at the edge of the green.
Ten minutes later, Jeff Kane got on a microphone and called for attention. He gave a short speech welcoming us, then segued to saying how grateful CP Comics was to be here after seventy-five years and the comic book industry’s many ups and downs. He didn’t mention the lawsuits pending from frustrated creators. He made it seem as if the CP Comics empire had sprung straight from the ideas of the executives who ran the company. Although he was dressed in expensive casual clothing, not one word from his mouth would have been amiss in an executive boardroom. Smooth.
“We have some special entertainment for you tonight. First, Renée Fleming, the renowned opera soprano and creative director of Chicago’s Lyric Opera, will sing for you. No, not the National Anthem, as she did recently. Renée Fleming in the ‘Song to the Moon’ from the opera Russalka.”
Polite applause when a middle-aged lady, glamorous in a sea green chiffon concoction and a tourmaline necklace to match, emerged from the house and took a bow. She signaled the musicians, and began to sing in a clear high voice. Most people stopped talking to listen. When she finished, she received heartfelt applause.
“Next,” said Kane, “a scene from our classic movie, Space Hijackers, played by an alternate cast just for this event. We never had audition tapes, so here they are auditioning live, a few years later. Welcome former Second City players, now Tony Award winners, Tim Selden and Helen Mayes.”
The noise level went up dramatically. Everyone knew that Selden and Mayes had been the movie company’s original picks for the wildly successful “Oklahoma Smith” series. Conflicting contractual situations had nixed both popular actors from doing the movie. Now we’d see how they would have inhabited the roles.
Dashing leading man type Tim Selden played Smith as open and caring about the woman, but obsessed with finding the treasure. Helen Mayes was both less nagging in this version and more beautiful. Despite lack of costumes and scenery, they heated up their impromptu stage. A very different take on a familiar movie.
After enthusiastic applause, Kane announced another act. Two jugglers took the stage area, and proceeded to play with plates, a watermelon, a chainsaw, and more.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeff Kane go up to Eric, angry intent in his stance. Whatever Eric said, it made Kane angrier. His hands tightened into fists, and he started to raise his right hand. For a moment, it looked as if Jeff was about to throw a punch at Eric. That must have pleased Eric mightily. Eric towered over Kane, though.
Leslie backed away from the two men and cast a desperate gaze around, as if looking for help. Kane dropped his hand. He didn’t have the same feistiness as Norman Krigstein, it seemed. Or he had more self-control. Eric turned and walked toward Leslie, as if he was done talking. Jeff stared after them, an angry look on his face. Leslie seemed to be remonstrating with Eric, but Eric, of course, acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Having scored off his rival, perhaps Eric felt quite happy for a moment.
After the jugglers finished, Jeff resumed his emcee role. “And now, for the official celebration of seventy-five years of City Periodicals Comics!”
Champagne flutes were handed to all the guests while an enormous cake was wheeled out on a cart. The sky-high confection had multiple layers glittering with diamond-and-gold-sprayed frosting. The top layer had action figures of all the CP major superhero characters, also sprayed gold and glittering with a diamond effect. You’d have thought this was the Oscars, or something.
“Here’s to another seventy-five years!” Kane said. Pops over the speaker system simulated fireworks. From somewhere in the trees, golden streamers were launched and fell onto the partiers, while sparkling Mylar balloons with the CP Comics logos were sent flying upward. The quartet, now augmented by trumpeters, played loudly as the partiers applauded.
Jeff Kane collapsed onto the hard terrace flagstones and lay motionless.