Sherry Day was nervous. That wasn’t how Oscar night was supposed to be. In her imaginings, the evening would be filled with wonder and excitement. Instead, it was just a source of apprehension. She had no idea who Sylvester was sending as her date. That was all right, but she at least expected to meet him.
She had been asked to drop his ticket off with the receptionist at a business in East L.A. The company turned out to be a salvage business. The receptionist turned out to be a burly mechanic manning the desk in between tune-ups and tranny repairs. She hoped he wasn’t her date.
She’d arrived at the theater alone, gone through security, had her ticket scanned, and been ushered to her seat, which was, as she expected, fairly near the back. Of course, the fact that she was in row W was something of a hint. There was a couple to her left, and a couple one seat over to her right. The seat immediately to her right was vacant.
It was nearly time for the telecast. She wondered if her date was even going to show. Suddenly, there he was, a slender man in a business suit, not a tux, but a perfectly respectable suit and tie. The people in the row stood up to let him through. He squeezed by and dropped into the seat next to Sherry.
She favored him with a smile. “There you are. I was wondering if you were going to make it.”
“Why wouldn’t I make it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know you. I’m Sherry.”
He nodded, then realized something was expected of him. “Bob,” he said.
He did not offer his hand. Taking the cue, she did not offer hers. “Are you in the industry?”
He blinked. “Industry?”
“The movie business.”
“No.”
“I am. I’m an actress.”
“Yes,” he said. He made no attempt to continue the conversation. He ignored her completely and scanned the room, as if looking for someone. After a while he got up, pushed his way out of the row, and walked down the aisle, craning his neck.
Sherry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
This was going to be a long evening.
Sylvester’s cell phone pulsed. He tugged it out of his pocket and clicked it on. “Yes?”
It was the shooter. “He’s not here.”
“I know he’s not here.”
“If he doesn’t show, the deal is off.”
“Trust me, he’ll show. He may be late, but he’ll be here.”
“And how will I know? I can’t be wandering up and down the aisles during the telecast to check if he’s here yet.”
“I have a plan. Watch me now,” Sylvester said.
“I can’t see you from my seat. Watch you what?”
“Watch the aisle.”
Sylvester slipped out of his seat and walked up the aisle toward the back of the theater. He could see the shooter sitting next to Sherry Day.
He spoke into his cell phone. “See me now?”
“Yes.” The shooter hissed it through clenched teeth.
“Keep watching. Pay attention to the young man I talk to.”
Sylvester clicked the phone off and kept going to the back of the audience to the standing section. He picked Dylan out of the crowd and pulled him aside.
“When Billy Barnett arrives, during the next commercial break I want you to hurry down the aisle, shake his hand, and say, ‘Glad you made it, I just wanted to say congratulations.’ Try to get him to stand up when you shake his hand.”
“I can’t do that,” Dylan said.
“Slow learner? You can do anything I tell you to do. When he comes in, you do it. No excuses. No second chances. Get it done.”
Sylvester turned around and headed back to his seat. On the way he buzzed the shooter.
“You see the kid I talked to?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Here’s what he’s going to do.”