Isobel grabbed her coat from Nikki's chair and threw it on. As she ran down the hall, she tucked the Filofax carefully in the inside pocket, and struggled to get the strap of her bag over her shoulder. It weighed a ton. In addition to all the extra stuff she'd brought along for her audition, she also had the personal items she had accumulated during her stay at InterBank Switzerland: two sweaters, a stack of pictures and résumés, a book of monologues, two pairs of shoes, and a travel coffee mug. She couldn't understand how she had accumulated so much junk. And she still didn't have a working umbrella.
At that moment, Isobel caught sight of Conchita's sturdy, long-handed umbrella, which she had unaccountably left leaning against the filing cabinet.
"Muchas gracias, señora!" she said as she grabbed it.
The lobby seemed overly bright, and there was one lone security guard on duty.
"Sign out, please," he droned.
She scrawled a squiggle underneath the squiggle Stan had scrawled just moments before. For the second time today, she peered out the front door of the building, trying to catch sight of the person she was trying to follow. Only this time, she had an umbrella. But it had finally stopped raining, and the umbrella became one more unwieldy thing to carry. Still, as she followed Stan toward the subway, keeping a healthy distance, she knew better than to dump it. Ditching an umbrella, especially one as nice as this, would only guarantee another downpour.
She saw Stan descend the subway stairs on the downtown side and started after him.
Suddenly, she stopped short. What was she doing? She had an audition to go to! She knew she only had a few seconds to make her decision. She could take the uptown train and go to the audition she was already late for, with no makeup on, not warmed up, for people who probably remembered her as a blithering idiot.
Or she could follow her instincts and trail Stan downtown. Gay, straight, male, female, you don't get all decked out like that unless you're meeting someone. And she wanted to know who it was.
Your gut is a better actor than your brain, Delphi had said. And in some cases, your gut is also smarter than your brain, Isobel thought, as she followed Stan into the subway. There would be other chances to perform, in better productions that actually paid something. There wouldn't be another chance to follow Stan Henderson in drag.
The platform was crowded enough for Isobel to observe Stan at a comfortable distance. Strangely, his new look was an improvement. He simply made more sense as a woman. The soft contours, fleshy lips, even his hips. He must have been wearing shapewear of some kind, because he had an actual figure. He even turned a few heads, although Isobel wasn't sure if that was because he looked good or because he was still obviously a man.
A downtown R train arrived, and Isobel let herself be carried on by a crush of people. Stan got on at the opposite end of the same car. Given his relative height and his mass of auburn curls, he stood out enough that Isobel could see him get off at Prince Street.
She followed him outside into a soft, misting rain, glad she hadn't ditched the umbrella, and trailed him west into the heart of SoHo. Isobel hadn't been to this part of the city yet, but even at this relatively early hour in bad weather, it was quite obviously the place to be on a Friday night. The streets were lined with small galleries, boutiques and clubs, and the air vibrated with a sense of impending party. She followed Stan as he headed south to Greene Street. On the corner was a windowless black building with a large blue neon letter "X." The only giveaway that it wasn't an abandoned warehouse was the line of people snaking down the block.
Isobel squinted at the "X" and saw the smaller blue letters underneath spelling out Xavier's. So this was the place Nikki had told her about: the trendy, expensive new club with the chic celebrity, gay and transgender crowd.
The door was guarded by a man who looked like Mr. Clean. He had a headset wired around his bald pate, and he was clearly not to be messed with. Stan shouldered his way to the front of the crowd and approached Mr. Clean, who stared dispassionately at him, apparently unconcerned that his gender was open to interpretation. Mr. Clean pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and spoke for a moment. Then he nodded and let Stan pass by him into the club. As the door opened, the line of hopeful partiers surged forward, collective arms waving like a giant sea anemone. Mr. Clean set his legs in a wider stance and pushed against the people in front, sending the entire line staggering backwards. Nobody seemed to mind. This abuse appeared to be part of the game. The club door closed, swallowing Stan into the murky depths of Xavier's.
Undaunted, Isobel approached Mr. Clean.
"Hi, there. I'm with him. Um, her. The person you just let in."
Mr. Clean stared fixedly at her and pointed to the end of the line.
"No, really! That person—we're together. I'm meeting her here. Him. Her!"
Mr. Clean gave Isobel a slow once-over. "Name?" he said finally.
"Isobel Spice."
He tilted his mouthpiece again. "She-male, red hair, just came in. Ask if she's expecting someone named—"
Isobel's hand shot out and yanked the mouthpiece away from Mr. Clean's mouth. He was so startled that for a brief moment, he forgot to look menacing. "It's a surprise," she stammered. "I mean, she doesn't know—I don't want her to know..."
Mr. Clean glared at her. "Which is it?"
"Can't you just let me in?" Isobel asked, smiling her sweetest.
Mr. Clean pointed again to the end of the line. A girl who was trying not to look like she was freezing in her skimpy tank top and short skirt gave Isobel a shove.
"Come on, bitch! You can't just walk up!"
Isobel retreated to the corner. Great, she thought. I blew off my audition, and I can't even get in to spy on Stan. Now what? She paced up and down Greene Street and peered into the window of a romantic-looking Italian restaurant.
That was what she needed—reinforcements!
Delphi answered her call immediately.
"Where are you?" Isobel asked, without preamble.
"Just leaving work. I had to cover until Gina got in. Why?"
"I need you," Isobel said. Although brevity was not her forte, Isobel explained, as quickly as she could, the events of the afternoon.
"Please, please come down here," she begged. "I need a plan, and I need your help. I can't do this alone."
"Where are you again?"
Isobel gave her the address.
"Let me just run home and change, and I'll be right there."
"No! There isn't time. Just come straight here. Please?"
Isobel heard Delphi's exasperated sigh. "Okay, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Isobel hung up and paced back to the corner. Mr. Clean was still doing his impression of a human fortress, and the line outside Xavier's seemed to have grown longer. There was nothing to do but take her place at the end of it.
As she parked her heavy bag on the ground behind a gay couple with their hands in each other's back pockets, her phone rang. It was Percival.
"Iz! How was the audition? Where are you? It sounds noisy."
"I didn't go. I'm following Stan."
"What?"
Once more, Isobel summarized the events of the past few hours, finishing with a description of Xavier's and Mr. Clean.
"I'm coming down there," Percival said firmly.
"You are not!" Isobel cried, horrified. "It's a club!"
"Sounds like fun."
"You're underage!"
"Iz, you don't really think I'd come to New York to visit Columbia without a fake ID, do you?"
"Where did you get a fake ID?" Isobel asked, aghast.
"Made it."
Isobel shook her head vigorously, even though he couldn't see it. "Okay—no on about five counts! You may be mature for your age, you may be able to run rings around me intellectually, but you're still only fifteen. And if you get caught—"
"Iz, I don't want you there by yourself."
"Delphi is coming."
"So am I."
"No, you're not! I'm supposed to be watching out for you. Mom and Dad trust me, and I'm not taking you to a club—"
"Fine, then. I'm taking you. Don't you dare go in there without me!" He hung up.
She looked at the silent phone, stamped her foot, and swore.
This is not responsible sibling behavior, she scolded herself, letting him come to a club on the heels of a probable murderer. On the other hand, a male presence wasn't a bad idea.
James. That's who she really wanted with her. It was even worth risking calling his cell.
Isobel scrolled back through the log on her cell phone, but his number had been replaced by all the calls she'd made since the night his girlfriend had told her to get lost. She gave up and shoved her phone back into her coat pocket. At least Percival had an IQ higher than most people's cholesterol. Brains, if not brawn. It was the best she could do in a pinch.
The line didn't seem to be progressing at all, and the longer she waited, the stupider she felt. Finally, she heard a familiar voice call her name. She looked up to see Delphi crossing the street.
"This is crazy!" Delphi gestured to the line. "We'll never get in."
"I know. I don't understand how Stan got in immediately."
"His good looks?"
"You'd be surprised," Isobel said drily.
"Maybe they operate on a quota system?"
Isobel's cell phone rang. "Probably Percival," she said, and answered it without checking the number.
"Where the hell are you?" demanded Sunil.
"Sunil! God, I'm so sorry! Something happened. I couldn't get there."
"You could have called me! I went out on a limb for you, you know. They weren't exactly thrilled about seeing you again. I had to convince them you were worth it."
"I know and I'm really, really sorry. I should have called. Did they give it to the other girl?" She glanced at Delphi, who was eyeing her quizzically.
"What do you think?"
"Listen, Stan Henderson is a cross-dresser, and I followed him to this club, and I think something's going to happen—"
"Whatever. I've got to get back to rehearsal. I'm surprised it happened so quickly."
"What?"
"Putting your survival job before your career."
"It's not that, it's a murder—!"
But he was gone. Isobel stared at her phone.
Sunil was right. In a moment of madness, she had completely lost sight of her priorities. Or had she? The truth was, she had a lot more invested in tracking down the person who killed Doreen Fink than in a mediocre showcase company whose producers had rejected her once already. Despite what Sunil might have said in her favor, that was an awfully bad first impression to have to erase.
Delphi's voice broke into her thoughts. "What was that all about?"
Isobel told Delphi about the Two by Two audition.
"You blew off an audition for this? Are you out of your mind?"
"Apparently."
"How come you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't want you to be disappointed."
"That's sweet of you, but that wasn't the part I was going for in the first place." Delphi looked at the swelling number of clubbers around them. "You should have gone. This is getting us nowhere."
"I know," Isobel said gloomily. "And now I've let Sunil down."
A moment later, Percival arrived. "Why are you standing back here?" he asked.
Isobel gestured toward the front of the line. "I tried, but Mr. Clean wasn't having any of me. How was your interview?"
"Piece of cake. How did Stan get past?"
Delphi shrugged. "Mason handshake?"
Isobel gasped. "Oh my God. I know how he got in. But there's no way we could possibly...unless..." She turned to Percival. "Do you have any mad money left?"
"About a hundred bucks."
Isobel took a step off the line and looked down the street. Paradoxically, the line seemed to have gained people in front. Clearly, they were stuck with the losers, and getting past Mr. Clean demanded drastic action. There was only one thing to do.
Isobel closed her eyes. "If we're ever deluded enough to think we want it, we'll have to pay for it ourselves." She opened them and looked at Delphi. "Famous last words."
"What are you talking about?" Percival asked.
But Delphi had caught on and was shaking her head. "No way. That's insane! It'll cost you half your share of the rent!"
"I know," Isobel said, squirming visibly. "But if we use Percival's money, I could put the balance on my credit card and worry about it later, like the rest of the country."
"That's a terrible idea," Percival said.
"I gave up a callback for this. I'm not walking away now."
She grabbed Percival's arm, and with Delphi trailing behind them, protesting, Isobel shoved her way to the front of the line, until she was directly in front of Mr. Clean.
"We'd like bottle service, please."
He looked at her for a moment, then beyond her at Delphi and Percival, who was trying to stand as tall as possible, while at the same time slouching with just the right amount of hipster attitude.
Mr. Clean looked at Isobel again. "Five hundred. Bottle of your choice. Food is extra."
Delphi gasped, but Isobel nodded confidently. Mr. Clean stepped aside, and the door to Xavier's swung open. Behind them, the line heaved and surged, and Isobel, Delphi and Percival rode the human wave through the entrance as the big black door slammed shut behind them.