A Knife to Remember

undertaking. It costs millions and millions to make a film. Even a television movie costs three or four million these days.”
    Jane was only half listening. Her eyes had strayed from the producer’s representative to Jake, who had reappeared and was having an intense whispered conversation with the young woman Jane had noticed him speaking to earlier—the pretty girl in the sweat-stained, scorched dress. He was looking pleased and smug, but this time the girl was obviously mad as hell. She had her hands on her hips and her pretty face was drawn into an unattractive scowl. She snapped something at him_ and tried to walk away, but he grabbed her elbow roughly and pulled her back. She looked down at his hand with an indignant expression, and he reluctantly turned loose of her. But now he was angry, too. His fair face flushed and his handsome features were pinched. Jane nudged Shelley and pointed discreetly. Shelley, in turn, whispered to Maisie, “Speaking of the devil.“
    “Our little Angela doesn’t seem exactly happy to have him leering over her,“ Maisie said in an undertone. “I’m glad. She seems like a nice girl. I wonder how she got herself tied up with him.“
    “Is she?“ Jane asked. “Tied up with him, I mean.“
    “Good point,“ Maisie said. “Maybe not. He pays a lot of attention to her and acts possessive. But now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing any signs of his interest being reciprocated.“
    “Who is she, this Angela?“ Jane asked.
    “Just an extra,“ Maisie answered.
    Their conversation was cut short by the entrance of the director into the craft service area—and “entrance“ it was. Roberto Cavagnari was a stocky little tractor of a man with dark, flashing eyes, designer jeans, and a flamboyant green velvet poncho that would have looked effeminate on anybody less aggressively male. He didn’t walk; he strutted. He didn’t speak; he proclaimed. Underlings schooled around him like minnows around a handsome, glittering trout.
    “Call the weatherman,“ he ordered in what sounded to Jane suspiciously like a fake Italian accent. “I won’t have overcast sky today.“ Jane wondered if he really supposed that weathermen ordered the weather rather than merely reporting it. A toady ran to do his bidding.
    “Mister Cavagnari, if I could just have a word wi—“ somebody said.
    But the underling’s request was lost in the next declaration. “I will have coffee. Mocha. Extra sugar,“ Cavagnari announced. Another assistant rushed to do the maestro’s bidding, but he stopped her with an authoritative snap of his stubby, beringed fingers. “No, I will prepare it myself so it’s done correctly,“ he said in the tones an empress might have used to say she’d do her own mending. Underlings fell back, nearly bowing, as he approached the snack table.
    “ Ja, mein Herr,“ Shelley said under her breath.
    “I think you’ve got the wrong country,“ Jane whispered. “I think we’re supposed to be chanting, `Duce! Duce!’ “
    Shelley laughed and Cavagnari whirled and glared at them for a moment before turning back to the preparation of his mocha coffee.
    A second later he bellowed, “Jake! Jake! Here she is, my watch! I told you to look here.”
    Jake materialized at his side. “I did look for it here. Not half an hour ago.“
    “You did not use your eyes, Jake. It was here, beneath a chip wrapper.“
    “I am very good at seeing objects! I searched thoroughly,“ Jake said firmly. “It was not here.“
    “But you see? Here... just here before my eyes.“ He slipped the watch on.
    “I tell you it was not—“
    “Enough, Jake! I have spoken. It is done.”
    Jake subsided, obviously furious at having both his judgment and his eye for details questioned, but apparently unwilling to anger Cavagnari further. His eyes narrowed and he looked around the group as if daring anyone else to criticize him. Then his expression turned deeply thoughtful.
    Cavagnari discoursed briefly on the proper way to prepare his coffee, most of his audience pretending rapt attention. Then, when it was done to his satisfaction, he sipped and said, kissing his fingertips and offering them to heaven, “Perfect! Now, we will do the close-ups of scene fourteen, then luncheon.”
    He swept away, underlings trailing like the train of a coronation gown.
    “Wow!“ Shelley breathed. “That’s an extraordinary display of ego run amok.”
    Maisie nodded. “Yes, but would you cross him? Or