Mean Woman Blues

contingency plan. But was it good enough? He had to think. His instinct was to do nothing.
Act normal
, he told himself.
No one can touch you
.
No one can do a thing unless you give them a reason.
    But his panic told him to get away from the woman as fast as he could. Hell, she could be a cop herself. He didn’t have spies anymore. Without his following, he was like a quadriplegic. He had no idea whether his son Isaac was alive or dead, much less whether he was in art school and had a girlfriend named Terri Whittaker.
    Okay, even if Whittaker was a cop, she couldn’t observe him if he didn’t let her.
    He called Tracie to get Terri put on ice. When the girl finally came in a good five minutes later, she looked as if the sky was falling. “David? What’s wrong? You said you wanted another full half hour to talk to her. This is our biggest show ever…”
    “
Who is that woman
?” he shouted, not bothering to keep his voice normal, to try to seem unruffled, as if nothing had happened. Not even caring.
    Tracie, pink and fast getting red, cringed, taking baby steps away from him. “Who is she? She’s Terri Whittaker, the woman the bank sent to jail. Who did she say she is? Is she… I mean, did she say something crazy or something?
    “Is she a nut case? Listen, I checked everything out: called the school where she goes; called the bank, of course; saw the police records.”
    “You saw the police records? What police records?”
    “She sent us copies of them.”
    “She sent the copies.”
    “Well, yes. She did. David, what’s going on? What’s happening?”
    “I don’t want her on the show.” He had seated himself sometime during the interchange. Tracie’s quaking was calming him. He now sat in his executive swivel chair, steepling his fingers, regaining his calm, and he spoke idly.
    “Don’t want her…?” Tracie was turning pale, going through a different kind of panic. “But this is our biggest show ever. We don’t even have a backup. We’ve flown in an expert and a lawyer for her. We’ve got a full house out there, not to mention that this is only our second show in the nighttime format, and, quite frankly, Mr. Right, the eyes of Texas are upon us.”
    It was that phrase that got him. He’d been about to demand they send Terri home and simply go with the bank expert, when the producer’s words brought him up short. He’d already talked to the damn girl; if she really was his son’s girlfriend and had somehow blundered onto the show, canceling was the worst thing he could do. It would draw the wrong kind of attention to him, make Tracie suspicious, if nothing else.
    He dropped his head into his cupped hands. “Oh, hell, girl. I’m sorry. I’ve got an absolutely splitting headache. I guess… the… pain… got to me.” He drew out the words like he could barely speak.
    “Omigod, I’ll get you some Vicodin.” Tracie flashed out of his office and came back with a plastic vial. “I keep a supply for occasions like this.” She poured one out in his hand and gave it to him. “Here. Take this. You’ve just got nerves, that’s all, because it’s such an important show. I’ve seen it a million times.”
    She seemed back in control now, no longer red, no longer white. Somehow or other— he really had no idea how it happened— Mr. Right actually had in his employ a person he couldn’t control, a person who hadn’t gotten the message that nothing he said was to be questioned. Ever.
    Somehow, he didn’t think there was any getting through to her. He’d just have to fire her and start over.
    “I’ve got things to do,” she said. “The expert’s plane was late. You lie down, okay? And let that stuff kick in.” She left without asking permission.
    He threw out the Vicodin— above all, he needed a clear head— and tried to think. Okay, okay, okay. His first instinct was right. The best thing he could do was act normal. Pretend nothing had happened. After all, if David Wright was who he said he was, he’d never have heard of an outsider artist named The White Monk; the name “Isaac” would mean nothing at all to him. Therefore, he would have to behave as if that were the case. He’d do it, and he’d do a spectacular job. No one would ever be the wiser.
    One thing he knew he was good at was dissembling. That was a word he’d learned in England. The thing he was good at was lying. He’d made a career of it. He was an accomplished actor long before he ever became a TV star;