Trust Me

frontiers of math and physics, deserved the popular label of chaos theory.
    Desdemona’s catering firm was housed in an old, remodeled brick warehouse in Pioneer Square. There, seated at a table with the Right Touch staff, Stark had eaten a surprising quantity of the tortellini and asparagus tarts that had cost him so dearly.
    In the process he had discovered that Desdemona’s entire family, for three generations, had been theater people.
    He’d always thought of theater people as high-strung, financially unstable, and temperamental. Nothing he had observed thus far this evening had altered his opinion.
    But for some reason that didn’t seem to matter tonight. He supposed he needed something to take his mind off his problems, and Desdemona and her relations had done a fair job.
    He was even willing to concede that the production of Fly on a Wall, an ambiguous, obscure, totally incomprehensible bit of modern theater, had had its moments.
    “The utter flatness of the fly.” Henry nodded thoughtfully. “You know, that’s a hell of an insight, Stark. I hadn’t considered that element of Juliet’s role. She really projected it, didn’t she?”
    Stark knew himself to be on dangerous ground. He hedged. “I was impressed by it.”
    Kirsten’s eyes widened. “Absolutely. The flatness. It was perfect, Juliet.”
    “Do you really think so?” Juliet asked eagerly.
    “Definitely,” Desdemona said enthusiastically. She started to say something else but broke off as a shadow fell across the table. She looked up. “Oh, hi, Ian. Great show.”
    “Mona,” the new arrival exclaimed. “Good to see you. Who’s your friend?”
    “This is Sam Stark. Everyone calls him Stark. Stark, this is Ian Ivers.”
    “Hello,” Stark said.
    Ian did a stagy double take. “Not the Sam Stark of Stark Security Systems.”
    Stark did not consider that the question warranted a response, so he took another swallow of espresso instead.
    Henry stepped in to cover the awkward moment. “One and the same.”
    “How about that.” Ian grinned and stuck out a hand toward Stark. “Glad to meet you. Didn’t realize you were into theater.”
    “I’m not,” Stark said. He had a feeling he was not going to like Ian Ivers.
    Ian was in his mid-thirties. He was short, and as Stark discovered when he reluctantly shook hands, his palms were unpleasantly moist. Both his jawline and his waistline had already gone soft. Perhaps they had never been firm. He wore his shoulder-length hair, which was thinning on top, in a pony tail. There was a gold ring in one of his ears. His stylish, wide-legged, heavily pleated olive green trousers flowed over his shoes. His iridescent black and green shirt sparkled in the neon light.
    “Couldn’t help overhearing your comment, Stark,” Ian said with an expression of deep admiration. “Henry’s right. Great insight on Juliet’s performance. Real flatness there. And don’t overlook the cathartic sense of sexual release that occurred at the moment of impact.”
    Stark surreptitiously wiped his hand on a small napkin. “I’m not sure I picked up on that.”
    “It was very subtle,” Ian assured him. “Listen, I gotta run. Got some money people waiting for me. Promised ‘em I’d talk to ‘em right after tonight’s performance. But I’d really like to get together with you soon, Stark. Contemporary theater needs guys like you.”
    Stark stared at him. “I doubt it.”
    “Hey, I’m serious here,” Ian said. “Not every man in your position appreciates the importance of fringe theater. I’ll get back to you.” He winked at Desdemona. “See you, Mona.”
    He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried off to a booth in the corner.
    Desdemona wrinkled her nose at Juliet and leaned forward. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Honestly, I can’t believe you and Aunt Bess want me to go out with him. You know I never go out with men who call me Mona.”
    “Give him a chance,” Juliet insisted in a low voice. “He’s really a nice guy, and the two of you have a lot in common.”
    “Forget it.” Desdemona rolled her eyes and gave Stark a wry look. “Juliet and my aunt are incurable matchmakers.”
    “I see,” Stark said. He made a mental note never to call her Mona.
    “You have to admit that Desdemona is a rather unusual name in this day and age.”
    “I chose it myself when I was five years old,” Desdemona said proudly.
    Stark nodded. “So, what’s your real name?”
    “Desdemona is my