Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky

concentrate on the job. I need you. We need you.”
    I was going to argue, but he was right. I nodded. He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
    “I was really convincing, eh?” he said, guiding me toward the auditorium.
    “Beautiful performance,” I said.
    “Acting, that’s a talent you never lose,” he said. “Martin is safe. He’s never had the talent. I’m invigorated. A few hours’ sleep and I’ll be ready to go out to lunches and sell tickets to the tone deaf and ancient who think of opera as a deadly responsibility. There are but a few, a precious few, in this country who really appreciate the art. I remember …”
    There was a sudden noise, as if a bomb had exploded through the ceiling. Lundeen looked at me for an opinion. I didn’t have one. I left him and ran down the hall toward the auditorium. I could hear him panting after me.
    As I ran through the rear door toward the stage, the entire orchestra, Stokowski, Vera, and Martin Passacaglia were looking up the aisle toward me. Shelly was turned in his seat in the front row, and Jeremy was running up the aisle in my direction. A man-sized grasshopper shape lay just in front of me. I reached it at the same time as Jeremy. Lundeen came up behind me and stopped suddenly.
    “It fell from there,” Jeremy said, pointing upward.
    There was nothing up there but a darkened balcony. I considered running like hell up to the balcony, but there was no hurry. I turned instead to the twisted mass that had crushed an aisle seat and lay in front of me.
    “What is it?” called Stokowski from the stage.
    “A projector,” Lundeen called back. “A rusty old movie projector.”
    “Lorna!” Vera cried.
    There was a movement to my right and Lorna Bartholomew sat up between the seats, her eyes open wide, blood on her forehead.
    “… tried again,” she whimpered, looking at Lundeen.
    Lundeen moved to help her.
    “Don’t you touch me! Why is he trying to kill me?” she wailed. “Where is Miguelito?”
    Vera was hurrying down the aisle, followed by Passacaglia. Shelly waddled behind them, Miguelito yapping in his arms.
    “Lorna!” Vera cried again.
    “Is she hurt?” Stokowski called as he strode toward us.
    “No,” said Lundeen. “Just frightened.”
    “I quit,” screamed Lorna. “I’m not dying for an opera.”
    She put out her arms for the dog, and Shelly let the animal leap to her. The impact almost knocked her over.
    “A good symphony, perhaps,” said Stokowski, “but I agree with you: not for an opera.”
    Lorna looked at him as if he were mad and saw a small mischievous smile on the Maestro’s face.
    Stokowski touched the shoulder of a woman with glasses who had moved up the aisle carrying a flute. She handed the flute to Lundeen and put her arm around Lorna.
    “Let’s take her up to my office,” Lundeen said.
    “No,” Lorna said, suddenly calm, suddenly sober. “I wish to leave this building. I wish never to return to this building. I wish to live. Some may think I have little to live for, but that is not my view. The person responsible for this will regret it.”
    The woman who had handed Lundeen her flute helped Vera guide Lorna and her dog into the aisle and past the twisted mass of the projector.
    “Am I being calm, Maestro?” Lorna asked, a trickle of blood winding down her nose and around her mouth.
    “Perfectly,” Stokowski assured her.
    “Good,” she said. “That’s all I want to know.”
    And she was ushered out the door and into the lobby.
    “Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, “I’m going to call a short break and then have the orchestra continue to rehearse with the cast. Do you think you and your fellows can keep death at bay long enough to let us get through the first act?”
    Passacaglia grinned over Stokowski’s shoulder.
    “Jeremy, Shelly, get every light in this place on and sit on the stage with your eyes open,” I said.
    Jeremy nodded.
    “She said she had to go to the toilet, Toby,” Shelly whimpered. He