Smart Moves by Stuart M. Kaminsky

eat, who was walking to what subway. Chairs got moved. People laughed, one woman said, “Jose wouldn’t do that,” and they all filed out through the door, down the steps, all except Robeson, the woman with the sleeves that wouldn’t stay up, me and Albanese, who hopped from the platform and strode over to me, with a simple smile on his face.
    “Went rather well, don’t you think?” he asked.
    “Sounds like something Custer said just before Sitting Bull’s last charge at the Little Big Horn,” I answered.
    “Sitting Bull? I don’t think …”
    “I know,” I said. “Shakespeare can wait. Let’s get going.”
    I didn’t know how far this place was where Albanese had made the movie. As it was, it was probably too late to find someone there. I might have to do some illegal entering and I preferred to do it while I was reasonably awake.
    “Just a moment,” Albanese said, holding up a finger. “Left my jacket backstage. Shan’t be more than a tick or two.”
    He left me there holding my sword, crossed the stage, and exited. Robeson looked away from his conversation and toward the door with a slight shrug. The woman talked furiously. When Abanese came back, he was going to be an out-of-work clown.
    “I’ll take care of it,” Robeson told the woman. “You get a table at Tony’s. I’ll call Essie and tell her I can’t make it back to Connecticut tonight.”
    The woman nodded, energetically gave another tug at her sleeves, and walked wearily from the stage, grabbing a cloth coat from a chair near me. “There are days like this,” she said to me and herself as she strolled past.
    “Whole lifetimes sometimes,” I said, saluting her with the sword.
    “Tell me about it.” She chuckled and went through the door.
    As she exited, Albanese came back in a light jacket neatly pressed. He was all smiles and looked as if he were seeking a partner for a civilized game of bridge.
    “Alex,” Robeson said, walking to him.
    “Yes,” said Alex, smile broadening, the novice expecting to be praised by the star.
    “Margaret and I think the role of the clown is not right for you,” Robeson said, touching the arm of the younger man.
    “Not … oh, I see.”
    “We’ve got a different part for you,” Robeson said. “One we think is more suited for your talents.”
    “Let me guess,” Albanese beamed. “Cassio? Roderigo? Lodovico?”
    “A soldier,” said Robeson softly.
    “Ah,” said Albanese, looking over at me to share his promotion. “A soldier. I agree. I’m much more suited to soldier than a clown, but I don’t really recall any … What scenes does my character …”
    “He has no lines,” said Robeson. “But he is on stage for more than the clown. At least five scenes.”
    “No lines?”
    “No lines,” said Robeson.
    “Five scenes?”
    “Maybe more,” said Robeson. “And you get to carry a lance.”
    “I can do magnificent things with a lance as prop,” Albanese said, rebounding.
    “We can discuss them with Margaret tomorrow,” said Robeson, and then to me. “Peters, if you’d like to join us at Tony’s down the street, two blocks left, you are welcome.”
    “Thanks, but Alex and I have an appointment. Raincheck.”
    “It’s raining now,” said Robeson. He touched Alex’s arm and strode past me without looking back, a great exit.
    Alex hurried toward me, excited. “Did you hear that? Did you hear?” he said, clapping his hands together. “A bigger role.”
    “Congratulations,” I said. “Let’s get going.”
    His hands went to his hips, and he looked like a kid doing an imitation of Errol Flynn.
    “I can’t wait to begin anew tomorrow,” he said, but he wasn’t going to begin a new role tomorrow. A shot cracked from behind me, followed by two more. The first two hit Albanese. The next one pinged off of the sword I was still holding.

8
     
    My hand was stung by the bullet that hit Robeson’s sword, but I didn’t drop the weapon. I hit the floor still holding it and