The Rocketeer by Peter David Page B

chance. The girl, Jenny, was the guy’s girlfriend. Or perhaps ex-girlfriend.
    Muttering a furious curse, he turned and bolted back toward the set. And he arrived just in time to see the girl, with tear-stained face, gathering up her things. Another woman, probably this Jenny’s friend, was standing nearby, looking on sympathetically. They both looked up in amazement as he walked up to them, oozing charm, warmth, and sincerity.
    “Hello, I’m Neville Sinclair,” he said unnecessarily. “And you must be . . .”
    “Jenny Blake,” she said breathlessly.
    He saw her clearly for the first time and he was thrown momentarily off step. She was a stunner. “Er . . . hello,” he managed to say, and then he recovered. “I . . . I’d hate to think I may be responsible for your being dismissed. I’m sorry.”
    “It was my fault, Mr. Sinclair.”
    “Neville.” He paused, and then said, “Er . . . have you read for the part of the Saxon princess?”
    Jenny stood there in a daze until she was prodded rather forcefully in the ribs by Irma. “Why . . . no.”
    Realizing that three was definitely a crowd, Irma did a graceful fade from their immediate vicinity, but stayed in Jenny’s line of sight.
    Jenny, for her part, couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d gone from desolation to ecstasy in a matter of seconds. The abrupt swing was dizzying. She saw now that Irma was frantically mouthing the words Neville Sinclair, and Jenny felt compelled to rise to the moment. She quietly maintained her composure as Sinclair said, “Well, I’ll see that you do. I think you’d be marvelous.”
    Behind Sinclair, Irma was becoming completely unglued, egging Jenny on. For Jenny, it was as if she were vicariously letting out the frantic young woman who was going berserk in her own head. Irma’s theatrics allowed Jenny to keep a poker face as she said, “Mr. Sinclair . . .”
    He took a step closer toward her, still not releasing his grip on her hand. “Ah-ah. Neville. Perhaps we could talk about the part over dinner.”
    Inna’s eyes bugged out, and she mimed a scream. Jenny didn’t even blink.
    “I have a regular table at the South Seas Club,” he continued. “Unless you’re bored with the South Seas—”
    “No, no.” And I’ve only been asking Cliff to take me there since forever, and he just complains about the money, and . . .
    Sinclair was puzzled. Was she refusing? “No?”
    Irma was coming out of her skin, mouthing Yes! Yes!
    “I mean, of course,” said Jenny. “I’d love to, Mr. Sin—” And on his look she immediately corrected herself. “Neville.”
    Irma went berserk, miming a heart attack. Sinclair somehow became aware that something was going on behind him, but when he glanced back, he saw Irma, in the acting performance of her life, fully composed and giving him a warm smile.
    “Well . . . tonight, then,” he said. The moment he was out of earshot, Irma grabbed Jenny’s arm so hard, it felt like it would break off.
    “Oh, honey, the South Seas Club! With Neville Sinclair!” And through Irma’s bubbling, all Jenny could feel somehow was that she was doing something terribly, terribly wrong.
    Clark Gable walked slowly along, mumbling, “I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn,” when another actor dressed in similar dashing Civil War garb and playing dashing Stuart Tarleton in the same film Gable was shooting, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Clark. They want you back on the set.”
    “Oh. Thank you, George.”
    And at that moment, an angry Cliff Secord, propelled by the two guards, rounded a corner and slammed directly into the actor named George. They went down in a tumble of arms and legs, and Cliff yelped in protest. Gable stood there, shaking his head.
    One of the guards grabbed Cliff firmly by the back of the neck. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gable, Mr. Reeves . . . we’ll get rid of him.”
    “See that you do!” said Gable, helping the other actor to his