The Winter of Her Discontent by Kathryn Miller Haines

of you.”
    â€œWhat can I say? Pity brings out the best in me.”
    â€œDo you want me to give Mr. Friday a message for you?”
    â€œThat’s all right. I’ll see him later.” I began my careful limp back the way I came.
    â€œThere’s a shortcut.” She took two steps toward a door on the other side of the room and offered me a wide, off-kilter smile. I was overreacting. She wasn’t making me feel unwelcome—I was.
    â€œThanks,” I told her, then I exited through the door.
    Minnie’s shortcut put me in the hallway outside the administrative offices. It was separated from the rehearsal halls by a swinging door. I’d assumed we weren’t welcome back there, but it was indeed a faster way to get from where I was to where I was going.
    â€œWhat time will you be out of here tonight?” A low voice leaked into the corridor and planted me where I stood. The speaker had a slight lisp, as though he were being forced to talk while clenching a pencil between his teeth. It had to be Garvaggio and his omnipresent cigar.
    â€œBy five—six at the latest.”
    â€œI don’t know if that’s good enough, Walt.” So he was talking to Friday. So much for the phone call. “My guys—they don’t seem to trust you so much anymore. After the last time…”
    â€œIt was a mistake, Vinnie. It happens.”
    â€œNot in our business. When the space is ours, it’s ours.”
    â€œCan’t we talk about this later? I’ve got a rehearsal to get to.”
    â€œThere won’t be a show if you don’t hear me out. Get it? I’m going to need the building on Thursday no later than five thirty.”
    â€œImpossible. We’re bringing the dancers in. Things are supposed to run late.”
    â€œThen you’re going to have to move your rehearsal, aren’t you? If we want the space on Thursday at five, it’s happening on Thursday at five.”
    Something in the office hit a hard metal surface, sending a hollow boom through the corridor. I couldn’t tell if it was Walter Friday’s head or his hand. “I can’t keep this up, Vinnie. I can’t be running a show with your people coming in and out of here.”
    â€œThat’s the deal we made.”
    â€œOne of the girls is bound to see something. Your friends didn’t do such a good job cleaning up last time.”
    â€œIf you’re that worried, Walt, maybe we should close down this show here and now.”
    â€œI can’t do that!”
    â€œBut I can, get it? My job isn’t to keep you happy—your job is.”
    Friday muttered something under his breath before slipping out the door. I flattened myself against a wall and prayed for invisibility. Fortunately, he was in such a tizzy that I could’ve hit him with a sledgehammer and he wouldn’t have noticed. As soon as he was out of the corridor, Garvaggio started talking again. The conversation this time was one-sided. He was on the phone.
    â€œHow’s our friend? Ain’t that a shame. Did you let him know that as soon as he’s out we’ll be paying him a visit? Good. Good. Well, he should be scared. Go back tomorrow and make the point twice as hard.”
    The phone slammed into the base. I left the wall and limped toward my destination. I was almost past the swinging doors when a voice called after me.
    â€œYou lost, sweetheart?” Vinnie Garvaggio stood in all of his obese glory, the cigar still firmly clamped between his teeth. Despite the ring of smoke that surrounded him, he had a sweet, fresh smell. Never had I seen a dress shirt that was so white.
    â€œI got a bum knee and was told there was a shortcut to the dance chorus rehearsal.”
    In his hand was a piece of bread so heavily buttered the middle of it had started to sink. He used it to point me in the right direction. “Through those doors.” Then he winked at me, disappeared