The Anonymous Client

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Steve Winslow rode uptown in the back of a cab and thumbed through the casting calls in Backstage. They were, as he’d expected, much the same as in last week’s issue. Most of the open auditions were for chorus work. Steve Winslow was neither a singer nor a dancer. Not that he hadn’t done musical comedy in his time-in summer stock you did all the shows, and when a musical came along you faked it. Steve could carry a tune, and laboriously learn a dance step by rote if pressed, but no one was ever going to hire him to do it. Not with the wealth of legitimate singers and dancers New York City had to offer.

Steve sighed and flipped the page.

The cab pulled up in front of an office building on West 48th Street. Steve paid the fare, over-tipping as usual. After years of driving a cab himself, Steve had a soft spot for cab drivers.

Steve folded the paper under his arm, went into the lobby, took the elevator up to the seventh floor, got off and walked down the hall. It was a little after nine, and a mailman with a pushcart was making his morning rounds, sliding letters through the mail slots in the office doors. He had just stopped in front of a door and taken two letters from the cart when Steve walked up.

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