Chapter 21: Carnegie

At five in the morning I gave him the order, before the alarm he never needed.

"When you say the number," I said into the dark, "don't look at the card."

"Where do I look?"

"Row three. The aisle seat. A short person in boots."

"That I can keep," said Winston.

He kissed my hand, and went to run the rivers alone for the last time before he was famous.

By seven that evening I stood on the sidewalk outside the Carnegie Music Hall in Oakland.

In the blue dusk, I looked at a red carpet.

It was a real red carpet.

There were velvet ropes and photographers and a banner with the number 99% sixty feet long.

I had on my own dress, which was dark green wool with a plain neckline, bought two years ago for a conference.

I had on my black boots and my gold hoops, and the gray hoodie, unzipped, over the dress.

The stylist's gown was hanging in the closet at Butler Street with the tags still on.

"You look insane," Deb said happily.

She wore a sequined blue dress that had last been to a wedding in Erie.

"I look like me."

"That's what's insane."

We walked up the carpet together.

Cameras flashed and flicked toward us, and flicked away, uninterested.

Nobody knew who I was.

That was the point.

At the door a security man in a black suit held up a hand.

"Name?"

"Daria Orlowski."

He ran his finger down a tablet.

"I don't have an Orlowski."

Deb's whole body went tense next to me.

"It might be under Engineer," I said.

"No, ma'am. I have a note. Struck this afternoon."

"By whom?"

"Management."

"Which management?"

"The board chair's office."

I nodded slowly.

It was what I'd expected, and still it hit me.

"Ms. Orlowski is on page two of the rider," said a voice behind us. "Third line from the bottom."

Phyllis Greer stood there in a long black coat, with a silver clipboard against her chest.

The security man looked at her, and swallowed.

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