"Okay."
"Anyway, the usual supervisor was off and we had a temporary sergeant who was old school. So it's one of my first days at the Seven-five and I'm the only woman on this particular watch. I go to roll call in the assembly room and there're a dozen Kotex taped to the lectern."
"No!"
"Kid you not. The regular supervisor never would've let anybody get away with that. But cops're like kids in a lot of ways. They push until an adult stops 'em."
"Not what you see in the movies."
"Movies're made in Hollywood. Not in the Seven-five."
"What'd you do? About the pads?"
"I walked up to the front row and asked the cop sitting right in front of the lectern if I could have his seat--which is where I was going to sit anyway. They were all laughing so hard I'm surprised some of them didn't pee their pants. Well, I sat down and just started to take notes about what the sergeant was telling us--you know, outstanding warrants and community relations things and street corners with known drug activity. And about two minutes later, no more laughter. The whole thing became embarrassing. Not for me. For them."
"You know who did it?"
"Sure."
"Did you report him?"
"No. See, that's the hardest part of being a woman cop. You have to work with these people. You need them behind you, watching your back. You can fight every step of the way. But if you have to do that you've already lost. The hardest part isn't having the balls to fight. It's knowing when to fight and when to just let it go."
Pride and power . . .
"Like us, I guess. My business. But if you're good, if you can bring in audiences, management'll hire you. It's a catch-22 though. You can't prove you'll draw crowds if they don't hire you, and they won't hire you if you can't bring in door receipts."
They walked closer to the massive, glowing tent and Sachs watched the young woman's eyes light up as she gazed at it.
"This the sort of place you'd like to work?"
"Oh, man, I'll say. This's my idea of heaven. Cirque Fantastique and doing TV specials." After a moment of silence as she gazed around her, she said, "Mr. Balzac has me learning all the old routines and that's important--you've got to know 'em cold. But"--a nod toward the tent--"this is the direction magic's going. David Copperfield, David Blaine. . . . performance art, street magic. Sexy magic."
"You should audition here."
"Me? You're kidding," Kara replied. "I'm nowhere near ready yet. Your act has to be perfect. You have to be the best."
"Better than a man, you mean?"
"No, better than everybody, men and women."
"Why?"
"For the audience," Kara explained. "Mr. Balzac's l
ike a broken record: you owe it to the audience. Every breath you take onstage is for your audience. Illusion can't be just okay. You can't just satisfy--you have to thrill. If one person in the audience catches your moves you've failed. If you hesitate just a moment too long and the effect is dull you've failed. If one person out there yawns or looks at his watch you've failed."
"You can't be at a hundred percent all the time, I'd think," Sachs offered.
"But you have to be," Kara said simply, sounding surprised anyone would feel different.
They arrived at the Cirque Fantastique, where rehearsals for the opening show tonight were under way. Dozens of performers were walking around, some in costumes, some in shorts and T-shirts or jeans.
"Oh, man. . . ." came a breathy voice. It was Kara's. Her face was like a little girl's, eyes taking in the brilliant white canvas of the sweeping tent.
Sachs jumped at the sound of a loud crack above and behind her. She looked up and saw two huge banners, thirty or forty feet high, snapping in the wind, glowing in the sunlight. On one was painted the name CIRQUE FANTASTIQUE.
On the other was a huge drawing of a thin man in a black-and-white-checkered bodysuit. He was holding his arms forward, palms up, inviting his audience inside. He wore a black, snub-nosed half-mask, the features grotesque. It was a troubling image. She thought immediately of the Conjurer, hidden by masks of disguise.