“Reputations!” Derek sniffed noisily. He had been doing a lot of coke lately and his sinuses stung. That only made him angrier. “Reputations, my eye! You’re a bunch of diapered juveniles pandering to tourists in a little uptown improv club, calling yourselves actors. Here I am, willing to lend you my name and my services, and you talk to me about reputations?”

“Why, you conceited windbag!” One of the young men had to be physically restrained. Derek grinned as the others held the fellow back, knowing they would never dare back up their bluster with physical force.

“Conceit, my young friend, is a matter of interpretation. It’s all relative. Haven’t you learned that yet?” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “I try so hard to pass on what I know, yet the next generation is obdurate!”

One of the older youths stepped before Derek.

“Yes, Mr. Blakeney, you have taught us a thing or two.”

Derek smiled back benignly. But the fellow was not apologizing.

“You’ve given a bunch of hungry young actors an object lesson in the dangers of success, Mr. Blakeney. You’ve shown us how far the mighty can fall, when arrogance substitutes for self-respect. For teaching us that, we’ll slice you a percentage of the rest of the shows this month. It won’t be necessary for you to return.”

Derek snarled. “You can’t do that! We have a contract!”

“We also have witnesses to your foulmouthed abuse of paying customers, Mr. Blakeney. You can treat us like dirt beneath your feet, but mistreating the marks is something any court in the land will recognize as just cause. Sue us, or send your agent around. But don’t show up in person or we’ll call the cops.”

“Yeah,” one of the girls said. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll break your arm!”