He’d been introduced to her at a Canadian Opera Company’s production of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro at Toronto ’s Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. He was sipping white wine during intermission, bought for him by an opera critic for the Toronto Globe and Mail, when a mutual friend waltzed her over to him.

“You’re an agent, I understand,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Representing opera singers.”

“Among others. I also have musicians and-”

“I was an opera singer,” she said.

Oh, God, he thought, what does she want from me, to resurrect her career, which was probably a dismal failure because she-

“I studied in the States and lived in Germany for three years. I studied there, too.”

“You sang there?” he asked.

“A few small roles. I went there because all the good roles here were going to European singers-Gawd, talk about outsourcing-and supposedly the German companies welcomed American sopranos, but it wasn’t so welcoming for me. Well, with one exception. I met my former husband there. He saved me from the trials and tribulations of being an unwanted opera singer.”

His mood brightened. “What was your husband doing in Germany?” he asked, not interested in the answer but looking to keep the conversation going until the ringing of the little bells, announcing that the second act was about to start, could save him.

“He owns companies there, and elsewhere.”

“Really. What sort of companies?”

“Big ones.” She smiled and batted her long, fake lashes at him. Her dress was cut low, exposing an ample amount of freckled bosom, and hemmed high enough to showcase a nice set of legs.

“Big ones?” he said with a wry smile, the double entendre not going over her head.

“Yes. Have you ever considered taking on a partner?” she asked.

“No. Well, it’s crossed my mind on occasion but I’ve never given it any serious thought.”

The bells sounded. She placed a well-manicured set of fingers tipped with crimson talons on his sleeve and said, “I’m looking for an investment that will bring me back into the opera world. Call me.”

“Your name is Baltsa?” he said. “Zöe Baltsa? Any relation to Agnes Baltsa, the soprano?”

“No. It’s my married name. My maiden name was Nagle. I’m keeping my married name-and his money. I’m in the book. No, I’ll call you. Melincamp? That’s the name of your agency?”

“Right.”

“You’ll hear from me. Enjoy the rest of the opera. The sextet at the end of Act Three never fails to delight me.”

He watched her wiggle away and thought that maybe this was his lucky night, not because he might end up in bed with her, but because her ex-husband had “big ones.” He reentered the theater with renewed vigor.

The infusion of money by his new partner worked wonders to turn around the Melincamp Artists Agency’s financial picture. Now the Baltsa-Melincamp Artists Agency, its run-down offices were abandoned in favor of space in a downtown high-rise more befitting a talent agency “of world renown.” Zöe hadn’t exaggerated about her husband’s money. It seemed endless, and she spent it freely, hosting expensive fetes for her rich friends and opera patrons, draping herself in the latest designer clothing, and traveling the globe to, she claimed, find the world’s most promising future opera stars. She forged alliances with arts centers in myriad countries-England, France, Italy, Norway, and Sweden, and some in the Middle East, including Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, where she’d befriended a sheik reputed to be worth a couple of billion dollars, give or take a million. A full-time publicist was put on the payroll to extol Zöe’s exploits in the media. She was invited to opening nights in dozens of cities, invitations she gobbled up with glee, her publicist always at her side to generate local press.

For Melincamp, having taken her on as a partner proved to be both a blessing and a curse. The terms of their written contract, drawn by one of her attorneys, read like a prenuptial agreement. She named herself president and executive director of the agency in the contract, and had final say over all agency expenditures. In effect, Melincamp had been relegated to junior partner status, his role to run the office administratively, including a small division he’d started pre-Baltsa, “Reach for the Stars.” Talent was invited to submit tapes for “expert evaluation and a possible contract.” It was akin to literary agents charging a fee to read a manuscript, or alleged talent agents for kids collecting fees from hopeful parents in exchange for “professional photographs and possible modeling assignments.”

Although he often expressed dissatisfaction to friends, he wasn’t all that unhappy with the arrangement. Zöe was away most of the time burnishing her image, her absences welcome. She was, as far as Melincamp was concerned, the nastiest woman he’d ever known, and he’d known a few in his life. She was overbearing, demanding, and had a mean streak that resulted in his ducking more than one missile thrown his way. She was also one of the most prejudiced people he’d ever met, with a bad word for virtually every minority. She was antiblack and anti-Semitic, but reserved those judgments for when she and Melincamp were alone together. In public, she was amiable and all-embracing, a nonsinging diva with an outsized ego and a willingness to indulge it at every whim.

But as a practiced pragmatist, he’d put up with it. Why not? Although the terms of their agreement gave her the lion’s share of any profits, and he was on salary, he still had more walking around money than when he was scraping for funds to pay the rent. His love life had picked up, too. Occasionally, they’d end up in bed together when the mood struck her, which wasn’t often. There was no seduction involved. She wanted sex at that moment, and he was handy. Could be worse, he reasoned. He’d made a pact with a she-devil. So what? Sometimes you had to do what you had to do. But that didn’t need to be forever. There was a clause allowing him to buy back her stake in the agency, and he dreamt of one day invoking it. It was far out of his reach financially, and he didn’t know whether he’d ever have enough money to walk in one day, slap a fat envelope on her desk, and say, “Hasta la vista, baby. You’ve got until five this afternoon to be gone. Gone! Hee-haw!”

Zöe flounced into the restaurant twenty minutes later and joined him at the small bar. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it, the smoke drifting and causing him to cough. It wouldn’t matter if they changed seats. The smoke would come his way no matter where he sat. Of the things he disliked about Washington, D.C., its liberal smoking policy in bars was high on the list.

“So,” she said after a series of rapid puffs and a determined crushing of the half-consumed cigarette in an ashtray, “tell me where you’ve been.”

“Where I’ve been? I’ve been at the apartment. I babysat Christopher until I got him to pull himself together and go to Takoma Park to rehearse with that no-talent Italian mezzo. That’s where I’ve been. Oh, and I spent a very unpleasant half hour with a big, black detective who grilled me like I was some drug dealer or child molester. I got out of there the minute he left.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I hadn’t seen Charise since we arrived.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did he say?”

“Look, Zöe, this is not the time or place for me to give you a play-by-play of what happened. He’ll want to talk with you.”

“Why?”

“Because he-”

“You told him I was here in D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”