“Someone will email you as soon as your background check comes clean. Don’t get impatient. We’re not going to forget about you, but it might take a while.”
Nichols rose to leave. “The girl who came in before me. Perdita. Can you tell me if she got a contract as well?”
“Sorry. Privacy laws don’t allow us to give out that information.”
“Of course.” He felt foolish for asking. He wasn’t even sure why he had.
The Dream Factory towered over Réne Lévesque Boulevard like a goliath. Bill Nichols emerged into its shadow. The path to the street was sandwiched between two neatly manicured lawns. Both were now meccas for kids in pup tents, tabloid journalists, squabbling tourists - and of course the protestors, as identical as sardines, each one besmirched, bespectacled and thoroughly bedraggled.
