Jan stared at Santo Vizzini as he rose from behind his desk. “Something wrong?” he asked. “Your mustache—you shaved it off.” Vizzini nodded as he moved toward her in a swirl of scent, running a pudgy forefinger over the bare spot between his nose and upper lip. “You approve?” “I’ll have to get used to it. You look so different.” Which was true, of course. Without the mustache, the director seemed to have shed his ethnic stereotype. But he was still gesticulating nervously, still smelled as if he mainlined cologne. And there was nothing different about his approach. Jan managed to drop the copy of the script she was holding and stooped to retrieve it just in time to avoid the touch of his hand on her arm. “Clumsy,” she said, stepping back. “Relax,”
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