Civil Twilight (26 page)

Now what?

A cab pulled up.

I jumped it.

“To the set?”

It was Webb Moratt.

“A gift from John?”

“Big gift. You know how hard it is to stay ready to pick anyone up, circling around, how damned near impossible, with the traffic guys fussing?
You can’t tip everyone. Hell, there’re some won’t even take it, like they don’t know what the job’s for, you know? I had to . . .”

Moratt shifted lanes and kept on complaining.

The biggest gag of my career was coming up and I was going to be late. I’d gone over it again and again, tweaked the choreography days ago, but planning can’t take the place of a run-through. I needed to focus.

Moratt ranted on.

Suddenly, I just needed to talk to Leo. I pulled out my phone and hit 1 on the speed dial. “Leo—Roshi—I need to ask you a question.”

“Where are you?”

“In a cab from the airport. On my way to the set to get thrown out of a burning car.”

“Ah.” I could picture the smile that wiggled at the middle of his wide lips but didn’t make it to the sides.

“You always say, ‘Don’t complain.’”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

I sighed.

“Don’t complain. Sighs count.”

“But, Leo, it’s so frustrating.”

“Don’t complain.”

“But—”

“Don’t—”

“Okay! Okay. But if I can’t complain, there’s no way I can talk about it.”

“Exactly.”

“Leo!”

I could hear his exhalation. He was considering, thinking about giving me a hint.

I didn’t dare speak. “Talking about it isn’t
it.
”

“Oh. Right.”

“When was
it?
”

“Oh. You mean
it
is in the past. Not now. Focusing on
it
means . . .”

The phone was dead. He’d hung up. I turned my own off so I could think.

“Dammit! If you’re gonna crawl, get a crib!” Moratt swung around a yellow van, cutting back into the lane with inches to spare.

“That was the 280 exit!”

“Asshole made me miss it!”

I laughed.

“What? What?”

“Just thinking of Leo.”
If you hadn’t been so busy complaining . . .
Whoops. “Get off at Vermont Street. With luck, you’ll still miss the worst of the back-up.”

“Like there won’t be trucks and double-parked . . .”

If
don’t complain
meant stop entertaining yourself with complaint, get out of your thoughts and do something, then Karen was a master. But it doesn’t mean act on the spur of the moment. It’s not: don’t prepare. It’s choreograph your gag ahead, run the tape in your mind, make it part of you, and when the start comes, don’t think back to that—
do
the gag. It’s not steal a police car because your mind is in the past with Matt or his possible future. It’s now, now, now, don’t dwell on the past, don’t complain, be alert, and ready to do. It’s see a girl talking on her phone in the street and shove her out of danger. It’s see the chance, maybe because you’ve choreographed for weeks, and push Henkley, the abuser, off the cliff. It’s not meet Madelyn, look for a knife, though. That still stopped me. But was it, see Munson, the abuser, open the car door and beckon him in?

Was it: hire Gary? Why
had
she contacted him? She wasn’t in danger of being discovered. She had to be turning herself in, here, for her California crime. Why now? Because it was the only way she could stop the trafficking? And protect Matt while she worked with John? She alerts John to the trafficking. But if the sting uncovers her, a murderer, the traffickers would get lost in the flurry. Who’d believe her? On the other hand, if she turns herself in first, then she’s got cred. She’ll stand trial after trial, but the first won’t start for months.

But why the divorce? How much would that really keep Matt out of the spotlight? Why have everything hang on getting the divorce?

“You married, Webb?”

“Divorced. Cost me a freakin’ fortune, too.”

Nothing near what trial after trial would have cost Karen’s husband. It would have left him bankrupt. “Thanks.”

“Huh? Hey, don’t slow! Get through the damn light. You can—shit!”

Something still didn’t feel right.

“Webb, you got John’s cell number?”

“Not working.”

“Not his old one, the one he’s got with him now.”

He hesitated.

“Tell him the sting’s at the movie set. I set it up with Korematsu.”

Moratt pulled around the corner. Ahead Market Street was blocked just as it had been Tuesday. Fog blurred the streets, veiled the set. On the sidewalk was Munson. I pressed against the window trying to spot the girls. “Stop over there!”

“Here? How’m I going to get out of here? Back up here, in this mess? You could’ve—”

“Here! Dammit!”

I slammed the door behind me. Munson was gone.

WHERE WAS MUNSON? I didn’t dare look around for him, or for the girls. Broder wasn’t here, not yet. He’d have raced out of the airport as soon as he heard I was gone. But I had the advantage: he wouldn’t have been running, or have a cab waiting. I gave him ten more minutes. There were police all around, but none of them seemed to be looking for me. Yet. When he did get here, he’d have half the force ready to pounce. It would make the perfect diversion to allow Munson to pass on the girls.

I headed through the checkpoint onto the set. The lights were brighter here. Beyond it everything was dark. I glanced at the camera guys. Two of them should be police techs, one watching for Munson, the other for his contact. They’d be ready to record the whole transaction. Assuming Korematsu had arranged this part of the sting, assuming I could really trust him. I squinted as if that would clear the fog. Korematsu was nowhere in sight.

But Jed Elliot was right at my shoulder. “Where
were
you? You’re late. Never mind. We’re holding the entire gag for you. Never mind. Wardrobe’s over there.”

“Sorry.” I ran to the trailer.

Today the cable car I’d driven into before was farther down, nearer Market. In the final cut, sixty seconds would have passed before tonight’s scene. The sports car would have bounced back, the cable car caught on fire
and now it would be rolling out of control toward Market Street, threatening to jump its tracks and crash into a bright orange trolley. Cable car aficionados would scream about accuracy, but fiction is fiction. As I jumped into the trailer, I glanced back, trying to gauge the distance between the cable car and the trolley, but the fog was too thick and all that stood out were the fire engine lights and the ambulances.

The wardrobe mistress grabbed a tube. “We’re not doing the Nomex suit, hon. Just the skull cap under the wig.”

“So I’ll burn but my hair’ll survive? You’re using the new stuff?”

“Yeah, the Canadian gel. You can have the fire burning off your skin with this one. Start smearing, Casey.”

Her assistant, a stocky woman motioned to me to lift a foot. “We don’t want to miss anything.”

“One patch of bare skin and you’re fried.”

I hated to distract them. “This stuff’s not freezing like the gels I’ve used before.”
In burns that took split seconds, no longer.

“Nah. Doesn’t need to be refrigerated. You’ll be real glad.”

“It works how long? Twenty seconds?”

“Give or take.”

“Uh huh.”

She handed me the denim shorts and red hibiscus-flowered halter I’d worn Tuesday. “Careful. Don’t rub the gel off.”

“Remember to keep your eyes closed in the fire. You don’t have gel in your eyes.”

Eyes closed in a gag I’d only run through in my mind?
“Thanks.”

The icy wind hit me as I hurried out of the trailer. Jed and the crew were swaddled in heavy jackets. The fog was gusting now, creating momentary clears. “Bitch to film,” one of the cameramen grumbled.

“Bitch for a fire gag!”

Outside the cordon, civilians looked like the winter follies. In one of the clears I spotted a couple watch caps and one tasseled hat. But I wasn’t cold. My worry was sweating, sweating the gel off.

“The set-up’s changed.” Jed pointed to the convertible. “We’ll do the insert in studio. It’ll look like this jobby”—he smacked the orange fender—“got tossed over here when you hit the cable car. Like I said, we’ll take care of that in-house. The accelerant’s on the strip beside the car, but the car’s going to go, so this is a one take.”

I eyed him for some sign he was in on the sting, but he was all business. Korematsu must have told him . . .

It’s good to have a second or third chance, but this was one time I was all for a single take. I glanced nervously at the gel. I’d read the script, choreographed the gag. The seat cushion had been replaced by the spring board I’d be crouched on, the one that would send me into the flip. I’d do a 360 in the air and land on a pad five feet from the engine. On film it would look like the car exploded, the force throwing me out. “Windshield’s been switched with breakaway glass?”

“Of course.”

“Give me ten minutes to do a check.”

“We’re running late. I’ve already gone over the car, the accelerant, the landing pad.”

“If you were me, would you take someone’s word? Even yours? Ten minutes. Five to check, five to get my mind in place. Ten minutes, real people time.”

“We’re—”

“Hey, it’s one take.”

“Okay, yeah. Sure.”

The grips were rolling lights to the far side of the car. Behind the director’s chair I could make out some of the first unit, one of the actors who’d been at the dinner with the second unit the other night. I had the impression the crowd beyond the cordon was two or three thick, but I couldn’t be sure. Was Broder there? The fog would be good cover for him. But here, for me, it was like having my eyes taped shut.

One of my ten minutes was already gone.
Concentrate on the gag. Focus!
I bent over the landing pad, eyed the tie-downs, the weighting, felt the heft of the air pressure. The pad was softer than a high-fall pad. I’d be doing a flip like a gymnast over the pummel horse, but I wouldn’t be landing on my feet, I’d be coming down head first, tucking and landing on my back so I could use the time in the air to appear out of control. I’d land full out, but I’d be on fire. The pad had to hold long enough for me to get off before it caught fire, too. “Seems good,” I assured myself. It wasn’t like doing the set-up myself, though. No one is as careful as the person with the chance of dying.

I stepped into the convertible. The spring board was a fourteen-inch square, the steering wheel replaced by a breakaway facsimile. I squatted down on the board, tried to run through the gag in my mind, but I couldn’t. I kept peering into the distance, hoping for the fog to clear an instant, to show me Broder.

I’d never
not
been able to do a mental run. I couldn’t take a stunt like this with no prep.

Wind whipped my hair. The fog cleared. I saw—omigod—not Broder but, was that Matt Widley? Widley had no business here at all! Had I misjudged—was Korematsu with him?

“You ready?”

“No! Jed I have to do a live run-through. Can you spot me?”

He hesitated. “Sure. If you’ve gotta, you gotta. Of course. When you’re ready.”

“On three. Lemme know when you’re a go.”

I stood up off the spring board for a moment, then crouched back down, felt for the spring board release, ran through the gag in my mind. “Okay Jed.”

“One . . . two . . . three!”

I hit the release lever. The spring board sent me flying up. I pulled my shoulders hard forward, hips forward, saw the ground, splayed my legs and landed on my back on the bag. Too close to the front edge, but on the bag.

My eyes were open! I’d forgotten to keep them closed. If this were real, I’d be blind.

“Great! Can you get a little more leg action?”

“Sure, Jed. No problem.”

“This is it! We can only burn the car once. No second takes.”

Don’t need to hear that twice.
“Gotcha.”

I rechecked the bag, stood beside the car, and ran the gag through, focusing on the extra torque I’d need for the leg action. The wind gusted, ruffling the edges of the bag. I could hear murmuring from the onlookers, but I didn’t dare let myself look. I shut my eyes, saw myself sailing up in slo mo, arching over, kicking in the air—wider than before—landing in the middle of the bag, rolling off into the arms of the tech with the fire extinguisher.

“Places!”

I stepped onto the spring board. The wind gusted. In the clearing Claire Cesko stood waving.
Waving!

“Darcy. You go on three after we ignite the car.”

“Gotcha.”

“In ten . . . nine . . .”

I crouched, hand on the lever.

“. . . two . . . one. Fire!”

The accelerant on the hood shot up flames. I pressed the lever. Nothing! The lever jammed! I stomped. Still nothing! Flames roared off the hood. No time! Screw the lever! I pushed off hard as I could, pulled my shoulders forward. Legs up, head down! I was too low. My face was in the flames! I was going to land on my head! I slammed down on the hood. Flames shot up around me!
Keep your eyes closed.
I flailed my legs and arms. The hood was too hot! The metal was burning me. I reached back, flung myself forward onto the ground.

The gel—twenty seconds. I stumbled forward, toward what I hoped was the camera.

“Cut! Hose her off! Quick! You okay, Darcy?”

Water hit me from all sides, slithering down my body with the gel. Cheers broke the tension.

“Fine. Lever stuck. I should have double-checked. Had to improvise.”

“You got it?” that to the camera in front.