Smoke and Shadows (5 page)

Most production companies with similar space limitations used a second location trailer parked close to an outside door. Chester Bane refused to pay for the power necessary to keep one running and had the construction crew throw up a row of cubbyholes against the back wall. Each unpainted “dressing room” was six by six, with a padded bench across the back, a full-length mirror, a row of hooks, and a shelf. The whole thing looked not unlike the “private rooms” in some of the sleazier bathhouses. The only thing missing: a dented condom dispenser.

Gesturing for Veronica to remain quiet, Tony scratched lightly on the door marked with
Catherine
scrawled across a strip of duct tape.

The door opened.

Darkness spilled out.

Tony leaped back and, heart pounding, found himself pinned under the questioning eyes of two confused women.

Catherine's shadow stretched from her feet to his.

Dredging up a smile, he flashed a fifteen minute sign, nodded as she did, and watched as she closed her shadow back in with her. Wondering if he should say something. Do something.

About what?

Shadows?

I've got to start getting more sleep.
He waved Veronica in front of him, pulled her back as she nearly stepped on the edge of a new hardwood floor—where the hardwood was paint and the actual floor was plywood. The art director, faking slightly salacious delft tiles by the fireplace, turned and flashed him an emphatic thumbs-up.

Life had been a variation on that theme all morning.

By the time he'd hit the craft services truck at seven, the genny op had been embellishing the story of him pulling Daniel from the burning car for almost an hour. No one had made a huge fuss—well, no one except Everett although that was pretty much a given regardless—but most of the crew had taken a moment to say something.

Under other circumstances he wouldn't have minded being the center of attention, but he hadn't actually done much. Since he couldn't explain that Henry had yanked the car door open, all he could do was hope that something else provided a new focus for people with long stretches of too much time on their hands—and provide it sooner rather than later.

Just as they reached the exit, the red light went off and as he waved Veronica through, the voices started up in his ear again.

Unhooking his radio's microphone from the neck of his T-shirt, he waited for a break in the tumbling current of voices. “Adam, it's Tony. CB wants to see me, but I gave Catherine her heads-up on the way. Over.”

His head murmured
soon
at him.

Soon?

“Yeah, great.”
The first assistant director turned his head from the microphone and carried on a low-voiced conversation as Tony followed Veronica along the hall, envying the way she could move through the costumes without actually touching them. She was what? Ninety pounds soaking wet?
“Listen, Tony, while you're passing, tell Everett that Lee's got that cowlick thing happening again and we need him in here.”

“Roger, that.” He holstered and peeled off into makeup to deliver his message, emerging to find Veronica waiting for him practically quivering.

“Amy said Mr. Bane wanted to see you right away!”

Tony frowned and shook his head. What was her damage? He'd been moving toward the office since she'd given him the message. “You're going to give yourself an ulcer if you don't calm down.”

Wide eyes widened impossibly further. “It's my first day!”

“And all I'm saying is that you need to pace yourself.”

As they emerged out into the pandemonium of the office, Amy stood, leaned out around Rachel, and beckoned them over to her desk without pausing her conversation. “. . . that's right, two hundred gallons of #556. Well, it might be battleship gray on your side of the border but ours are more a morning-after green. Yeah, great. Thanks. New supplier in Seattle,” she said, hanging up. “Charlie knew someone who'd cut us a deal.”

“Who's . . . ?” Veronica began.

“One of the construction crew.” Her gaze switching to Tony, she added, “Hail the conquering hero! So, for an encore, do you think you could save Canadian television?”

“No.”

“Way to stop and consider it. Fine. Veronica, you've got dry cleaning to pick up. Here's the slips.” Amy shoved a sheaf of pink paper into the new PA's hand and closed her fingers around it. “And if Mr. Palimpter tries to make you pay, remind him that we're on monthly billing and if he wants to know where his payment is for last the two months, tell him you're just the messenger and he's not to shoot you.”

“Is he likely to?”

“Probably not.”

“Doesn't the dry cleaner deliver?” Tony asked, abandoning an attempt to read what looked like a legal document upside down.

Amy snorted. “Not for about two months now, funny thing. Oh, and while you're out grab two grande Caffe Americanos, a tall cinnamon-spiced mochaccino, and three tall, bold of the day unless they're Sulawesi, then get two of them and one decaf. Don't panic, I wrote it down.” She snatched a ripped corner of paper clipped to a twenty up off her desk. “I had to print kind of small, but you should be able to read it.”

“Unless they're Sulwhat's?”

“Sulawesi. Go! And smile, you're in show business! So . . .” As Veronica ran for the door, she sat back down and flipped a strand of fuchsia hair back off her face. “. . . Zev's still in with Mr. Bane, which gives you time to tell me all about last night.”

Tony shrugged. “What's to tell? I'm just not as used to this stuff as Daniel's guys, so I panicked first.” Four years with Henry had taught him the most believable way to lie usually involved the truth. “You think it's safe sending her for coffee? Isn't that how you lost the last one?” Deflecting attention he'd always been good at.

“Trial by fire. If she can handle Starbucks at lunchtime, she can handle . . . CB Productions, can I help you? One moment please.” Jabbing at the hold button, she leaned across her desk and yelled, “Barb, line three!”

A faint, “Thanks, sweetie,” drifted out of the accounting office.

“Intercom busted again?”

“Still. Too bad it wasn't Lee in the car. You could have given him mouth to mouth.”

“It was a car crash; he wasn't drowning.”

Amy looked arch. “So?”

Before Tony could think of a suitable reply, the boss' door opened and Zev emerged carrying a stack of CDs.

“Well?” Amy asked.

“He wants Wagner.”

“Under the stunt? Isn't that a little . . . Wagnerian?”

Zev grinned. “Actually, yes.” Spotting Tony, he flushed and nodded toward the office. “CB says you can go right in.”

The static in Tony's radio seemed to be making patterns that were almost words.

“Tony?”

He flicked at his ear jack and shot Zev half a reassuring smile as he started toward the open door. “It's nothing.”

“If you're sure . . .”

“Oh, yeah.” No. Maybe.

To give CB credit, he'd spent no more cash on his office than he had on anyone else's. The vertical blinds had come with the building, the rug that covered the industrial tile floor was the same cheap knockoff they used in Raymond Dark's study, and the furniture had been jazzed up by the set builders to look less like Wal-Mart and more like Ethan Allan. The tropical fish tank and the three surviving fish had been used as a prop in episode two.

Not that it mattered because at six six and close to three hundred pounds, Chester Bane dominated any room he was in.

As Tony stepped onto the rug, he lifted his head slowly.

If lions had significantly receding hairlines and noses that had been broken more than once while playing pro football.

“Tony Foster?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lying flat on the desk, the huge hands covered a good portion of the available space. “You're the set PA?”

“Yes.” Tony found himself staring at the manicured fingernails and had to force himself to look away. They'd met three or four times since he'd started working for
Darkest Night
—Tony couldn't decide if CB really had forgotten him or was just trying to screw with his head. If the latter, it was working.

“You did good work last night.”

“Thank you.”

“A man who thinks quickly and can get the job done can go far in this business. Are you planning on going far, Tony Foster?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Think quickly and get the job done.” The dark eyes narrowed slightly under scant brows. “And keep your tongue between your teeth; that's the trick.”

A warning? Or was he being paranoid?
If I haven't said anything yet, I'm not likely to start talking now
seemed like an impolitic response. Tony settled for another, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” One finger began to tap a slow rhythm against the desk.

Was he being dismissed?

“So. Get back to work.”

Apparently.

“Yes, sir.” Resisting the urge to back from the room, Tony turned and left; walking as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away.

He stepped back into the production office as Arra emerged from the kitchen, a pale green mug cupped between both hands. Their eyes met.

And the voice in his ear breathed a name he didn't quite catch.

What the . . . ? Flicking a finger against his ear jack, Tony bent to adjust the volume on his radio, wondering where the hell the barely audible voice was coming from. He had to be picking up bleed through from someone else's frequency.

When he looked up again, Arra was gone.

“TONY? WHERE THE HELL IS CATHERINE?”

With Adam's unmistakable bellow echoing inside his skull, he cranked the volume back down. “I'm on my way back to the set, I'll get her.”

Amy glanced up from the photocopier as he passed her desk. “What did the boss want?”

“Honestly?” He shrugged. “I'm not really sure.”

Mason Reed, in full Raymond Dark, was standing just inside the soundstage door. He jumped as he saw Tony, turned the movement into an overly flamboyant gesture, and snapped, “The girl is not on the set.”

“Adam told me. I'm going to get her now.”

“I was looking for her.”

Tony had no intention of arguing with him although it was obvious he'd been having a quick smoke—the gesture hadn't waved off all the evidence. Legally, he couldn't smoke on the soundstage, but the whole crew knew he did it whenever he had a break but not enough time to return to his dressing room. Stars didn't stand outside in the rain with the rest of the addicted.

Used to skirting Mason's ego for the sake of the shooting schedule, they ignored him for the most part, accepted his lame excuses at face value, and bitched about it behind his back.

Mason, who seemed to think no one knew, maintained a carefully crafted public image of an athletic nonsmoker making sure he was photographed on all the right ski hills and bike trails.

Actors,
Tony snorted silently, as he walked back toward the auxiliary dressing rooms.
It's all “fool the eye. Don't look at the man behind the curtain.”

He rapped against the plywood door, knuckles impacting the strip of duct tape at about the middle of the Catherine.

No answer.

About to call out, he discovered he had no idea of what her actual name was. If he thought of her at all, she was just Catherine—her actual identity wiped out by the bit part she was playing. Unexpectedly bothered by this, he pulled the day's side from his pocket and stepped back into the light—nearly stepping on Mason who'd apparently followed him. “Sorry.”

The actor's lip curled. “Why don't you just open the door?”

“Well, she could be . . .”

“Could be?” His tone was mocking and Tony realized with some dismay that the young actress was about to pay the price for Mason almost having been caught with a cancer stick on the soundstage. “I don't care what she could be; she
should
be on the set right now and I have no intention of waiting any longer.” He curled his fingers around the cheap aluminum doorknob, twisted, twisted harder, and yanked.

With a rush of cool air, shadow spilled out onto the soundstage, pooling on the concrete, running into the cracks and dips in the floor.