Beating the Babushka (23 page)

Chapter Fifty-two

“Are we done here?”

Angelo was close enough to Adam Berman to smell the booze on his breath, which simply meant he was in the same room. He was sitting across the desk from him, which was closer than his usual safe distance at the door. Paperwork had many hazards associated with it, such as getting impaled by a letter opener during one of your boss’s bipolar moments.

“Almost done,” replied Angelo. “You said you wanted to review the shooting schedule.”

“Did I?” asked Adam suspiciously.

Angelo nodded. He pulled a calendar from a file folder and turned it around so Adam could read it. “You said you wanted to know our final day of shooting.”

Adam’s eyes cleared momentarily. “Yeah, when is it?”

“Today, actually.” Angelo pointed to a square on the calendar.

Adam leaned forward. “After today, it’s just editing and finishing?”

“Pretty much.”

“And we’ve got an editor.”

Angelo nodded emphatically. “One of the best.”

“So we don’t need Grace anymore.”

Angelo blinked. “Well, she’s going to supervise—”

Adam cut him off with an angry wave. “I know what she could be doing, dipshit. But we don’t need her, right? I mean, worst-case scenario, we could still finish the film.”

Angelo hesitated, until he saw Adam’s hand drift idly toward a paperweight. It looked just heavy enough to hurt. “Right, I guess—if we had to.”

Adam’s hand withdrew to a neutral spot on the desk, a demilitarized zone between the paperweight and the stapler.

“Then get rid of her,” he said evenly.

Angelo’s brow furrowed. “You mean fire her?”

“What did I just say?” asked Adam testily. “Weren’t you the putz explaining how the percentages work on this picture?”

“Yes,” said Angelo, realizing too late he’d copped to being a putz. “We reviewed the contracts yesterday.”

“So if we get rid of Grace after today, we don’t have to pay her shares,” said Adam definitively.

Angelo hesitated but now realized why Adam had wanted to meet. “Yes, that’s right, Mr. Berman.”

Adam nodded, satisfied.

“Then fuck her,” he said.

Chapter Fifty-three

The people gathered around the clock tower were scared shitless.

That was the idea, anyway. They were supposed to be watching a cataclysmic tidal wave as it swept inexorably toward them. Some were holding hands, others weeping. Many simply stared in shock, unable to run for higher ground. But now they were all looking at their shoes to avoid eye contact with the man holding the bullhorn.

“That was really pitiful,” boomed the amplified voice.

The actors shifted uncomfortably as the director stomped back and forth. He had longish hair, a high forehead, and pale gray eyes. His mouth twisted into a sneer of contempt. He wore a black T-shirt, studded belt, frayed jeans, and black boots that came to impossibly sharp points at the toes, which were capped with silver. The actors eyed the boots warily, as if the young director was prone to kicking fits.

He thumbed the switch on the electric bullhorn. Though he stood close enough to be heard without it, the bullhorn had become an extension of his body, a film prop used to inflict his personality on the cast and crew.

“That was take—,” he turned to a young woman hovering nervously nearby, holding a clipboard. She quickly read off a number in a nervous whisper.

“That was take fifteen.” He paused, letting them feel the weight of the number. “And it sucked.”

He scanned the crowd to gauge the effects of his motivational speech. No one moved. “We are losing the light, people.” His voice echoed off the walls of the Ferry Building. “Apocalyptic destruction is only moments away…a wall of water taller than this clock tower is coming…” He lowered the bullhorn to give the cluster of actors a baleful stare.

“You are supposed to be actors,” he shouted. “So act!” Brusquely handing the bullhorn to the woman with the clipboard, he stalked away.

There were two cameras working the scene. The first was in fixed position thirty feet from the crowd, pointing toward the clock tower of the Ferry Building, San Francisco Bay in the background. The second was a steady-cam, a hydraulic contraption attached to the waist of a cameraman, enabling him to carry a full-size camera and keep the image stable as he moved among the actors shooting close-ups. The first camera would pan across the crowd just behind the second cameraman’s movements to avoid catching him in the frame.

Grace was standing twenty feet away between two large video monitors. The one on her left showed the image from the first camera; the monitor on her right displayed the steady cam’s perspective. She was looking at her watch and tapping her foot anxiously when Cape came up behind her.

“Isn’t the sun taking direction today?” he asked. “Just tell it to work overtime.”

Grace whirled around with a stern expression on her face that morphed into a brilliant smile. She rolled her eyes toward the director as he stomped back toward the monitors. “If he wants to be the center of attention so badly,” she muttered, “then he should just put himself in the scene.”

Cape smiled and put a hand on her arm. “I know this is probably a bad time, but can you talk?”

Grace glanced quickly over her shoulder.

“Not really,” she began, then noticed the look in Cape’s eyes. “How about between takes?”

“Fair enough.” Cape scanned the scene and nodded. “Did you drive yourself here?”

Grace nodded. “Why, didn’t you?”

“I took a cab,” said Cape as he looked past her at their surroundings. “We’ll both take one out of here.”

“Why wouldn’t—,” Grace began. The director’s voice jumped at them from ten feet away, sounding strident without the bullhorn, the cry of a spoiled child.

“Grace, you mind socializing on your own time?” He looked at Cape and added, “And who the fuck is this?”

Cape calmly looked the director in the eye and stood very still, a placid expression on his face. Neither intimidated nor impressed, and it showed. Most people can’t stand absolutely still for very long, especially while making eye contact with someone else. It’s unnatural and vaguely intimidating, at some deep subconscious level. The director started to say something but thought better of it, breaking eye contact and turning his ire back on Grace.

“Are we ready?” he asked testily.

“When you are, Michael,” Grace replied. She did her best not to smirk as the director swiveled around.

Everyone turned toward the monitors. A man sitting in front of the first monitor put on a pair of headphones, as did a woman next to the other monitor. Members of the production crew scurried back and forth between the cameras, the monitors, and the actors—checking distances, testing cables, reading light meters. Grace watched them all like an attentive mother. A moment later the director raised his bullhorn.

“ACTION!”

Cape took advantage of the distraction to reach under his jacket and check his belt. At the small of his back was the revolver, on his right hip the oversized can of pepper mace. He didn’t expect trouble during the shoot, but he hadn’t expected his car to get launched into orbit, either. He had told Sally where to meet him but couldn’t spot her; he usually didn’t unless the situation warranted it.

Cape glanced idly at the monitor on the left. The camera panned slowly across the crowd of actors to the clock tower, its white surface reflecting diffuse afternoon light, casting a halo over the crowd. The clock tower was two hundred and forty feet high, the clock faces on each of its four sides twenty-two feet in diameter. It was designed to be seen from a distance at sea when it was built in 1898. Today it was scheduled for destruction by a tidal wave, according to the director, though Cape had his doubts. Modeled after a twelfth-century tower in Seville, Spain, the Ferry Building had survived the 1906 earthquake and fire that left the city in ruins. Decades later, it defied the 1989 earthquake that obliterated the street in front of it and tore down buildings all over the city. Cape suspected it would outlast them all, even Hollywood.

Above the clock was a balustrade surrounding antique bells that chimed every half-hour. The columns rose in layers to the peak of the tower, their gentle curves reminiscent of a colonial porch. Behind the columns, the bells were hidden in shadow, a stark contrast to the gleaming white exterior of the tower.

Cape switched his attention to Grace, who methodically looked from one monitor to the other, then raised her head to scan the overall scene. She seemed relaxed and in control, totally at ease in this surreal environment. He followed her gaze to the monitor on the right; as the second cameraman moved through the crowd, a slow parade of faces appeared. Cape recognized one or two as actors from the first asteroid movie. He assumed the others were extras.

A woman clutched a young girl, her lower lip trembling. Behind them, an older man pointed in the direction of the make-believe wave, tears running down his cheeks. Cape wondered if he was crying because it was in the script, or because of a sudden realization that his acting career had come to this—pointing at a mythic tidal wave for hours so an asshole with a bullhorn could yell at him.

Cape was turning away from the monitor when the camera focused on the next man in the crowd. Slick black hair and an aquiline nose turned toward the imaginary wave as the man pointed, his black eyes narrowed in mock concern. Even the distance of the camera couldn’t dim the cruel inner light of those eyes. The man looked as afraid as a shark at a swim meet.

Major Yuri Sokoll was a very bad actor.

“What balls,” Cape muttered. “The bastard put himself in the movie.” As he stared at the face on the screen, transfixed, Cape heard the Pole’s voice echo through his memory.

I think the Major wants to be famous.

Cape grabbed Grace so hard she cried out.

“Do you know who that is?” he whispered fiercely, pointing at the monitor.

Grace looked from the screen to Cape and shook her head. She waved brusquely at the young woman with the clipboard, who left the director’s side and bounced over to them. “Amy, do you have the call sheet?” she asked in a subdued voice. “And the head shots?”

Amy nodded eagerly, jaws working overtime on her gum.

“Find him,” said Grace, pointing at the screen. Amy looked just in time to see the Major before the camera panned the next extra, an athletic-looking man in a wheelchair holding a dog.

Cape scanned the cluster of actors in the distance, trying to pinpoint the Major. He spotted him toward the back, only fifteen feet from the base of the clock tower. The guy with the steady cam had shot almost all the extras—Cape figured he had maybe ten to go, presuming the plan was to shoot them all and edit the footage later. He looked at the left monitor and saw the fixed camera pull back for a wide shot of the entire crowd. He guessed this scene required another five minutes of shooting, tops.

Amy looked up from her clipboard with a triumphant smile. She started to blow a bubble to celebrate her discovery but caught herself, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the director. He was standing near the left monitor, wearing a pair of headphones. Amy turned her attention back to Grace and read aloud from a white sheet of paper attached to a black-and-white photograph.

“His name is Igor Stravinsky,” she said brightly, “from Des Moines, Iowa. He’s just an extra—we’re paying him scale, the standard day rate. He’s only in this scene, as far as I know.” Amy looked expectantly at Grace, who cringed when she heard the name.

“Igor Stravinsky from Des Moines?” Cape said in disbelief. “Didn’t that strike anyone as odd?”

Amy nodded, working her gum as if it were her cud.

“Funny name, huh?”

Cape looked at Grace, who sheepishly waved Amy back toward the director. When she was out of earshot, Cape pulled Grace even closer.

“You wanted to know who killed Tom,” he said. “You’re paying him scale—the standard day rate.”

Grace gasped, her knees buckling. Cape caught her arms and shook her gently.

“I want you to keep shooting until I get close to him,” he said.

Grace nodded, stealing a glance at the mass of actors only a short distance away. She looked like she might get sick. Cape touched her lightly on the cheek, then turned and ran.

Almost thirty feet behind the crowd, a line of yellow tape marked the boundary of the shooting area. Another twenty feet beyond, four white trucks blocked the road. One truck housed catering; the next was makeup, wardrobe, and a few bathrooms and showers. The next was a mobile production office, and the last held four private dressing rooms. There was roughly six feet of clear space between each pair of trucks, an alley running from the street into the heart of the production. Taking one last look around the area, Cape couldn’t see another way in.

He assumed all eyes remained focused on the nonexistent tidal wave, so he didn’t give himself a very wide berth or take it slow—he made it to the back of the trucks in less than a minute. Four doors were spaced evenly along the side of each truck, giving access to the various rooms and offices. Hoping to stay hidden as long as possible, Cape moved quickly between the second and third trucks.

The vehicles were seventy feet long. When he was halfway down the alley he could see the actors, their backs to him. He recognized the shiny black hair of the Major as the crowd shifted.

Twenty feet from the end of the trucks, Cape broke into a light run. He heard a door creak open on worn hinges as he passed, but he didn’t slow down. He kept his eyes focused on the Major. As he cleared the trucks, he reached behind his back and pulled the revolver without breaking stride.

Cape was nearing the yellow tape when he heard a sound like a jet engine, the sudden displacement of air caused by a huge object moving at high speed. He turned too late. The massive impact knocked the wind out of him and sent him flying. His first thought was that he’d been hit by a car, but in the back of his mind knew that was wishful thinking. As he hit the ground, he heard a bellowing roar.

Ursa had finally caught up with him.

Cape rolled, but the landing was still hard. Grimacing, he twisted onto his back in time to see Ursa lumbering toward him, head down like an angry rhino. Cape instinctively extended his right hand, but it was empty. He had lost his gun.

The great bear was only four angry strides away.

Forcing a breath, Cape rolled toward Ursa, hoping he timed it right. As the giant took a final step to close the gap, it looked as though he might stomp Cape into the ground.

Cape scissored his legs violently, catching Ursa behind the left ankle just as he was about to plant his right foot onto Cape’s skull. Ursa fell forward and sideways, collapsing into a sitting position at Cape’s feet. Cape cocked his right leg and kicked heel-first. The cartilage of Ursa’s nose sounded like crunching Styrofoam.

Cape heard yelling and knew the crowd wasn’t following the script. They had seen the fight, and were running. He briefly wondered if the cameras were still rolling. He wanted to look for the Major but knew he couldn’t risk turning away from the golem at his feet.

Ursa shook his head and coughed, blood streaming from his nose into the crevasses of his hideous scars. One red river found its way to his mouth and Ursa smacked his lips and smiled. With a maniacal gleam in his good eye, Ursa started to laugh.

“Screw this.” Cape grabbed the pepper spray from his belt. He was still on the ground only inches away from Ursa. Leaning forward, he thumbed the safety off and held down the spray button. A thin but powerful stream hit Ursa square in the face. Cape squeezed until the spray trickled to nothing. Even from several feet away, he could feel the burn in his nostrils as his own eyes started to water.

Ursa howled, his right hand smacking his face as if it had caught on fire. He snarled in guttural Russian and lashed out with his enormous left hand, grabbing Cape’s right leg. Cape wasn’t prepared for the speed of the larger man and gasped from the sudden jolt of pain—Ursa’s hand was a vice, his fingers wrapping completely around Cape’s leg as if he were a child. The giant hand was molding his shin like clay, grinding against the bone.

Cape tried to put leverage behind his other leg but only managed to twist around and face the other direction. He kicked his way around in a semicircle, but Ursa turned with him and kept gripping his leg mercilessly, blinking and spitting away the mace.