“Because…” He shrugged. Chewed. Swallowed. Sipped coffee. “It’s my first film.”
“It’s a backdoor pilot.”
Someone dropped some scaffolding. Hoots, shouts. All good-natured.
“Boy, I know that. Finkel reminded me of that just today. But it’s a film, too. And I can cut it that way, so it gets its time in the light.”
“Finkel is back?”
“Didn’t I tell you? No, clearly. This morning. He buried his son yesterday and got on a plane. You should meet him.”
I had absolutely no wish to stare grief in the face. “Later. Meanwhile, it might be an idea not to try to penny-pinch on the set, particularly when it comes to safety. Those people building the scaffold should be wearing goggles, and gloves.” They should be professionals, but that was his business. “And you should be running the air-conditioning.”
He half stood. Looked around. “We’re not?” I let him work that one out for himself: the shirt sticking to him, the scaffolders stopping to wipe their brows. His body was also beginning to realize it was exhausted. His eyelids drooped, the muscles over his cheekbones sagged. “You’re right. We should fix that.”
“It would make OSHA happy. As would gloves and goggles and protective headgear.” I reminded myself that getting involved in others’ problems led to nothing but trouble.
He put the half-chewed sandwich down, too tired to eat any more. Or maybe it was just that his appetite was ruined knowing that, had OSHA walked onto the set while he was lost to his digital edit world, they would have closed it down.
“The editing’s important,” he said.
“If you say so.”
“I’ll pay more attention.”
“Someone should.”
“I need to look at the budget. Protective gear… But the editing…” His focus began to drift again.
This wasn’t my problem. And Kick wasn’t here.
I stood. “Well, I’m glad Finkel’s back. He can help.”
“Finkel. Of course.” He stood, and walked with me to the door.
“AC,” I reminded him. After all, Kick would be back at some point.
“Right.” He called over to Joel and suggested the AC. Joel, in turn, called over one of the hands who didn’t seem to be doing much. Bri’s young friend.
The sun was still shining. After the heat of the warehouse, the air in the parking lot was cool and refreshing. I pointed the remote at the Audi, but Rusen beckoned me over to the second Hippoworks trailer, opened the door.
“He’ll want to meet you,” he said as we went in, at which point it was too late.
Finkel stood when we entered. He was a little under average height, and his eyes were wide and his hair parted just to the right of where it should be, for his cut. Grey showed strongly at the roots. Grief was a strong wind, blowing away the habits and vanities of a lifetime. There were no papers on his desk.
“Anton, this is Aud Torvingen. The owner. The one I told you about.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, and shook my hand, and gave me a huge smile that belonged to someone else, perhaps the person he had been before his son died.
“I’m very sorry about your son,” I said, and because there is no possible reply to that, other than thank you, which to me always felt like thanking your executioner, I said, “I’m afraid I don’t know his name.”
“Galen,” he said. “The last two years he always told people to call him Len. I hated that. But I understood. I called myself Tony when I was twenty.” He smiled at some memory. His lips were the color of old-fashioned rouge at the center, but the edges were dry. He had probably forgotten to drink plenty of water on the plane.
When Julia had died, I hadn’t slept for days. “Well, it looks as though you got back just in time. Rusen needs help with some production details.”
“Yes?” he said, turning to Rusen.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Rusen said.
“No. Tell me.”
“Protective gear. Goggles and things.”
“The crew won’t wear them?”
“Money. Do you have any idea what these things cost?”
“Do you?” From the straightening of Rusen’s neck I took this to be a flash of the pre-grief Finkel. “Besides, who says we have to buy new? Is there a clause somewhere? Half the people on set will have something at home they could use. Or maybe we could work out a rental agreement with a hardware store for product placement.”
“Product placement? We’ve finished all the shooting except for the finale and a couple of effects.”
“Never too late for product placement,” he said, though with an abstract air, as though he couldn’t believe he was talking about such things when his son lay dead, dead.
“Right,” I said. “I can see that you two are going to be pretty busy. I’ll leave you to it. It was good to meet you.”
I closed the door quietly, and stood for a moment on the tarmac with my eyes closed, remembering the feel of the world when I was grieving— like a cold wind on a chipped tooth.
Kick’s white van was backed up five yards from the warehouse door. Someone, hidden by the back doors which were both open, was pulling something heavy along the bed preparatory to hefting it out, someone humming Kevin Barry. Dornan.
A pause in the humming, followed by a low oomph, and a murmured, “What do they put in these things?” He stepped backwards into view, holding two cases of soda with one of bottled water balanced on top. He started to lift one hand to push the van door closed, but the weight was too much for one arm. He pondered. Tried with the other hand.
I stepped up behind him. “I’ve got it.”
“Christ almighty.” He clutched convulsively at the water, which nearly slid off, and started a smile which was abruptly extinguished. “Torvingen. What are you doing here?”
I raised my eyebrows. “It’s my property.” The words glinted between us, naked as a sword jerked halfway from its sheath. My property.
“So it is.”
Nothing on his face but wariness. “Do you need a hand?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.” No. More than wariness. Resentment? Anger?
“I’ll get the doors, then.” I put my hand on the warm metal. Kick’s van. “You’ll have to back off.” After a moment he backed up two steps. My biceps bunched as I swung the doors shut. “Kick around?”
“She’s at her sister’s.”
“Her sister’s.”
The case of coffee slipped a little. He had to grab it with one hand. I made no move to help. Her sister’s.
“You should carry those in.”
“My time is my own, I believe.”
“They look heavy,” I said.
“Well, yes, I suppose they are.” He didn’t budge.
We measured each other. I could break his spine with one hand. We both knew it. “Is she coming here later?”
“I’m not her keeper,” he said.
“No?” He lifted his chin, and it would have taken just one step, one swing with a crossing elbow, to break his jaw. “You look tired. Did you have a long evening?”
His pupils were tight and I saw him swallow, but he kept his voice steady. “We had a perfectly lovely evening, thank you.”
He had cried when Tammy left him. He had helped me countless times. He was my friend. I breathed, in and out, and took a step back. Gravel rolled and crunched under my boots as I walked away.
I got in my car. Reversed carefully. Signaled before I merged with Alaskan Way, then I called Corning’s cell phone. “You know who this is,” I said. “You missed our Monday meeting, but don’t worry, I’ll find you.”
I would find Corning and slam her head in a car door. First I would find Edward Thomas Hardy and break both his thumbs.
I hadn’t even known Kick had a sister.
I CALLED AHEAD, and this time a bouncy-voiced assistant answered. I explained that I was in Seattle visiting some real estate interests and checking up on the yacht they were building for me down at the lake. I was considering the possibility of moving here, of making a significant contribution to Hardy’s campaign, assuming I liked the cut of his jib. The assistant was very happy to slot me in, right away. I gave my name as Catherine Holt. I’d be there in fifteen minutes. They wouldn’t have time for meeting prep or any kind of background check.