Six Passengers, Five Parachutes

by Ian Bull

  I move to the other office and walk in on Tina at her Adobe Premiere editing system. She glances up and smiles. She’s back to wearing her khaki pants and white shirt production outfit, which always arouses me. She lowers her glasses to the bridge of her nose and examines me.

  “You’re pacing,” she says. “That means we’re officially in preproduction.”

  “How are the graphics?” I’m not worried. Asking Tina if her work is coming along is like asking the sun if it plans on rising. It’s the American contestant that has me spooked.

  “I’m almost done. Updating the betting odds in real time won’t be hard. I’ve created a type in format that looks great. It’ll be easy for whoever adds them, if they’ve done live events.”

  “Good. I’ll let Boss Man know.”

  “Or I can.”

  She’s in touch with Boss Man. She says it with complete casualness, a perfect cover for her complete, backstabbing betrayal. Get a grip, I tell myself, exhaling slowly. We did have fun on the mountain, and she did invite me to her room last night at the Holiday Inn Suites. We even shared oatmeal at the free breakfast this morning.

  “I need to pace. I have a trench to wear in this cheap carpet,” I say, closing the door.

  What I really want is news from the pilot I found in Alaska. She hasn’t answered my texts, but she may be off the grid or on a coke bender. She’s Impossible Task Number Four.

  I pace past Kat and Sydney again, cellphone in hand, willing it to vibrate.

  “How’s it going with the mobile offices?” I ask them both.

  “They’re coming in from Hermosillo, and they’ll meet us at the airstrip outside Cananea once we cross into Mexico,” Kat answers.

  “Pay them half now and make them deliver early. Any hint of a Mexican shakedown?”

  “Nothing that a roll of hundees can’t fix,” Sydney says, and answers a ringing phone.

  “If we’re going to be in the desert for more than two days, we may want to grease the local cartel boss,” Kat says to me. “But you already know that.”

  “Yes, I do, but thank you.” I keep walking. She’s talking about the Sinaloa Cartel, and Boss Man is already all over it. He knows everyone, just like he says. They’ll be providing the six security guards who will handle the prisoners getting off the plane and onto the DC-9. Plus, Boss Man’s two goons will be there, too.

  Ten paces and I reach the edge of the mezzanine. My cellphone buzzes with a text: In Texas now. DC-9 looks solid. Arrive in Tucson tomorrow. Looking forward. Pauline.

  That’s my pilot, Pauline Barnes, who passed Tina’s security test three weeks ago. She’s a former bush pilot from Knik River, Alaska. Pauline has been desperate for work since she crashed her Cessna into the Knik glacier, killing the three fishermen she was flying back to Fairbanks. She was accused of being a cocky bush pilot who took unnecessary risks and lost her job. She said it was an honest accident and that she was being singled out because she’s a woman, but the judge said her cocaine addiction was the major contributing factor. I don’t care. She flew DC-9s when she was carting freight for the oil companies in the North Slope, and she helped find a DC-9 in Texas for sale at the right price. She’s also a skydiver, and she’s insane. I’ll give her a garbage bag of coke if it makes her brave enough to leap out of the plane.

  Impossible Tasks One, Two, Three, and Four are falling into place. That leaves Impossible Task Five—find an American prisoner. My feet tingle, then lose their feeling. Fear always starts in my feet and moves in me from the ground up, turning my legs jittery. Pacing alone isn’t going to fix this.

  The tattooed ladies Kat and Sydney point at their board as I pass by. Another red check is on it, next to SUVS. They’ve gotten enough praise, so I head straight back to the offices. On one side, Hachiro and his team scribble at their drawing boards like drafting students. In the other office, Tina has stopped editing and is on the phone, laughing.

  She’s doing more than laughing. She’s flirting with the Boss Man, I’m sure of it. I swing the door open and catch her in the act.

  “A visit would be nice,” she says into the phone. She mouths What the fuck? at me.

  “I thought you were finishing the graphics package.”

  She waves me off. “Dirk, can I call you right back? Dirk?” she says into her cell, and then lets the cellphone tumble out of her hand onto the tabletop. “Fuck! He hung up.”

  “Who’s Dirk?” I ask.

  “Dirk Kaler is the warden of the Idaho Correctional Center. He finally called me back.”

  “Called you back?”

  “That’s right, he called me. Kwong gave me his info, and that was our second conversation. His gang problem is so bad the inmates call the prison ‘Warrior School.’ He’d love to get rid of one problem inmate, while also making money.”

  “You were flirting with him.” I shut the door behind me and lean against it.

  She clenches her fists at me. “You do this on every production.”

  “Do what?”

  “You freak out and become a dickwad. But this show is my ticket out, understand? We agreed that I will find the final American contestant. Now, let me work.”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I walk past her to my own unused desk, which is piled high with boxes and papers, and I plop down in the gray Aeron chair reserved for me. I swivel side to side, then spin around completely, just to piss her off. “Will you at least give me a progress report?”

  She twists her hair on her finger, so I know she’s upset. “Kwong gave me the names of four prison wardens, and Dirk Kaler’s problem inmate is our best shot on short notice.”

  “Is the inmate an Aryan Knight? Everybody hates a racist.”

  “In fact, he is,” she says, and hands me his casting one sheet and photo. He’s a blue-eyed blond guy with a broad Midwestern face. He looks like he could play football for Idaho State, except for the giant “A” and “K” tattooed on his neck. “Brady Yourell. Nice American name. He’s also a war vet. He started hating the Arabs he was killing, which he expanded to Blacks and Latinos once he got home. He’s in prison for shooting illegal farm workers.”

  “Any hook we can use for his video intro?” She’s right about me—the more nervous and upset I make her, the calmer I become about my own stressful situation. I like being a dickwad; it helps transfer my stress to someone else.

  “He’s the prison boxing champion, so he can fight. He’s also a white rapper. Him rapping his racist crap in boxing pants will be perfect. Betting will skyrocket.”

  “Keep looking. There might be someone better out there,” I say, swiveling around again.

  She picks up her cellphone off the table and holds it out at me. “Fine. You call back Dirk Kaler and tell him that. And tell him you need someone better in four days.”

  When I don’t take the phone from her, she tosses it on the floor in front of me. She points at me, then spanks one hand hard against the other.

  “You’re going to get it tonight.”

  My skin flushes with the perfect mix of anger, fear, and excitement. “Sounds fun.”

  “Focus on your own shit list, ADD Boy. I’m handling the American contestant. I’m going to Idaho, I’m doing the videotaping, and I’m getting the signoff from Boss Man.”

  Hachiro and his crew leave their office and wave through the glass as they walk by. I motion for Hachiro to open the door. He does, bowing slightly.

  “Yes, Robert-san?” he asks.

  “Don’t leave the building,” I say. “Kat and Sydney will have lunch delivered. Four Japanese punkers stand out too much in this part of Tucson, so I want you on the down low.”

  Hachiro bows again and backs out, shutting the door behind him.

  “Do you think he does that bowing shit just to fuck with me?” I ask.

  Tina growls and motions that she wants to strangle me. She’s right, my ADD is going gangbusters. I need to take my pill and pace, but before I can get up and escape, she rolls her chair forward until we
are knee to knee.

  “What about your camera and audio riggers? That’s what you should be thinking about. Lionel needs five brainiacs that can tweak cameras tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a plan in motion,” I say.

  “They can’t be the standard reality camera and tech people we use. Word travels too fast in that world. If you call one of your favorite shooters, he’ll pass it on to his buddies and we’ll be flooded with resumes. That’s too much of a security risk.”

  “I won’t be using standard broadcast techies. I’m going fringe.”

  “So tell me,” she says, her eyes lighting up. I really do still impress her. “I still have to interview each of them face-to-face for security.”

  I lean back and make her wait. “Peter Heyman, Mr. Body Mod himself. Your favorite TV pilot from last year. Mr. Too Intense for TV.”

  The corners of her closed mouth go up in a tiny smile. “I thought he went to Mexico.”

  “He came back. He’s working out of his dad’s garage in Phoenix. He’s back to branding chests, splitting tongues, jamming steel and plastic under people’s skin, crashing cars, and selling his videos underground. But his tribe is big, and he can’t make money fast enough.”

  “So you’re going to help him out,” she says.

  “I put him on hold when we were in Honduras. I told you I could find a crew that will work under the radar.”

  She smiles and her face softens. “And you’ve been keeping that secret.”

  “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “Do they know how to rig cameras for microwave transmission?”

  “He said he does, and I believe him. Lionel is interviewing him tomorrow.”

  Now Tina spins in her chair, tossing her hair back. She stares at the ceiling as she turns, laughing to herself. “You’re good. I take it all back,” she whispers.

  Chapter 33

  * * *

  Steven Quintana

  Day 11: Tuesday Afternoon

  Beverly Hills, CA

  Hollywood agencies are a lot of people talking on the phone. Walking back from the bathroom, I pass all the men and women in their cubicles, all dressed up, and they’ve all got receivers to their ears or they’re wearing headsets. Whatever they’re doing, it adds up to a cacophony louder than the parrot sanctuary. It’s a good thing this place is carpeted.

  I push through the glass doors and go back into the conference room. Simon Le Clerq is on the phone, trying to get me a lead on Robert Snow’s production, but he’s not making much progress. There’s a huge check sitting in an envelope on the table in front of him, so he’s got an incentive to work. His lawyer is long gone.

  “It’s not network…yes, it’s competition…fight competition…I already checked shooters who freelance for Telemundo…it would be on the down low…they must be staffing…let me know if anyone calls,” Le Clerq says into his phone, then hangs up and looks at me. “Livin’ the Hollywood dream.”

  “Four hours and no luck?”

  “I’ve called every decent shooter and assistant camera who’d get called for this. They know nothing about this show.”

  “You can’t mention Snow at all, though.”

  “Relax, Ranger Boy, I didn’t screw the pooch.”

  “He may have hired all his shooters already.”

  “Maybe. But the pool of shooters that can effectively shoot fight competition is small, and I know them all. And if it’s a decent budget, they won’t try to save money hiring a newbie. They need experience. That’s what’s weird. Word about this kind of job travels fast.”

  I pull out a chair and sit down across from him and drum the table with my fingers.

  “There are other shooters he might hire,” I say. “Extreme sports. Nature shooters.”

  “Those guys work solo. You want people who can form a TV team fast.”

  “We need another angle.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Le Clerq says. “So give me a strategy, and I’ll roll the calls.”

  “Let’s go the tech route. A show like this needs cameras. He must be buying them or renting them from somewhere.”

  Le Clerq slaps the table. “Yes. One big purchase, or one big rental. Snow may not be covering his tracks. He needs dozens of cameras, delivered all at once.”

  “Some cameras are cheap. An order for thirty GoPros may not get a blip.”

  Le Clerq scoffs and shakes his head like I’m an idiot. “Dude. I know the manufacturers of every broadcast HD camera. They know who’s buying their gear. And you don’t buy this shit off Amazon when you’re doing a show. They always talk to a technical director who wants to prep the cameras and get them tweaked.”

  He acts like going the tech route is suddenly his idea, which suits me fine. “Sounds like you got people to call,” I say.

  “Aren’t you going to help?” Le Clerq asks, as if I’m forgetting something.

  “I’m dead, remember?” I point at the envelope on the table. “And you’ve got plenty of reason to roll those calls.”

  I get up fast and a current of pain goes up my left side. Getting out of chairs still hurts. I join Julia, her agent Paul, and her big agent David next to the bagels and cream cheese at the other end of the long table. “Sorry we took over your conference room,” I say to David.

  “Forget about it. You made her lawsuit and bad press disappear,” David says and slaps me on the back. “Your crazy life would make a good movie. Ever think about selling it?”

  “You want to buy my life?”

  “We would sell the rights to your life story. Hire a ghostwriter. Do a book, maybe.”

  “I’m already a sellout. Now I’m just trying to make up for it.”

  Julia leans against me and runs her hands up and down my back. It feels nice. My jeans and t-shirt are a lousy contrast to her blue business suit.

  The console buzzes in the middle of the table and Dorothy the receptionist comes on the speaker. “Mr. Griffin, there’s another visitor in the lobby claiming he’s here to see Julia.”

  “Really? It’s a regular Greyhound Bus terminal out there,” David answers.

  “He says his name is Glenn Ward and that he’s a major in the Army, but he seems more like a high school math tutor.”

  I tense and pull away from Julia. Is she up to something?

  Julia looks at me and winces with guilt. “I didn’t tell him we were here.”

  “Send him on in, I’m dying to talk to him,” I say.

  Julia purses her lips. She knows I’m pissed.

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Julia Travers

  Day 11: Tuesday Afternoon

  Beverly Hills, CA

  Dorothy holds the glass doors open and Glenn Ward walks in, dressed in his ironed polo shirt and dorky Dockers. I didn’t want Glenn at this meeting, to avoid just this kind of confrontation with Steven. He scans the room, noting all the cameras and the electronics before making eye contact with the humans. He spots Steven and raises his palm in an awkward wave.

  “Hello, Steven,” Glenn says.

  “You owe me a computer, asshole,” Steven says. I pat his arm to calm him.

  “Julia gave it to the FBI. It’s now evidence in a criminal investigation. You and Julia are also talking to the FBI and the LAPD, right?” Glenn looks at Steven, and then at me.

  David interrupts. “I’m David Griffin and this is my agency. Who are you?”

  “Major Glenn Ward. I work for the NSA and a few other agencies. While I’m on leave, I’ve been hired to protect Julia Travers and Steven Quintana.” Glenn walks over to the breakfast buffet. He picks up a banana walnut muffin and takes a bite. “I report everything I find back to the man who hired me, Mr. Carl Webb, who will be back in town tomorrow.”

  “What?” Steven shouts, which surprises Glenn into inhaling muffin pieces up his nose, making him cough. Steven looks at me. “You said I had five days, Julia. That was our deal.”

  Steven’s negative energy makes me back up. “And I’ve be
en trying to get Carl to come back for the last ten days. He’s your best friend, so what’s the problem?”

  But I already know what the problem is. Carl is his former team leader and moral conscience, and if anyone can stop Steven, Carl can. I wish he were here now, but I don’t say it.

  Glenn coughs out a few more pieces of walnut and speaks. “No one told me about this meeting. Mr. Webb and I figured it out on our own. And if you don’t tell the FBI and the LAPD whatever it is you’re doing, we will.”

  Steven shakes out both legs like a sprinter before a race. That’s what he does when he feels cornered, like at every premiere party I ever took him to. I touch his arm and he pulls away like I burned him. Glenn is smart, but has no social skills and terrible timing. If he had called me, or texted me, we could have avoided this.

  “Found something,” Le Clerq says.

  “What?” Steven asks, darting across the room.

  “There’s a group of body modification artists in Arizona. They shoot video of modification procedures and stage and shoot car accidents. A buddy at SportCam just sold them twenty GoPro cameras and twenty CCTV dome cameras, with Wi-Fi and remote zoom add-ons. He was on the phone for two hours with the guy, who said he needed the cameras now and they had to fit his exact specs. This is a guy who never orders more than two or three at a time, and always tweaks the cameras himself. And he’s never worked in regular broadcast TV.

  “What’s body modification?” I ask Le Clerq.

  Paul steps in and answers instead. “Body modification is the next generation of body art, beyond tattoos and piercings. Body mod artists shape surgical grade metal and silicon into artistic shapes on 3D printers, and then insert them under your skin,” Paul says, then turns to his boss. “A client wrote a great spec script about body mods—”

  “It still sounds disgusting,” David says. “Shows how clueless I am.”

  “Want to see photos?” Glenn Ward asks as he slides his computer out of his backpack. He types quickly, and suddenly, the monitor at the far end of the room turns on.