The director shouted, the camera whirred, the stunt actor dived onto the bag.
“Better,” the caterer said to herself, nodding.
“It looked exactly the same to me.”
“Nope. He tucked his chin more: not so much face.” She was studying me again, and now that she was still I could see the vast fatigue moving below the surface. “So, Aud Torvingen. You didn’t say why you were here, but I can guess. And my answers are the same as they were last week: I have no clue about and no interest in finding out just how fast this company will crash and burn. My business is food, not reporting bad management.”
“Bad management?”
“Gone deaf?”
I shrugged. It didn’t work on everyone. “Tell me why you think the set’s badly managed.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Now that I believe: you want something so you expect you’ll get it. You people are all the same. I don’t know what song and dance you sold Rusen in his trailer but I’ve been around film half my life”—she must have started barely in her teens—“and I’m not in the market for bullshit. Oh, and anything you take from this table, you pay for.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
“Walking in here in Armani like a CAA toad, and Rusen going all gooey-faced, like you’ve just offered him prime time for his useless pilot?” She pointed the knife at me. “Sure you are.”
Her grey eyes were red-rimmed, and the shadow under them almost matched her irises. She had been up a very long time. She clearly wasn’t happy. Let her keep her knife, then. “I’d really like to talk to you about your thoughts on the management of this set.”
She picked up a cloth and wiped the blade. “I don’t need people like you getting in my way. Stunt work wraps after this and the crew’ll want coffee before hair and makeup arrive to do the actors and we have to start all over again.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“With any luck at all I’ll be sleeping all day tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow night?”
She turned her back to me and started chopping. She swayed very slightly. I wondered how many hours she’d been up. There was a smear of tomato between her pocket and her lower ribs where she might have leaned against a counter. It would stain if she didn’t put it to soak soon, but that would be the last thing she would want to do when she got home, exhausted. Maybe she had someone to do that for her.
IT WAS six-thirty by the time I got back to the hotel. Pascalle gave me several suggestions for places to eat in typical Seattle neighborhoods. I scanned the list. One had the same prefix—547—as Kuiper’s business number. The Jitterbug, in Wallingford. It seemed as good a place as any. I got directions, then collected Dornan from his room.
We drove north on I-5 and exited on North 45th. After a mile or so I took a random left and drove slowly down a quiet, tree-lined street. Crafts-man bungalows mainly, with gardens tending towards the English country cottage perennial, but the well-lit front rooms were affluent and urban: paintings and sculpture, books, exposed brickwork and oiled wainscoting, brushed-steel audio-visual equipment, good lighting, sophisticated interior color.
“These people have got to be Scandinavian,” Dornan said. “Look at the cars.”
Most houses had two cars to a driveway, one an old favorite such as a dull red Saab from the late eighties, or a mustard yellow Volvo of the same era, the other something new and imported: a Lexus RX, a Subaru, an Audi. Maybe I should have rented a Ford. “They’re good cars.”
“And so very practical.”
Dornan mused aloud on the Norwegian nature of the city: a hotel on the edge of the water called Edgewater, a wine bar in a bungalow called the Bungalow, a bakery called the Bakery. “The Boulangerie doesn’t count,” I said. “It’s in French.”
I got back onto 45th and in the Jitterbug we were seated in a booth in the cozy back bar.
Dornan, after a lengthy conference with the server about the pros and cons of triple sec (sweet) and Cointreau (less so), ordered another kamikaze, and I chose a pilsner. The calamari we shared as an appetizer was fresh and tender.
I told Dornan about my visit to OSHA and EPA, and Corning.
“So you think she’ll actually tell you what’s going on on Monday?”
I shrugged. “She’ll tell me or I’ll find out on my own. It’s not rocket science. Like any other investigation, you just follow the money. But why do the work if I can get her to admit her part?” This way I wouldn’t have to bother bringing charges or being a witness.
“I thought you were just going to sell and walk away.”
“I am.” Probably.
“Then this is about you wanting to win first?”
“Something like that.”
“You could just kick her round the block a few times.”
“This is less effort.”
He gave me the look that said he knew there was more to it, something to do with what had happened with my self-defense class, but said only, “What do you suppose rockfish is?”
We asked, and were told that Europeans called it mullet, which set me thinking about red mullet and how the Romans had prized them. I ordered the Thai steamed rockfish, he took the oven-roasted chicken.
“The drive to the warehouse was nice,” I said as we ate, and told him about it. “But the site had no security. I just walked right onto the set. I tried to talk to the producer but he—What?”
“Set? A film set?”
“A company called Hippoworks is filming a TV pilot.”
“What kind of pilot?”
I thought about it. “It’s called Feral.”
“Who’s starring?”
I shrugged.
“Christ, Torvingen, it could have been someone famous. You could have had lunch.”
“Do you want to go?”
“It’s a film set.”
I took that as a yes. “I’m going back tomorrow. You can come if you want. I have to talk to one of the producers. And maybe this most annoying woman, who seems to have some opinions.” I dug out her card. “She runs a catering company, oh, excuse me, craft services. Film Food.”
He looked at the card, gave it back, grinned. “Is she Norwegian?”
“You can’t say things like that when you meet my mother.”
“I don’t intend to say anything to your mother except ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Are you picking her up from the airport?”
“The consulate will see to that.” She would be taken off the plane and ushered through the VIP courtesies and probably be at the Fairmont before the economy passengers were clearing the gate—if she was flying. For all I knew, she could be arriving by train or car. However she traveled, at some point she would be standing in her suite at the Fairmont, and then she would phone me.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Fine. How’s your fish?”
“Delicious. But it’s not mullet.” I made a note to look up “rockfish” later.
IN THE car, I said, “Do you know what CAA is?”
“In what context?”
“The Film Food woman said I looked like a quote CAA toad unquote in my Armani suit.”
“Ah. That would be Creative Artists, a big Hollywood agency. I believe they do all wear Armani. Apparently they also move together in groups, like killer whales.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I read Entertainment Weekly.”
Which just reminded me of Loedessoel.
Dornan was grinning again. “Did she really call you a toad?”
IN THE hotel, I had a phone message from my lawyer, Bette: “I faxed those papers, but let’s talk before you sign ’em.” It was one o’clock in Atlanta; it could wait until tomorrow. I checked the fax: twenty-two pages of poor-resolution printing. I wished Bette would join the twenty-first century and use e-mail like everyone else.
I booted my
laptop. An e-mail from Laurence, my banker, with estimates of the worth of my property should I choose to sell. Let me emphasize once again, though, the importance of local expertise. I’ll send you a list of eminent local real estate agents tomorrow. I sent him a quick acknowledgment, then opened a search box.
Rockfish turned out to be a kind of bass, not mullet at all. Rusen, it seemed, had graduated from UCLA film school just a few months ago. Before that he had been some kind of software wunderkind. His small company had been bought out by a local behemoth. He was probably bankrolling his own production.
My eyes felt dry and gritty. I closed the laptop.
I emptied my pockets onto the dresser, pondered the Film Food card. Victoria K. Kuiper. Sounded Dutch. But no one calls me that.
Someone had turned the covers back. I found the teddy bear and dropped it on the floor. Found the remote for the fire and turned it off.
Vicky? Definitely not. Vic wasn’t right, either, nor Tory. Those muscles on her arms. Kory? Kuiper? Per? Stupid woman, waving that knife around. Film Food. Very Norwegian. My mother . . .
LESSON 2
THE HEATING DUCT HISSED AND FILLED THE BASEMENT WITH THE SMELL OF burnt dust but not much warmth. I made a mental note to talk to the Crystal Gaze advisory board about that. At some point in the last week someone had left a whiteboard balanced on the stacked chairs by the bench, and a grey pegboard against the far wall. Suze was there on time. They all were, which surprised me. I’d expected two or three dropouts. Today no rings glinted, no earrings dangled, no chains apart from the crucifix around Pauletta’s neck. But there were two pairs of wicked heels under the bench. Everyone wore pants and a tank top or a short-sleeved T-shirt, except Sandra. It wouldn’t surprise me to find she had a lot of long-sleeved shirts in her wardrobe. Kim’s fingernails were maroon today, and still long.
“Did everyone do their lists?” General nodding, a few movements towards bags or coats. “No. I don’t want to see them. I want you to remember, during this class, what you wrote down.”
Suze stirred slightly. I gestured for her to speak.
“You ever write one of those lists?”
“No.”
“So how do you know what you’re willing to do, when it comes right down to it?”
I could point to the bullet scar on my arm and the thin white seam under my ribs, I could tell her about the man I had put in a coma at the end of last year, or the gunman I had killed with a flashlight when I was eighteen. But she wasn’t really asking about me. “We can never know. Not really. Every situation is different.”
She frowned.
They know nothing, I reminded myself. “Are you willing to be a guinea pig?” I said.
“Sure,” said Suze.
I stepped to the center of the room, beckoned for her to join me, and the instant she began to move I lunged at her, fist raised. She flinched and stepped back and turned away, hands going up to protect her head. Most of the others—but not Sandra—shot backwards like iron filings suddenly attracted to the wall. After a moment Suze looked up to find me standing two feet away, arms at my sides.
She started to uncurl. “What the fuck was—”
I lunged again, and again she flinched and stepped back, but this time she didn’t turn aside, her eyes stayed on me, and her hands went only halfway up. Everyone else was pressed flat against the wall.
“One more time,” I said, and lunged, and once again she flinched, but her step back was small, her hands were in fists, and her chin pointed up. Therese looked as though she was about to protest.
I raised both palms and stepped back two paces. "Thank you. I won’t do it again—to you or anyone else—without warning.” It took Suze a moment to decide to believe me, then she lowered her fists, but not her chin, and rejoined the others who were stepping cautiously away from the wall.
“So,” I said, “what did we learn from that?”
“Never volunteer.” Pauletta, and she sounded put out.
“Besides that.” No one said anything. “All right. What did Suze’s first response look like to you?”
“Like you scared the shit out of her for no good reason,” Nina said.
“And what about her second response?”
“The same, but less.”
“I was not scared.” Several of them nodded sympathetically, even though every single one of them knew this wasn’t true. Christie patted her on the arm.
“And the third time?”
“Like she was about to run but changed her mind.”
“She was going to fight,” Christie said. More nods.
“She did flinch,” Pauletta said, sounding as though she were trying very hard to be fair, even though I didn’t deserve it.
“Yes. Almost everyone will flinch. Suze did very well.” Christie smiled. Therese looked slightly mollified. I wondered whether to file flattery under useful teaching technique or craven behavior. “So, the same apparent situation, three different responses. They were different responses because Suze interpreted each of my attacks differently. She gained experience. She extrapolated. By the third time she knew I wasn’t going to hit her. She’d also had practice at responding. In other words, each situation was different. Even though what I did was exactly the same, Suze’s experience level had changed, so it was a different situation.”
Which is why Sandra had moved only after she saw that everyone else had and might notice if she didn’t.
“One way to get some experience without being in real danger is to do a little role play. Has any of you ever done any acting?”
They all studied the carpet very carefully.
“Not since fourth grade,” Nina said eventually. “The nativity play.”
“Yeah?” said Pauletta. “Who did you play, the donkey?”
“Pauletta, Nina, you’re our first volunteers. Pauletta, stand over here. It’s night. You’re waiting at a MARTA station. You’re the only one on the platform, and the train’s late. Imagine that. Pretend you’re doing it.”
Most women learned very young how to play the roles expected of them. Girls’ games were built on the notion: play Mom, play nurse, play teacher. They played and played and played until they learnt to inhabit the roles.
Pauletta started looking up and down the imaginary train line, rising onto her toes, then rocking back onto her heels. She put her hands on her hips, sighed in exasperation. The picture of a tired, irritated commuter.
“Nina, over there. You’re male, about thirty, you’ve had a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s, you feel like a big man. Imagine how that feels. You walk onto the platform and see this sweet young thing waiting at the other end. You realize that if you wanted to, you could have some fun.”
Women observed male behavior closely, learnt to parse every nuance. Like antelope with lions, their safety sometimes depended on it.
Nina leered and sauntered forward, head relaxed, gaze moving here and there, taking in the fact that they were the only people, slowing as she approached the woman on the platform. Pauletta turned her shoulders slightly away from the man and put her hands in her pockets.
“You can speak, if you like.”
“Um-um,” said Nina, appraisal vibrating in every syllable. “Hello, darlin’.”
Pauletta looked away. Perfect.
“Okay. Freeze frame.” I turned to the rest of the class. “What do you see?”
“She’s frightened,” Jennifer said.
Nods.
“She’s hoping he’ll just go away,” Tonya said. More nods.
“Do you think he will?”
“Fuck no,” said Suze.
“How do you know that?”
“Look at him. He’s gonna play with her. He knows she’s not gonna stop him.”
“So what do you think will happen next? Therese?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. The delicate muscles at the top of her shoulders flexed as she folded her arms. “It depends on what she does.”
Sandra was watching the
imaginary platform intently. I said, “Does anyone think Pauletta could stop him at this point? Sandra?”
When she heard her name her belly tightened—the waistband of her sweatpants moved a good inch—and she didn’t look at me, but nodded.
“Why do you think that?”
She looked at me sideways. “Because he doesn’t really want to hurt her.”
Pauletta broke her pose and turned round. “What—”
“Nina, stay exactly as you are. Everyone, look at Nina. Look carefully. Remember what you see. Nina, tell us what you were imagining your character to be thinking. You can move now if you want.”
She turned round. “I was thinking, Hey, I feel good, she looks good, wonder if she wants to chat. When she turned away, I thought, Uptight bitch, and got ticked off. She messed with my mood, you know?” I could almost hear a voice from her teenage years: Smile, foxy lady, I’m feeling so mellow. . . .
“Who are you calling an uptight bitch?” Pauletta said.
The two of them clearly trusted each other reasonably well. I wouldn’t do what came next with Sandra or Jennifer or Katherine. “Pauletta, if you’d go back to how you were before you saw the man come onto the platform, that’s right, turned this way, hands out of pockets to begin with. Nina, I want you to imagine that this time you mean business. You were out drinking because you just got fired. You don’t feel good, and you want this woman to not feel good, either. You want to hurt her. Think about it, get a clear picture in your head of how you’re going to hurt her. No, start back here again. Good. Go.”
The difference was obvious. This time there was no swagger. Her head did not turn, because she already knew they were on their own. Her gaze was focused on Pauletta, chin slightly down. One hand came forward, the other stayed in her pocket, but tense. Unease rippled through the women behind me.
“Okay. Stop. Thank you. Take a moment to stretch.” More to shed the role than anything. I turned to the rest of the group. “Did you see the difference? ”
Everyone nodded. “It was creepy,” said Christie. “He—she—had a gun in his pocket.”
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