“I don’t think the jeweler was right about that,” Jack said.
“Why?”
Jack unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled out the silver charm. Behind him he heard the girls.
“You talk to him.”
“No, you.”
Jack traced the blocky letters of the Latin phrase with his finger. “Ipse Dis,” he said. “My father may have been a worthy man, but he certainly wasn’t lucky.”
“Oh?” Hitchcock glanced behind him at the girls. They were closer now.
“If it wasn’t awarded after he died, he must have been wearing this on his last mission,” Jack said. “He was in the Pacific, on a little island where the fighting was fierce. The War Department told my mother he saved seven of his fellow soldiers by disguising himself as Japanese and releasing them from a makeshift prison behind enemy lines.”
“Well, that sounds very lucky indeed,” Hitchcock remarked.
“They got back to the part of the island held by Allied forces sooner than they expected,” Jack continued. “They were challenged, but before his fellow soldiers could speak up for him, he was shot by a guard at the Allied camp. A charm with even a little luck would have helped that guard see through his disguise, don’t you think?”
Hitchcock was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your father was very brave.”
“I wish I were,” Jack said.
“You don’t think you are?” asked the director.
“I’m scared a lot,” said Jack
“It’s a scary world,” said Hitchcock. “If it weren’t, I’d be out of a job.”
They both started when someone behind them squealed “Go!” Two of the girls were pushing a third forward.
“Perhaps we should follow that advice before she arrives,” Hitchcock said. He waved down a taxi across the street. “Fans can cause quite a delay.”
The girl ran up to the bench and stood before Hitchcock. But she faced Jack. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Jack replied.
“My friend Becky thinks you’re cute.”
“Uh . . .” Jack froze. He didn’t know what to say or do.
“What school do you go to?” the girl asked.
“Our Lady of the Clean Escape,” Hitchcock answered for Jack, “and we really must get him back.” He dragged Jack into the waiting cab. “Well, that was a close thing.”
Jack looked back through the cab window. He wondered which one was Becky.
“Mission Dolores,” Hitchcock said to the cabbie. He smiled at Jack. “We must check out the scene of the crime, before we commit it.”
THE STOP AT MISSION DOLORES was quick. It was nearly noon, and they had preparations to make. Back at the hotel Hitchcock picked up a stack of phone messages at the desk.
“From the studio,” he said, “asking if I have finished reviewing the location sites for the movie I will soon be filming here. I suppose I shall be able to tell them I have seen the mission, if only briefly.”
“You’ll see it again at noon,” Jack said. “Right?”
Hitchcock walked his fingers through the pile of messages and sighed. “Yes. I suppose.” He stuffed them into his pocket.
Once in the director’s suite, preparations began immediately. The director asked Jack to fetch a duffel bag or small satchel. Jack went to his aunt’s room and returned with a pink makeup case. “It’s all I could find.”
Hitchcock sat at the desk and produced a large pad of paper and a pencil. “In the cinema,” he said, “we have a most important tool, known as the storyboard.”
He began by drawing large rectangles, one after the other, on the blank page. “The storyboard is a series of pictures meant to show the action as it will appear on-screen in the finished movie. It indicates the objects seen on-screen as well as the camera angles and movement.”
“It looks like a comic strip,” Jack said, coming to stand behind the director.
“Yes. It does resemble one. Both tell a story by using pictures in a sequence. But the storyboard is more utilitarian, the art less developed. And the frame is always the same size, and in direct proportion to the frame of the film. Now we must see as the camera sees.” Hitchcock sketched quickly, casting lines on the paper with efficient ease. Soon a view of the Mission Basilica pews, as seen from the main entrance, took shape beneath the master’s hand. “We will sit in the last pew but one, so he will see us right away. He will sit behind you to hide his face and be in control.” In the first picture a closed makeup bag rested on the seat between a boyish figure and a heavyset man. In the next panel the bag was partially opened, with stacks of money showing.
“Hmmm,” the director muttered. “There’s a problem if he enters the pew from the right while standing. He might see more than we’d like.”
“You forgot a column,” Jack said. He didn’t like to correct the director, but Jack could see every detail of the church in his mind. Hitchcock had forgotten things.
Hitchcock regarded Jack with arched eyebrows. He stood and held out the pencil.
Jack took it. It felt smooth and cool in his hand. He closed his eyes and ran a thumb along the debossed letters on the pencil. He pressed the spot where the smooth yellow paint had been sharpened away and the rough, exposed wood angled toward the lead. As always, the intersections of arcs and cords appeared in his mind, and grew into the scene he was remembering.
Jack opened his eyes. He sat down and drew. There was that thrilling moment when pencil caught paper and dragging it across was like striking a match. And like fire the pencil burned the paper with black lines and curves. Small bits of lead popped and leapt behind as it tracked along with a satisfying scritch.
“There was a column outside the row of pews,” Jack said. “He can’t enter from the right. The column won’t give him enough room to pass.” If Hitchcock’s lines were quick and efficient, Jack’s were draftsman-like, fast and detailed. Soon the entire image in his mind was transferred to the paper.
Hitchcock stood, openmouthed, behind him. He retrieved a magnifying glass and a stiff paper from a stack on the desk. He held it up to the drawing.
“This is a photographic contact sheet from the advance location scout,” he said. There were several small photos on the paper. He handed the glass to Jack and guided it to the sheet so a particular image filled the circular lens. The angle was slightly different, but Jack’s picture and the photo were otherwise an exact match, down to the martyred saints on the wall.
“Remarkable,” said Hitchcock. “Draw a view from the confessionals, looking toward the main altar.”
Jack closed his eyes again. He rolled the pencil between his fingers and inhaled the oily scent of the pencil lead. He drew the view the director asked for, and another of Hitchcock’s photos mirrored his drawing.
“And you drew this from memory?” the director asked. “But we were only there a brief time.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I can draw anything I see.”
“But we never looked at the altar from the confessionals,” Hitchcock said.
“But we looked at the confessionals from the altar,” Jack said. “You just rotate things around in space.”
“Remarkable,” Hitchcock said again. He thumbed the edge of the pad and tilted his head this way and that in appraisal. “To be able to draw anything you see is quite a skill.”
“Mr. Hitchcock, if we try this, what happens when the kidnapper counts the money? Won’t that be the end of Aunt Edith?”
“The kidnapper must not lay his hands on the money until we have your aunt by our side,” said Hitchcock. “Once we have her, he can have the money. By then your aunt will be safe and we can go to the police. But until then he mustn’t touch it. That’s why you must be very brave and strong, young man.”
“Then maybe it would be better if I could draw things I haven’t ever seen,” said Jack.
The director gave Jack a perplexed look. “I don’t understand.”
Jack sighed. He pulled h
is sketchbook out of his pocket and folded it to the first page, Mom’s description of Dad. “ ‘Black hair. Brown eyes,’ ” Hitchcock read.
“See, I’ve been trying for years to draw a picture of my father. But I can’t.”
“Because you’ve never seen him?” Hitchcock asked.
“Right.”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“If I can’t capture an image of my father, how can I ever hope to capture some of his courage?”
A little series of hills and valleys popped up in the flesh between the director’s brows. “You’ve got that backward,” he said. “Spirit, emotion, character—these things flow from the artist into his work. Not the other way around. Our work is a manifestation of things found inside us.”
“Then if I can’t draw my brave father,” said Jack, “it must mean I have no courage inside.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Shouldn’t we keep planning?” Jack asked. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Hitchcock said. “Now, we cannot control the movement of our kidnapper, but we can assume he will come through one of the doors. . . .” Hitchcock went over what he felt were the most likely scenarios, always emphasizing, “We must control what our audience of one sees.”
“But what about when he sees you?” Jack asked. “You aren’t exactly inconspicuous. A famous director at the service might cause a stir.”
Hitchcock rubbed his chin. “Yes, so we shall take such precautions as we deem necessary to prevent that.” He went into his bedroom. When he came out he was wearing a beret, a false goatee, and sunglasses. He’d traded his navy-blue suit for a black turtleneck and slacks. With the point of black made by the beret above the dark expanse of his roundish body, he looked more than anything else like a walking, well-padded semicolon.
“Mr. Hitchcock?”
“Young man, you’ll give away my disguise. Which would be a pity after all the work the costumer put into it for the introductory spot I’m to film for my television show.”
“Then what should I call you?” Jack asked.
“Please call me Mr. Green—Shamley Green.”
“Ummm . . . are you a Frenchman?”
“My dear boy”—Hitchcock peered at Jack from above his sunglasses—“don’t you recognize a poet when you see one?”
“You don’t look much like a poet,” Jack said.
The director struck a pose, his hands extended dramatically before him, pushing as if against an invisible wall. He began to recite, “ ‘I saw the best mimes of my generation destroyed by madness,’ hysterical . . . um . . . hysterical and mad . . . Well . . . you get the idea. I shan’t be reciting poetry at the mission, in any case.”
“You still sort of look like you, though,” Jack said.
“Nonsense,” said the director. “I have transformed myself completely.”
“Maybe we should test it out,” Jack suggested, “in the lobby on the way.”
Hitchcock lowered his hand. “Very well.”
In the elevator on the way down, Shen was unfazed by Hitchcock’s getup.
“Going out, Mr. Hitchcock?” Shen asked.
“Going down,” the director growled.
As they walked across the lobby, Jack said, “Shen knew who you were.”
“Well, she knows my room number. She must have seen me come out of the door,” Hitchcock said. “No one else will recognize me.”
“We better make sure,” Jack said. He pulled Hitchcock through the door to Blum’s.
“Hey there, sugar,” Opal called from behind the counter. “More chocolates for your aunt? Care to share a sample?”
“No thanks, Opal,” Jack said. “I just stopped by on my way out to say hi.”
Opal took a chocolate from the little pile on a pink plate in the case. “You don’t mind if I . . .”
“Oh, no. Go ahead,” Jack said.
Opal looked past Jack at Hitchcock. “Who’s your friend?” she said, straightening her uniform.
“This is Mr. Shamley Green,” Jack said. “Mr. Green—Opal.”
“How do you do,” said Opal. She held out her hand.
“I’m cookin’, baby,” Hitchcock replied. He kissed her hand. “You?”
“Oh . . . uh . . . charmed, I’m sure,” said Opal. She looked closely at the director, up and down. Jack felt sure she was about to recognize him. Opal reached up to adjust her glasses, then realized she still had the chocolate in her hand.
“Oh . . . silly me,” she said. She held out the little confection to Hitchcock. “Do you know what these are called, Mr. Green?”
“I’m afraid I don’t— I mean, ’fraid not, baby,” answered Hitchcock.
“This here is a Cowgirl Kiss,” she said. “Can I interest you in one?”
“No thanks, Dolly . . .”
“You can call me Opal.” She took a bite of the chocolate. “It’s very sweet. Are you sure you wouldn’t like one?”
“Sorry, Dolly. Gotta cut out. Got a poetry bit to do,” said Hitchcock.
“You’re a poet?” said Opal. “I love poetry. It’s a sort of candy with words. And as they say, lovers are given to poetry.” She looked down and ran her finger along the edge of the countertop.
“I dig,” said Hitchcock, “but poems can be bittersweet, see? Now we gotta make the scene. My public’s chompin’ to hear my latest work.”
“Oh,” said Opal. “Well, good luck with your reading.”
As they walked out the door, Hitchcock turned to Jack.
“You see. She had no idea who I was.”
“Or what,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”
ON A BROAD AVENUE BENEATH the hills of the city, the twin towers of Mission Dolores Basilica, like the arms of a felon at the end of a policeman’s gun, reached for the sky. The Old Mission squatted like an accomplice beside it. The white buildings were bookends of the city’s history. The Old Mission, built before the city itself, was simple, handmade, and sparsely adorned. The Basilica, built after the city’s decades of treasure and tragedy, was as soaring and opulent as a wedding cake.
Jack and Hitchcock passed under the scant shade of a palm tree that grew in the grassy divider of the boulevard. They were early, as Hitchcock had insisted that they needed to set the scene before the kidnapper arrived. Jack nervously wrung the handle of the makeup bag, his grip alternating between tight and stranglehold.
A line of cars pulled up, led by a grim black hearse. The noon service was apparently a funeral. Six linebacker-size men approached the rear of the hearse and opened the back door. Their necks were as thick as Jack’s waist. They pulled out a coffin of burnished mahogany and balanced it on the shelf of their shoulders, three men on each side. They proceeded up the white steps, followed by the mourners in black, heads bobbing over their rosaries—like a murder of crows pecking their way up a corn trail.
“Quickly!” Hitchcock whispered. “We must get the proper pew.”
They mounted the stairs, rushing past the mourners. The pallbearers tossed them a vicious look when they overtook the casket.
“Maybe we should fall back a bit,” Jack said.
They did but remained at the front of the line. They claimed their chosen pew at the rear of the church as mourners filed past and settled up front. The bereaved nearly filled the church.
“The deceased must have been quite popular,” Jack said.
“He is now, in any case,” Hitchcock answered. “A corpse is an easygoing friend.”
“How will we know which one is the kidnapper?” Jack whispered to Hitchcock.
“I believe he will find us,” was Hitchcock’s reply.
“Perhaps he already has,” a cultured voice behind Jack said. “Please open the bag.”
A hand grasped Jack’s shoulder. It felt small, like a child’s, but the strength in the grip was all adult. A sharp leathery smell told Jack the man was wearing gloves. The casual familiarity and creepy warmth of the touch mad
e Jack shiver.
He glanced over his shoulder. The man behind him dressed well. He was small and looked vaguely familiar. Except for his size, he was what Jack’s mom used to call a “suave operator.” His face offered a friendly, warm smile. His hair was a warm auburn, graying at the temples. He sported an impeccably trimmed pencil-thin mustache. Where had Jack seen him before?
“Please don’t make me repeat myself,” The Suave Man said, “as I should find that tiresome in the extreme and think you rather dull. You don’t look like a dull boy. Eyes ahead. Do as I said.” He was very calm and cool.
Hitchcock seemed on the verge of saying something, but Jack beat him to it. “Is she safe?” he asked, pulling the bag closer to his side.
“She’s under wraps as agreed, and safe enough. But I can’t finish the job until you give me the money. I have expenses, you know.”
Expenses? Jack didn’t understand.
“Show the man what’s in the bag, Jack,” Hitchcock said. “He seems rather eager.”
Jack set the bag down in the exact spot indicated by the storyboard. The brass clasps clacked against the side of the case when sprung. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The priest missed a word, and a few mourners turned annoyed faces toward Jack. There was a sudden spike of tension in the church, but then the priest resumed speaking, and the natural reluctance of people to cause a scene in a sacred space smoothed everything back to normal.
Jack carefully opened the case lid. He knew The Suave Man was seeing exactly what he wanted—a case full of money.
“Very well,” the man said. “I’ll go ahead and take that now.”
The Suave Man reached out for the bag with gloved hands, but Jack pressed his palms against the money inside and slid the bag over next to his hip. He feared the money would stick to his sweaty hands, revealing the stacks of newspaper underneath, but he swallowed and plunged forward with the plan.
“Look, I need to see my aunt first,” Jack said.
Just then the great pipe organ began to play the opening bars of “Amazing Grace.” The people in the pews up front reached for their hymnbooks.
A Hitch at the Fairmont Page 8