Smoke and Shadows, Page 2

  From where he was sitting, he could see the front doors, nearly blocked by a stack of cardboard boxes, the door leading to the bull pen—the cramped hole that the show’s three staff writers called their own, although not in CB’s hearing—and CB’s office.

  If he turned a little, he could see Mason’s office and through the open door, Mason’s personal assistant, Jennifer. Snide remarks about just what exactly her job entailed had ended the day she’d pushed past a terrified security guard and strong-armed a pair of Mason’s more rabid fans off the set and back into their 1983 Dodge Dart. She rode with the Dykes on Bikes during Pride Parade and someday Tony promised himself he’d find the guts to ask her about her tattoos.

  Next to Mason, the art department—one room, one person, and a sideline in erotic greeting cards everyone pretended they didn’t know about. Then finance, the kitchen, and the door leading to post production. Somewhere amid the half dozen cubbyholes crammed with equipment, Zev Sero, CB’s music director, had an office but Tony hadn’t yet been able to find it.

  Behind him and to the right, the costuming department. Directly behind him, the stairs leading to the basement and special effects. Given CB’s way of making a nickel scream, Tony had been amazed to discover that the FX was done in house. He was more amazed when he found out Arra Pelindrake was a middle-aged woman who’d been with CB—through bad television and worse—for the last seven years. Safer not to think of the possible reasons why.

  “. . . so does it have to be that street at that time?”

  He glanced over at Rachel who appeared to be attacking a pile of order forms with a black magic marker. “Uh, yes.”

  “Fine. But I’m doing you guys a significant favor here and I want it remembered on election day.”

  “Election day . . . ?”

  “Municipal elections. City council. Don’t forget to vote. I’ll send your permit over this afternoon.”

  “Thank you.” But he was thanking a dial tone. He handed Rachel the receiver in time for her to answer another line and turned to see Amy’s shadow come out of Mason’s office.

  Or not.

  His own shadow elongated and contracted again as he walked across the office and by the time he reached Amy’s side, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d merely seen Amy’s do the same thing. Almost. Except Amy had been standing, essentially motionless, beside her desk.

  “You okay?” she asked, sitting down and reaching for her mouse.

  “Yeah. Fine.” Her shadow reached for the mouse’s shadow. Nothing overtly strange about that. “Just having an FX moment.”

  “Whatever. What do you want?”

  “Lee’s not here yet and he was supposed to be in makeup at eleven.”

  “Do I look like his baby-sitter?”

  “Peter wants you to call him.”

  “Yeah? When? In my copious amounts of . . .” She snatched up the ringing phone. “CB Productions, please hold . . . spare time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine.” She reached for the rolodex. So did her shadow. “What are you looking at? I got a boob hanging out or something?”

  “Why would I be looking at that?”

  “Good point.” Glancing past his shoulder, she grinned. “Hey, Zev. Tony’s not looking at my boobs.”

  “Uh . . . good?”

  Tony turned in time to catch the flush of red on Zev’s cheeks above the short black beard and smiled in sympathy. On her good days, Amy went about two postal codes beyond blunt.

  The music director returned his smile, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans as though he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re off set? I mean, I know you’re off set,” he continued before Tony could answer, “you’re here. I just . . . Why?”

  “Peter sent me out to have someone call Lee. He’s not here yet.”

  “He is. I, uh, saw him from Barb’s office.”

  Barb Dixon was the entire finance department.

  “What were you doing in with Madame Number-cruncher?” Amy asked.

  Zev shrugged. “She gets swamped at the end of the month. Sometimes I help her out; I’m good with numbers.”

  “Yeah?” Tony’d been leaning out around the boxes, watching for Lee to come in the door, but that got his attention. “I totally suck at math and I’m trying to come up with a budget. I’ve got to buy a car—the commute’s fucking killing me. Maybe you can help me out sometime.”

  “Sure.” Zev’s cheeks darkened again and yanking a hand from his pocket, he ran it back through his hair.

  “You . . . uh . . .”

  “I know.” He replaced his yarmulke and headed for the door to post production. “You know where I am, just give me a call.”

  At least that’s what Tony thought he’d said. The words had run together into one long, embarrassed sound. Fortunately, months on the ear jack had made him pretty skilled at working out the inaudible. “Hey, Zev?”

  The music director paused, one foot over the threshold.

  “That piece behind Mason at the window last ep? With all the strings? It really rocked.”

  “Thank you.” His shadow slipped through the closing door at the last minute.

  I’m losing my mind.

  “He likes you.”

  “What?” Caught up in concerns about his own sanity, it took Tony a moment to figure out what Amy was talking about. “Who? Zev?”

  “Duh. He’s a nice guy. Oh, but wait, why would you notice a nice guy who likes you when there’s . . .” She paused and smirked.

  “What?” Tony demanded as the pause lengthened.

  Behind him, the front door opened and a familiar velvet voice said, “Man, you would not believe the traffic out there! I almost had to take the bike up on the fucking sidewalk at one point.”

  Answering Amy’s sarcastic kissy face with a single finger, Tony turned.

  Lee Nicholas, aka James Taylor Grant, Raymond Dark’s junior partner and the vampire detective’s eyes and ears in the light, was six foot one with short dark hair, green eyes, chiseled cheekbones and the kind of body that owed as much to lucky genetics as his personal trainer. Although the show kept him in preppy casual, he was currently wearing a black leather jacket, faded jeans, black leather chaps, motorcycle boots . . . When he unzipped the jacket to expose a tight black T-shirt, Tony felt his mouth go dry.

  “Hey, Lee, how many cows were killed for that outfit?”

  “Not a one.” He grinned down at Amy, showing perfect teeth and a dimple one of the more poetic on-line fan sites had described as wicked. “They all lived long, fulfilled bovine lives and died happily of old age. How many migrant workers did you exploit for all that cotton?”

  “I picked every blossom with my own lily white . . . CB Productions, can I help you? Left you on hold?” Mouthing oops she waved both Tony and Lee away from her desk.

  “So, you’re off the set.” He handed Tony his helmet in full realization that it would be taken and carried for him. “Has Peter finished up early?”

  “No. Uh, late. That is, he’s going to be finishing late and he wanted me to tell you that you wouldn’t be needed on the set until after, you know, lunch.” Tony smiled weakly, fully realizing how he sounded. He’d been taking care of himself, one way or another, since he was fourteen. He’d seen things that redefined the word terrifying. He’d fought against the darkness—not metaphorically, literally fought against the darkness. Well, helped . . . He was twenty-four years old for Christ’s sake! And yet he couldn’t talk to Lee Nicholas without coming across like a babbling idiot. Idiot being a particularly apt description since the actor was straight with a well documented weakness for the kind of blondes he couldn’t take home to Mother.

  Lee’s mother was a very nice woman. She’d been to the studio a couple of times.

  Tony suddenly realized that Lee was waiting for him to reply to something he’d totally missed hearing. “What?”

  “I said, thank you for carrying my helmet. I’ll see you on set.”<
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  “Right. Yeah. Uh, you’re welcome.” And the dressing room door closed, the scuffed paint less than a centimeter from his nose.

  Tony had no memory of leaving the production office.

  He walked back to the sound stage; his shadow lingered outside Lee’s door.

  “Hey, Tony, you up for some second unit work tonight?”

  Marshmallow strawberry halfway to his mouth, Tony turned to see Amy approaching the craft services table waving a set of sides—the night’s schedule reduced to pocket size. “Out on Lakefield?”

  “That’s the one. Arra’s going to blow the beemer. You’ll pick up a little overtime and get to watch a symbol of bourgeois excess take a hit. Hard to beat.”

  “Bourgeois excess?” He snorted and chewed. “Who talks like that?”

  “Obviously, me. And if you’re going to give me a hard time, I’ll call in another PA to do it.”

  Tony waited. Picked a marshmallow banana out of the bowl.

  “Okay, Pam asked for you and CB wouldn’t let me call in even if she hadn’t. Happy?” She shoved the cut sheets up against his chest. “Trucks are there at eleven, shoot by midnight, gone by one and if you believe that, I’ve got some waterfront land going cheap.”

  “He led his city through the darkest night toward the dawn.”

  Heart slamming against his ribs, Tony jumped forward and spun around, managing to accomplish both movements more or less simultaneously and still stay on his feet. He scowled at the shadowy figure just barely visible at the edge of the streetlight’s circle, knowing that every nuance of his expression could be clearly seen. “Fuck, Henry! You just don’t sneak up on a guy and purr bad cutlines into his ear!”

  “Sorry.” Henry stepped into the light, red-gold hair gleaming, full lips curved up into a smile.

  Tony knew that smile. It was the one that went along with It’s fun to be a vampire! Which was not only a much better cutline than the one plastered all over the Darkest Night promo package, it was indicative of an almost playful mood—playful as it referred to an undead creature of the night. “Where did you park?”

  “Don’t worry; I’m well out of the way.”

  “Cops give you any hassle?”

  The smile changed slightly and Henry shoved his hands into the pockets of his oiled-canvas trenchcoat. “Do they ever?”

  Tony glanced down the road to where a pair of constables from the Burnaby RCMP detachment stood beside their cruiser. “You didn’t, you know, vamp them?”

  “Do I ever?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Good. Because they’re already a little jumpy.” He nodded toward the trucks and, when Henry fell into step beside him, wet dry lips and added, “Everyone’s a little jumpy.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Night shoot, moderately dangerous stunt, an explosion . . . pick one.”

  “You don’t believe it’s any of those reasons.”

  Tony glanced over at Henry. “You asking?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Before he could continue, Tony waved a cautioning hand and continued the movement down to pull his walkie-talkie from the holster on his belt. “Yeah, Pam?” One finger pushed his ear jack in a little deeper. “Okay, I’m on it. I’ve got go see when Daniel’s due out of makeup,” he told Henry as he reholstered. “You okay here?”

  Henry looked pointedly around. “I think I’ll be safe enough.”

  “Just . . .”

  “Stay out of the way. I know.” Henry’s smile changed yet again as he watched Tony hurry off toward the most distant of the studio’s three trailers. In spite of the eyebrow piercing, he looked, for lack of a better word, competent. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. It was what Henry came to night shoots to see—Tony living the life he’d chosen and living it well. It made letting him go a little easier.

  Not that he had actually let go.

  Letting go was not something Henry did well. Or, if truth be told, at all.

  But within this small piece of the night, they could both pretend that he was nothing more than the friend he appeared to be.

  Pretend.

  He made his living writing the kind of books that allowed women—and the occasional man—to pretend for 400-odd pages that they lived a life of romance and adventure, but this, these images captured and manipulated and then spoon-fed to the masses as art, this was pretense without imagination. He’d never had to actually blow up a BMW in order for his readers to imagine a car accident.

  Television caused imagination to atrophy.

  His upper lip pulled back off his teeth as he watched the director laying out the angles of the explosion for the camera operator.

  Television substituted for culture.

  The feel of watching eyes turned him to face a middle-aged woman standing beside the craft services table, a coffee clutched between both hands, her gaze locked on his face, her expression asking, What are you?

  Henry pulled his masks back into place and only then, only when he presented a face that spoke of no danger at all, did he turn away. The woman had been curious, not afraid, and would easily convince herself that she’d been asking who are you? not what. No harm had been done, but he’d have to be more careful. Tony was right. Everyone was a little jumpy tonight.

  His nostrils flared as he tested the air. He could smell nothing except . . .

  “Hey, Henry!”

  . . . a chemical fire retardant.

  “This is Daniel. He’s our stunt coordinator and he’ll be crashing the car tonight.”

  Henry took the callused hand offered and found himself studying a man not significantly taller than his own five six. Given that Tony was five ten, the stunt coordinator could be no more than five eight. Not exactly what Henry had expected.

  “Daniel also does all the stunt work for Mason and for Lee,” Tony continued. “They almost never get blown up together.”

  “I’m pretty much the entire department,” Daniel admitted, grinning as he brushed a bit of tangled wig back off his face. “We can’t afford to blow them up together. Tony says you’re a writer. Television?”

  “Novels.”

  “No shit? My wife used to write porn, but with all the free stuff out on the web these days there’s no money in it so she switched back to writing ad copy. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got to go make sure I’ll survive tonight’s pyrotechnics.” He sketched a salute and trotted across the road to a parked BMW.

  “Seems like a nice guy,” Henry said quietly.

  “He is.”

  “There’s free porn on the web?”

  Tony snorted, his elbow impacting lightly with Henry’s side. “Stop it.”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  “Daniel, playing the part of a car thief . . .”

  Eyes narrowed, Henry stared across the road. “Whose head is being devoured by a distant relative of Cthulhu.”

  “Apparently that’s what happens when you soak dreadlocks in fire retardant.”

  “And the size?”

  “The wig’s glued to a helmet.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “Yeah, that’s what our hairdresser said.” Tony’s shrug suggested the hairdresser had been significantly more vocal. “Anyway, he’s going to drive the beemer along this stretch of road until he swerves to miss an apparition of evil . . .”

  “A what?”

  “I don’t think the writers have decided what it actually is yet, but don’t worry, the guys in post always come through.”

  “I’m actually more concerned that this vampire detective of yours drives a BMW.”

  “Well, he won’t after tonight, so that’s okay. So Daniel swerves to miss this apparition and the car flips, rolls, and bang!”

  “Cars don’t blow up that easily.” Henry’s pale hand sketched a protest on the night as Daniel slid behind the wheel.

  “Explosions make better television.”

  “It m
akes no logical sense.”

  “Now, you’re getting it.” Tony’s face went blank for a moment, then he bent and picked up the fire extinguisher he’d set at his feet. “Looks like we’re ready to go.”

  “And you’re . . .”

  “Not actually doing anything while we’re shooting since we’ve got Mounties blocking the road, so I’m part of the safety crew. And as long as you’re not planning on telling the union . . .”

  “I’m not talking to your union as much as I used to.”

  He could feel Tony staring at him but he kept his gaze on the car.

  “You’re in a weird mood tonight. Is it . . . ?”

  Henry shook his head, cutting off the question. He didn’t know what it was.

  He wasn’t entirely certain it was anything at all.

  Jumpy.

  Everyone was jumpy.

  The car backed up.

  A young woman called scene and take, then smacked the top down on a piece of blackboard in front of the closer of the two cameras. About fifteen people, including Tony, yelled, “Rolling,” for no reason Henry could immediately determine since the director’s voice had carried clearly over the entire location.

  The car began to speed up.

  When they finished with it in editing, it would look as though it was racing down Lakefield Drive. Considering that Daniel was driving toward a certain crash, it was moving fast enough.

  A squeal of brakes just before the outside tires swerved onto the ramp.

  Grip tightening on the fire extinguisher, Tony braced for an impact even though he knew there was nothing there.

  Nothing there.

  Except . . .

  Darkness lingered on the other side of the ramp.

  An asinine observation given that it was the middle of the night and the darkness had nowhere else to go. Except . . . it seemed darker. Like the night had thickened just in that spot.

  I must’ve inhaled more accelerant than I thought.

  Up.

  The darkness seemed to be half in the car although logically, if the darkness existed at all, the car should have been halfway through it.

  Over.

  The impact of steel against asphalt as the car hit and rolled was always louder than expected. Tony jerked and winced as glass shattered and the BMW finally skidded to a stop on its roof.