Switchback Page 7

  ‘Have to work fast,’ she said, mostly to herself, ‘to get all these done.’ On the rack hung five identical dresses. In case – for the likelihood – that one or two would be ripped beyond salvation with each gag.

  By the time I changed back into my own sweatshirt and tights and walked out the light had changed, as if the fog had been vacuumed up. It wasn’t quite dawn, but it wouldn’t be long. There’d be no action on this set today, which was just as well for me.

  ‘More coffee?’ Aurelia popped up at my side.

  ‘Sure.’

  In seconds she was back with coffee and going at a cheese Danish. ‘What’re you doing now?’ she said between bites. ‘Dainen said it was OK to ask you.’

  You asked Beretski? On my first day? I was going to have to deal with this, pronto. But not here. I inhaled very slowly and said, without revealing outrage, ‘I’ll be studying the Sides and reading over the gag part carefully.’

  ‘Gag? Stunt, huh?’

  I nodded. There was still a lot for Dainen to figure out, but that wasn’t the kind of information I’d be passing on to an outsider.

  As if bouncing foot to foot and drinking coffee without spillage wasn’t enough, she eyed the page in my hand. In my family I’d been called Monkey, the wired child, etc., but Aurelia was buzzing at a whole ’nother level. ‘There’re eight curves on this block,’ she said, ‘but only three gags?’

  ‘Eight switchbacks, right. But you can’t do a gag on every turn. First, it would be almost impossible to set up and to pull off. Second – and even more important – eight gags one after another would look ludicrous. Viewers would be laughing – at us! It would take them right out of the watching-the-movie mode and into hooting and throwing popcorn.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Or they’d be overwhelmed. Or just get bored.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Aurelia, this kind of stunt is like an old joke. One, two, three. Set-up, repetition, punch line. Here it’s one switchback mild enough to show you the set-up; the second clear enough to expose the looming dangers. Then, boom, the payoff. Frightening … terrifying … Omigod!’

  At the far sidewalk, Dainen stood face-to-face with another man in black, their arms out, pointing down the street. They could have been waltzing. Gaffers were moving boxes on dollies. The lighting crew stood by banks of lights but left the bulbs dark. They wouldn’t turn them on until it was time for the run-through.

  ‘How come no lights?’ Aurelia asked, following my gaze.

  ‘This time of morning the natural light changes by the minutes. And day to day. This morning we’ve got fog. Tomorrow it could be clear. Or it could rain. February’s an iffy month here. The crew will need to check, but – and this is important – no one wants to irritate the neighbors by shining lights in their bedrooms or running late on the set here. They’ve already got big trucks.’ I nodded at the vans parked on Lombard on the far side of Hyde Street, making things more congested than normal. ‘And they’ve got all of us here before dawn. Notice how quiet people are?’

  She was going at the last bite and for a moment the clack of her teeth drummed into the silence. For that moment nearly everyone on the set was staring at Aurelia chewing. She went pink. Then she laughed, but silently. And all around us, gaffers, crew guys, the scripty, a.k.a continuity supervisor, and the clutch of neighbors or tourists on the sidewalks were smiling.

  Then they were all back to looking at sketches, at retaining walls, checking the slope or walking their dogs. Aurelia was eyeing the light banks.

  ‘That’s it, guys! Let’s break it down. We’ve got ten minutes to get clear,’ Dainen called. The first loud voice of the morning.

  ‘You just have time to make morning zazen, Aurelia.’

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘I need to talk to Dainen.’ I gave her a send-off tap on the shoulder and, in case she missed the point, added, ‘See you there.’

  I looked around for the stunt coordinator. I wanted to meet him or her. But no likely candidate stood out, and by the time Dainen, the second unit director and thus his boss, finished up, banks of lights had been loaded into trucks, the wardrobe truck was locked and the lunch wagon gone. SUVs with out-of-state plates were waddling around the switchbacks, cell phones and iPads held out of their windows, cars on their tails. And Beretski was double-timing it up the street.

  ‘Dainen! Can you give me the stunt coordinator’s number?’

  ‘Don’t have one!’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘No phone?’

  ‘No coordinator.’

  ‘Who’s—?’

  ‘Me. Double-dutying.’

  ‘Really?’ Dangerous.

  ‘First day here and you’re telling me my job?’

  I hesitated, briefly but big time. There are instants that can change your life. It’s rare you know it at the moment, but this time I sure did. My whole professional future hung on this job and I’d just put it on the line!

  Dainen Beretski was not smiling.

  I flashed a grin and said, ‘Hey, that’s why you hired me!’

  A blue car pulled up beside him. Without looking back, he slid in.

  TEN

  I ran because I was late – I’d miss morning zazen entirely – and to outrace the dread about Beretski and my tentative hold on my job. What were the odds of my being canned on my first day? Hot-shot second unit directors do not like being second guessed, particularly by a stunt double who’s been on the job all of two hours.

  Panting, I crossed Columbus, skidded to a more zendo-suitable walk at Renzo’s closed cafe and found the courtyard flush with more post-morning zazen people than I’d ever seen here. As I veered through the opening between the low stone wall and the building, a burly, wooly bundle of gray – for a moment I took him to be Hudson Poulsson, Leo’s driver yesterday, but he wasn’t – grumbled past me, jamming a sleeping bag into a wheeled duffle while trying to fold up one of those silvery warmth blankets agencies give the homeless. He nearly sideswiped me, leaving a trail of eau de sweat and wet wool.

  A hand – not his – grabbed my arm. ‘We’ve got a problem.’ Nezer Deutsch, Leo’s doctor. He pulled me toward the zendo door, past Tully Lennox, Lila and Mr Golf Cart, the reporter who had been so outraged at Snell’s questioning yesterday morning.

  I thought they’d follow, that everyone would. But even the reporter stood, as if transfixed. ‘Leo …’ Deutsch cleared his throat. ‘I think someone was poised to attack Mr Garson.’

  ‘Now? Here? Upstairs? Is Leo hurt? What—’

  He stared.

  ‘Did you take care of him?’

  ‘The attacker didn’t actually get to him.’ He stepped back, moving his thin frame as if by remote control. He looked like a creature that hadn’t seen the sun in months, and maybe he was. Like someone who needed a long night’s sleep before making any decisions. If Leo didn’t heal fast we’d have to discuss this medical choice of his. Deutsch cleared his throat. ‘Someone was hanging around outside Mr Garson’s door.’

  ‘Maybe someone who just wanted to see him?’

  ‘No. It was different.’ He seemed uneasy, like he was about to reveal a bad diagnosis, one he couldn’t be entirely certain about but which he could not avoid mentioning. ‘A person waiting to visit a patient walks heavily up the stairs. They want to give warning, to let the sick person prepare themselves. I’ve seen this many times in the hospital; people make a noise outside the room. But this, today … I didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. The stairs are wooden. Even rubber soles would, uh, clump on them. I only realized later that I’d heard someone; the steps were that soft. And then, later, when I was about to leave – I was still inside the room – I had my hand on the knob, the door several millimeters ajar. I was facing the patient, talking … someone rushed across the landing and down the stairs.’

  ‘They went right past you?’

  ‘Behind me.’

  ‘Did you turn around?’

  ‘As I said, th
ey rushed. I turned, but they’d already gone downstairs. I heard the door shut. There was nothing to see. My point’ – he paused, pointedly – ‘is that this building is a very open place. You should be careful. Take measures.’

  ‘But Leo’s OK, right?’

  ‘For now. But there’s not much point in my coming to treat him if you’re going to leave the door open for public transit.’ He stood, arms crossed, his badly cut brown hair unkempt, as if this trip to see Leo had robbed him of the time to comb it. The man was resentment personified. I had the feeling he would clutch his inconvenience and nurture the grudge as long as he could.

  ‘Right!’ I whipped behind him, into the building, leaving him to deal with the crowd of Leo’s students eager for news – good news – of their teacher. And the reporter, who was just eager.

  I took the stairs two at a time. Leo’s door was shut.

  I knocked. ‘Leo?’

  He made a noise I chose to translate as ‘come in.’

  Leo lay on the floor, blankets crumpled around him like discarded Kleenex. His eyelids fluttered almost shut. His skin was moist, sallow.

  ‘Are you OK?’ A not-bright question. I knelt down next to his head. No new bruises. ‘Leo! Was someone in here?’

  ‘Nezer.’

  ‘The doctor, sure. Anyone else?’

  His head rolled side to side as if he was shaking it ‘no.’ But he could have just been moving it. He squeezed his eyes a couple times as if trying to focus. ‘Bathroom.’

  ‘You mean you were trying to get up?’

  ‘Now.’

  I helped him roll onto his stomach and then up. For a man who had done thousands of full bows before the altar, rocking back on his heels and springing, in a stately manner, up, the move was almost instinctual and I only needed to put a supportive hand on his back.

  Once on his feet, though, instinct and energy vanished. With his arm around my shoulder, mine supporting his back, we turned to the door.

  The reporter stood in the doorway, notepad out.

  ‘This is our private—’

  ‘Who attacked you … sir?’

  Sir!

  Leo groaned.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I hissed.

  ‘I’m just ask—’

  ‘Out … of … the … way!’

  He moved back, reluctantly. I did a quick glide with Leo into the bathroom and pulled the door shut.

  Leo propped a hand on the sink, looking considerably steadier than before. ‘I can handle this.’ He winked.

  Or close enough.

  I was so relieved I just stood there smiling until he stage-whispered, ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  I stepped back into the tiny hallway. Once again I was face-to-face with the reporter.

  ‘Roman Westcoff. Call me Ro,’ he said, as if proffering a gift.

  Everything about the guy said ‘on-the-run.’ Lanky but no way near muscular. Skin uneven in tone and texture, as if his idea of dinner came from dropping quarters into a slot. Pale hair so short he might have painted his skull. A dark tweed jacket that must have looked great new on its original owner but was now frayed and pocket-sprung from jammed-in pens, tape recorders, lunch maybe. Running shoes.

  He kept his head thrust forward as if to catch the words first. It was a narrow head with the features thrusting, too. Narrowed eyes and a protruding nose with a little bulb on the end. And oddly, a touch of cologne that filled me with a nostalgia I couldn’t place.

  Before I could speak, he broke that spell. ‘Yeah, I’m still here. Still waiting for a single word with Mr Garson.’

  Single word. Yeah, right! ‘Can’t you see how sick he is?’

  ‘Answer me one question.’

  ‘Can’t you— Oh, hell, what?’ I was half listening, ear cocked for the first sound of Leo stumbling, half trying to politely, ridiculously, block out toilet noises.

  ‘Who did this to him?’

  ‘That’s your one question?’

  ‘This isn’t a game.’

  You’re telling me! A dozen sarcasms rushed forward. All the tension of the last thirty-six hours burst in my skull. ‘Get out! Just go!’

  ‘Hey, I thought you Buddhists were big on compassion.’

  ‘We’re not big on being patsies.’

  ‘I’m just asking—’

  ‘Ask later. Downstairs!’ It was all I could do to not grab him, turn him around and head – not shove – him to the stairs.

  ‘I still have one question.’

  ‘Downstairs!’ Now I did reach toward him.

  He moved down onto the first step. And stopped. Notebook still out. ‘Tell me this: where does Garson-roshi go on Wednesdays?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wednesdays, where does he go?’

  ‘Every Wednesday?’

  ‘The last Wednesday of the month. Every month.’

  ‘Those are your questions: who attacked him, something you presume I know but just haven’t gotten around to mentioning to anyone. And what does he do at teatime on Wednesdays?’

  Sarcasm slipped right off him. ‘Your answer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The toilet flushed. Was Leo signaling me to get rid of Westcoff? He could hear our voices on this side of the flimsy door. Or was a man in the bathroom just flushing the toilet? Whichever, I needed to get this reporter out of here.

  I decided to go with facts. ‘Wednesdays? There are a lot of possibilities. Priests meeting. Senior students meeting. Committee meetings. Meetings about the practice of the Practice. The world of emptiness is full of meetings.’

  I thought he’d at least smile. Not a twitch. He said, ‘Meetings outside the city?’

  ‘Where outside?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know. No, really. I have no idea.’

  ‘But you will, right? You’ll get the answer.’ Now he smiled, a knowing little smile, like he’d scooped a bit of me into one of those bulging pockets.

  And he probably had. ‘Maybe,’ I wavered.

  ‘And you’ll text. Since I’m the one who pointed this out to you.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Water shot into the bathroom sink. It sloshed against the porcelain. Westcoff’s eyes shot to the door. No way was I going to let him get at Leo.

  Westcoff turned back toward me and stared long enough to make eye contact. ‘I don’t give up.’

  ‘Bully for you.’

  ‘Hey, I—’

  ‘Downstairs.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Downstairs. Come on.’ As soon as he turned the corner on the landing I called to Leo, ‘I’ll just be a minute. You OK in there?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice quavered. If he was OK, he wouldn’t be for long.

  I raced down. Of course, Westcoff was waiting not an inch from the bottom step. ‘Trying to grow elephant ears?’

  ‘If I could, I would, even if it meant never getting a decent cap again.’ He shot me a grin. It made the bulb on his nose twitch.

  I said, ‘Were you up upstairs earlier today?’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a question. Which you didn’t answer.’

  ‘Come on, you don’t run down here to ask about nothing.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Who told you—’

  ‘Were you up there?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Fine. Did you see anyone going up here? I mean, besides the doctor?’

  He shook his head, annoyed, as if he should have seen someone, as if it was his right to have had that sighting, as if someone else, a stringer maybe, had been given access to the sight instead.

  A board creaked upstairs. Leo trying to make it across the hall without me? I shifted a foot onto the stairs. ‘Maybe there was no one here. I just wanted to know. Nothing happened. No missed scoop. So don’t be not giving up on this item. Got it?’ I know about not giving up, too.

  He reached for my arm but restrained himself. ‘T
here’s a story here. I will get it. That’s the good and bad news for you.’

  The bathroom door catches on the sill when it opens. Leo had gotten it that far.

  I started up the stairs.

  ‘The good news—’ Westcoff called as I hit the landing.

  I stopped.

  ‘—is that I’m on this. No one else cares. This attack, it’s nothing to the cops. Won’t be till your priest gets his head bashed in. Or worse. You can’t protect him forever. You’ve got to flush out the bad guy who did this. And, Darcy, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The bad news, Darcy, is your only ally is me!’

  Chances were Westcoff was right. But I didn’t have time to dwell on that. In the Bay Area where every day’s news could lead with a murder, a mere wounding, even of someone as unlikely as Leo, was hardly big stuff. So why did Westcoff care? ‘Shut the door behind you,’ I called and raced up the stairs, knowing I’d already waited too long.

  ELEVEN

  Leo nearly fell out of the bathroom. He’d been hanging onto the doorjamb. He saw me, tumbled, and I grabbed him.

  ‘Good catch!’ His voice was a whisper.

  ‘I should’ve—’

  ‘Illusion.’ He meant that the recriminations I was about to launch were useless – things I shouldn’t have done, things I might have done but did not, none of which would change anything now. Words to crowd out fear. We had had discussions on this before. He was right. Still, as I had told him, those instants in the recrimination process when, for a split second, in my own mind I had done the right thing, were ridiculously seductive illusions.

  ‘Ridiculously,’ he’d repeated.

  Now he wasn’t saying anything. His breaths were thick and heavy, his skin damp, and he was nearly dead weight in my arms.

  With some maneuvering I settled him on his futon, propped him up to drink some water, then eased him down and pulled the covers up.

  ‘Leo—’

  ‘Shocking, huh? Not even sixty years old and …’

  ‘The weakness? Yes.’

  He waggled a hand.