No Footprints Page 9

  "On for what?”

  "Get in.”

  I slid onto the lush leather seat and he pulled into traffic. "How’d you know where—”

  "I’m ready when you are. How about now?”

  My head throbbed; everything seemed surreal, most of all this sudden appearance of Macomber Dale.

  "Called Elliot. ’sfine with him.”

  What was he talking about? All I wanted was to take a double dose of aspirin, aspirin with codeine or better yet morphine. It’d been a bad couple days for my skull. "You called Jed Elliot?” Oh shit! "About the stunt driving lesson? And he said—” I couldn’t believe it.

  "Call him.”

  "It’s on your head,” Jed Elliot declared when I got him on the line. "You were going to get specs on the Berkeley Marina. Where are they?”

  Huh? I just caught myself before saying it aloud. I’d shoved that promise so totally out of my mind I had to fight to remember making it on the set this morning. Because . . . oh yeah: You were going to get back to me with the contact info!

  Pointing that out would get me nowhere. "You’re right. I screwed up.”

  Silence.

  I still had a chance. "About the stunt driving lessons you’ve just okayed. Mac’s not looking to improve his parallel parking. He’s after celluloid time. When he does, he’ll be part of the crew.” Your crew. I laid out the words in as neutral a tone as humanly possible while sitting in the leather bucket seat of the subject, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Macomber chuckled. The negotiation, backing me into a corner, buying me, it was all part of the game. But my shock, that was a little lagniappe. He revved the engine and shot away from the curb.

  "I trust you,” Jed said. His words were as flat as mine. He wasn’t taking the easy path of stretching my blame to include this. He was covering, but what? "We got the Marina.”

  "How did you manage that?”

  "Macomber got us a deal.”

  Oh.

  "It’ll bring us in under budget. San Fran’s going to think twice before they close me down again.”

  I’m screwed.

  "It’s a flat road. We’ll clear the parked cars, get dummies. Worst can happen he hits a tree.”

  Worst that can happen? Words like that should never be spoken aloud. Silence buzzed on the line.

  Mac cut left—too close—in front of an SUV. Too close, but not dangerously so, unless the driver was armed. A horn blared.

  I tilted the phone so Jed could hear it. Mac grinned. Dammit, he knew he’d won.

  But there were spoils to go around here. I grinned back at him and said into the phone, "And you’re offering me . . . ?”

  The phone clunked. Did he drop it?

  "Jed?”

  "Okay. Stunt Coordinator credit on the roll.”

  Stunt Coordinator . . . Darcy Lott. I could see it in the middle of the screen, right under Jed’s name, before the crowded columns of stunt doubles and other fine-print entries. More to the point, directors would see it. It could be a big step for me, way more than merely scouting locations. I wanted to scream, "Yes!” But I said, "And pay?”

  "Yeah, okay, stunt coordinator’s scale. For the Berkeley shoot.”

  I turned to Mac to give him the update, but he was already so smug I knew he’d never questioned the outcome.

  "Oh, and Darcy,” Jed said, "Dale is inviting you to a charity thing for the movers and shakers in the city. Some of the up-and-comers’ll be there. Can’t hurt you to meet them.”

  "I’ll do you proud.” I clicked off and said to Mac, "This reception, formal or not?”

  "Not.”

  "Okay. When?”

  "Tonight.” He shot through the intersection on the last instant of yellow. "So we can fit in a couple hours of driving before.”

  My head gave an extra hard throb. "Twenty minutes. You can drive me to the zendo.”

  "I’m not a chauffeur. I expect—”

  Expect!

  "Rule one: don’t expect.” Don’t expect, i.e., don’t assume! "So, I still need to know how you knew where to find me.”

  He grinned. "I have my ways.”

  "Which are?”

  "No time for questions; you’re only giving me twenty minutes.”

  "Answer and you get twenty-one.”

  He grinned smugly.

  I don’t give up; I postpone, briefly.

  I pulled up every bit of energy and concentration I could muster through the pain waves in my head. "Alert? Good. That’s what driving is, being alert. It’s knowing your vehicle so well there’s no you and no it. 'No horse, no rider,’ they call it in Zen lore. You’ve got to feel it.”

  "Not a problem. This”—he tapped the dash—" is my baby.”

  "Fine. But the road, the parked cars, the weather, the traffic light, the kid who’s about to run out between cars, the woman talking on her cell, starting across against the light: They’ve all got to be your baby.”

  "But that—”

  "It’s one baby, Mac. That’s the secret.” That was Zen, too. But maybe he needed a different metaphor. "All this, it’s all your team. When Joe Montana took the snap he 'saw’ the whole field. Didn’t move his head, just was aware. That’s how he knew where to throw the ball. All of this is your field: You ignore any part, and you’re punting.”

  "Sure, but—”

  "But even he had to learn, to practice. So, slow down; go with the traffic. Become part of the traffic. You already see the car in front; you’re checking the rearview. Okay, what could come at you from the right?”

  "Nothing, it’s—”

  "Parked car with driver up there. Guy with the dolly there, see? See? Now, across the street, what are you alert to?”

  His forehead was scrunched with trying. His face was twitching. He wanted to succeed, to win. "No kids, no bikes, no one on cell phone—”

  "You check for Blu-ray?”

  "How can you possibly—”

  "Posture, gait. See the guy in the green jacket? He’s all ears—He’s got tunnel vision because he’s caught up in his call. If he could walk with his eyes closed he would.”

  "How can you drive and—”

  "Practice. And silence. When you’re stunt driving, you can’t do anything else, not talk, not ponder, not even feel anything but the car. You had a punk meal and it’s exploding in your gut—tough! Push it aside. You can drive or not drive. All or zip.”

  His shoulders rose, his face twitching like mad. He looked ready to let me have it. But he didn’t. Didn’t say anything. Just eyed the coffee house across the street.

  I wanted to pounce. I postponed. "So, what’s the combination of things that sends up a red flag?”

  He continued to stare in the same direction.

  "No! You’ve got to watch the road. You can’t look out the window like a passenger.”

  "Don’t do this! Don’t do that! What the hell do you expect me—”

  "Stop the car!”

  He slammed his frustration into the pedal. Brakes screeched. If I hadn’t been braced I’d’ve hit the windshield. Behind us more brakes squealed.

  "How’d you find me?”

  "I followed the cop car.”

  Across the street the bus swung toward the curb. A woman raced in front of us toward it, holding up a hand in Stop position.

  "She didn’t see you, didn’t hear the horns. You’re not even in her universe.”

  His hands tightened on the wheel. "Fine. I get it. But—”

  "I wasn’t in the cop’s car.”

  "I could’ve picked you up when you slammed out of it, but you kept going in the same direction. I followed the car till it stopped—”

  "Where?”

  "Same place you did.”

  "Did he go in?”

  "He followed a biker.”

  "A woman on a bike?”

  "Yeah.”

  "Followed? Rode like she was leading him somewhere? Or tailed? Were they together?”

  Mac shrugged. "She left, he left. You were my target.�
�

  "But you must’ve seen enough to get an idea.”

  "Why’s it matter?”

  I couldn’t begin to tell him.

  Horns blared. Mac jolted the car forward, nearly stalling out. He downshifted, hit the gas, and shot daggers in my direction. "What’s all this have to do with stunt driving? We’ll have a blocked-off road in the Marina. No one’s going to be running for a bus unless we pay them to.”

  I laughed. "This is Berkeley we’re talking about. 'No entry’ translates into 'Sez who?’”

  "Yeah, but—”

  "You’re right about limited access. You don’t have to watch two sidewalks and traffic in the slow lane, but you also won’t be tooling along at twenty miles per hour on a smooth surface. No one pays ticket money to watch that. And those potholes. You think they’re big now? We’re going to be ramping up the sides. You’ll have to angle into them, hit the edges hard. Then every minute you’ve ever driven is going to be commanding you to hold the wheel steady. Wrong! You’ve got to spin back—not let it spin but control it so it looks like it’s gone haywire, so the chassis bounces the way you want it to. And do it one pothole after another, bang, bang, bang.”

  "But—”

  "Meanwhile, hoping that passing pigeons, gulls, squirrels, and family dogs are obeying our signs.”

  He swung right following the curve of Mission Street into South of Market.

  "Plus, you’re not going to be driving your baby. Smooth handling? Think again. You know what they call the kind of car you’ll be driving? 'More bounce to the ounce.’”

  "Hey, I’m not here on a learner’s permit.”

  "You are with me. Take it or leave it.”

  His face was tense, the cords bulging in his neck. I’d pushed him to the edge—I’d enjoyed it—but I’d left him no face to save. Chances were very, very good I’d pay later. My name was going to be on the credit roll. My screw-up gave him this chance. If he blew it, it was going to ricochet all over me.

  "Turn left.” We were at the Fifth Street mess under the freeway. It took all his concentration to cut through the line of cars hanging heavy lefts across traffic to the on-ramp, and do it before the light turned. There was a lot of no-man’s-land here. But he was behind his own wheel and he was alert. "Focus in turmoil, that’s what stunt driving is,” I said for encouragement. Meanwhile, the intersection was buying me time while I figured where to get out.

  The light changed. Cars poured off the freeway. On the cross street brakes squealed. I started, looked in time to see a bicyclist shoot through traffic with inches to spare as she cut left toward Market.

  Dark hair, white T-shirt, black pants.

  Tessa?

  Or any of two thousand other women on bikes?

  Just a T-shirt in November?

  One thousand cyclists.

  It was a .001 percent chance. But I had to take it.

  "See that bike? Catch it!”

  Mac looked at me. He eyed the cars in the lane to his right, the oncoming vehicles, the pedestrians on the sidewalk, and slowly eased the gas pedal down, gliding along with the traffic till it stopped dead twenty feet ahead.

  I jumped out and ran.

  19

  "This place is like 'Call Me Central,’” I grumbled to Leo as I put down the landline phone. "My family . . . ”

  "Don’t they know your cell?”

  "They believe there’s a better chance of getting a return on a call here. They believe you’ll prod me to call.”

  Leo smiled, as if to say not yes, not no. He was sitting cross-legged on his futon, books lined up in front of him on a long rectangular furoshiki, one of the Japanese cloths used as bags, folded to cover gifts, boxes, and in this case books. Empty spaces in the bookcase revealed where the texts had been and now the furoshiki suggested they’d be wrapped and traveling elsewhere, though maybe only downstairs for lecture next Saturday. As his jisha, I’d be piling them in the center of the furoshiki, folding over both its ends and carrying them to a table next to his rectangular black zabutan in the zendo.

  "My brothers believe,” I admitted, "that I don’t want to look irresponsible in front of you.”

  He swung himself around to face the wall in a surprisingly graceful manner, leaving me talking to his back.

  I laughed. "But, Leo, I’ve got so much to do before I—”

  "Before?”

  "Right.” I bowed to his back and stepped across the hall to my room. Time is an illusion; the future is a dream. And yet . . . I called my sister Gracie and reassured her about the rhubarb pie. It was already Monday night and I hadn’t ordered one. There wasn’t time now. First thing tomorrow I’d do it. Definitely, first thing.

  I tried to get Jessica Silverman from the Ginger Rampono Fund, caught her only long enough to hear she was just rushing out the door and would be unavailable till tomorrow night, if then. "Busy week,” she’d said with a sigh.

  I called Jed to . . . It wasn’t till I got his message that I realized what I really wanted to do was talk about how twitchy and volatile Macomber Dale was and what a bad mix he and I were right now. Just as well I didn’t get through.

  I got an earful from John about not returning his call, and then I played Gary’s message and phoned to let him know his warning about John had come too late.

  Only Mike hadn’t been in contact, and after Declan Serrano’s comments I was glad. I’d worry about Mike later.

  Right now, my big coup was half an hour for a nap before the event with Dale tonight.

  20

  The first person I spotted here amidst the movers and shakers was Declan Serrano, himself. Was there no cockroach-free zone in this city?

  The reception was in City Hall rotunda, a spot best known nationally as the site of long lines of eager wedding parties during the brief periods when gay marriages were legal. Now, despite orange bunting and long tables of mild refreshment, the overwhelming sense was of chill, particularly for those of us flashily but inadequately dressed. Heels clicked on the marble floor and voices seemed to rise, swirl inside the dome, and bounce back down as a mélange of sound.

  Mac handed me a glass of wine.

  "Thanks.”

  "So, did you catch your cyclist?”

  "Not hardly. If you can’t beat a pedestrian, you shouldn’t be on wheels.”

  "So, we could’ve had another hour practice time.”

  I nodded, not that it registered with him. He was busy doing the cocktail party scan. That suited me fine. In my heels I was just able to do my own over his shoulder, keeping Serrano in sight but at the same time maintaining my distance. He, though, was busy with a tall gray-haired woman in a silver suit, so intently focused he didn’t seem to be scanning at all.

  "Who’re you looking for?” I asked Mac.

  The clatter and chatter bouncing off the marble made it easy to miss anything said to me, or to pretend to. Without responding, he turned toward the dais and eyed the four guests of honor: a tall, striking blond man who looked too outgoing to be a nerd and, if not, then too young to have amassed enough of a fortune to give away; a frail woman in a dress the same green as mine; and the Saparitsas, who were parents of a woman who’d been in Mike’s year in school. He’d once, long ago, been to a party at their house and when he stumbled back home at 2:30 am he’d made such a racket he’d woken me up. Coming into my room, he’d leaned against the wall, sliding down till he was sitting on the floor, and started telling me about the place. The only thing I remembered now was that their house had more bathrooms than ours had rooms.

  Mac was eyeing the lot like gaffers and techs do the lunch table (and actors wish they could).

  "Checking out the field, Mac?”

  I must’ve hit a nerve. He started, fussed over his wine glass, and said, "Women are better backers. Better prospects. Arty and all.”

  "Really?” I said with full bore sarcasm, but he was already off toward the dais on his own. There was an elderly woman up there but he wasn’t looking at her. Ah, so it’s ju
st hot babes who’re the money pots.

  I’d’ve given him more thought if it hadn’t struck me that a charity event like this was the type of thing Jessica Silverman might have been racing out to earlier. Philanthropists and those seeking generosity tend to frequent the same events. And how many would be scheduled on a Monday? I glanced around for someone who’d know her and ended up having a burst of conversation with the police chief, who drew a blank. I smiled at a deputy city attorney, then at the head of the Film Commission. But when I responded to a short, wiry guy he started a conversation that sent me onto the thin ice of white lies.

  "You remember me, from high school? Warren Llekko? Doing great,” he all but shouted. "Financial Counseling . . . Newsom”—the former mayor? Or not?—"downturn, no way. New projects . . . big money.” One hand slipped around my waist, the other now waving to the blond man on the dais across the room.

  "Aaron!” he called, for the benefit of those within five feet of us. "Adamé!” There was no chance of Aaron Adamé hearing. But Llekko’s maneuver created a flurry in our spot, like a stone lobbed into a pool.

  The honoree turned in time to trace the shouted summons to a man embracing a redhead half a head taller than he. A look of annoyance crossed his face. I wondered if Llekko noticed.

  "Aaron’s always making such a deal about how devoted a husband he is, how it’s all for his wife. It’s just his schtick. No one believes it, not about any guy like him.”

  Guess Warren did notice, after all.

  "His wife’s not even here. Guy gets a big honor and she blows it off. All for her, sure!” he added, with the righteousness of the recently snubbed.

  Aaron Adamé’s wife, who was also Macomber Dale’s connection, i.e., the reason why Jed and I, and everyone else on our set, still had jobs. My ears perked up. "Why isn’t she? Here, I mean?”

  "One of those artsy, I-want-my-own-identity babes. Likes doing her own thing and then telling everyone else how to do theirs. Everyone’s relieved when she doesn’t show.”

  "Really? The wife of a big donor like that?”

  "The luncheon.”

  "Huh?”

  Warren did a broad double take. He was so clearly pleased with the story he’d get to tell that it kind of ruined his pose of insider disdain. "I thought everyone’d heard about it. Society charity luncheon, a dozen society babes, planning to aid hunger in the city. Outside, on the sidewalk, is a group of the unwashed hungry. Adamé’s wife walks in just as the other guests are being seated, veers into the kitchen, has the waiters load the entrées onto carts, and wheels them out to the sidewalk.”