Final Appeal (11 page)

Neal Wallace woke up with a groan and reached for the button on his snooze alarm. He needed another ten minutes of sleep. Then he remembered why he'd set the damn thing in the first place. He had to get ready to start on the city mural. Since
On the Town
would be filming him, he had to take a shower and look his best. There was a little orange juice in the bottle from yesterday, and Neal slurped it down in one gulp.

Then he headed for the shower, hoping there'd be hot water. That was another thing wrong with Hennessy's building. You never knew if the water heater would work or not. Maybe when he got rich and famous he'd take this place off Hennessy's money-grubbing hands and fix it all up. He could make It into an artists' sanctuary, no rent required. All you needed to do to get your loft was demonstrate you had talent.

Neal turned on the water and stuck his arm into the old metal shower stall. The water was icy cold, but that was always the case when he first turned it on. Only time would tell. After a couple of minutes, he thought he felt it warming slightly but he wasn't sure. It was also possible the cold water pelting against his arm had numbed it. As he stood there on the cracked linoleum floor, naked and shivering, the pipes gave a rumble and a moan. Neal jerked back his arm. He knew what that meant. And a scant second later, steam hissed out of the nozzle. At least the day was starting with a good omen. He adjusted the taps so he wouldn't scald himself and stepped into the cubicle.

After he'd lathered himself thoroughly with the expensive soap his mother had given him for Christmas, Neal decided he wouldn't buy Hennessy's building after all. Why give that scumbag a break? He'd make a deal on one of those huge hotels on Western Avenue and invite all his friends to move in. The lobby would be filled with potters' wheels, and he'd make a giant kiln out of one of the fireplaces. There'd be easels by the windows and daises in the corners for the sculptors, and everybody could work together and have a wonderful time. They'd hire a French chef for the dining room and take their meals together, some fabulous entree every night, and no one would have to worry about money for food.

What about his musician friends, especially Trista, the wonderfully tall, leggy blonde who was into Appalachian folk music? He'd have to convert one floor into a sound studio and soundproof the whole thing so the neighbors couldn't complain. And since a couple of people he knew were doing experimental films, he'd build their setup right below—screening rooms, editing rooms, the whole ball of wax. Then he'd take the top floor and knock out all the walls so he could create his dream studio, the biggest work space an artist had ever owned. He'd call the place the Neal Wallace Hotel of the Arts, and talented students would come from all over the world to gather at the feet of the masters. If they turned it into a school, with Tom and his colleagues as teachers, he might even be able to get a government grant to help with the financing. Of course, he'd be so rich he wouldn't need it, and it would be a real pleasure to tell Uncle Sam to shove all that paperwork.

With a deafening squeal from the ancient pipes the water turned icy cold, and Neal jumped out of the shower like a shot. Somebody always dumped cold water on his dreams. Damn Hennessy to hell!

It didn't take long to dress. Neal had planned his outfit carefully. Because
On the Town
would be there, he'd sprung for new jeans. A black turtleneck sweater went under his denim work shirt. It would probably be breezy up there. And he had a pair of practically new black leather boots his mother had given him for his birthday.

The finishing touch was a long yellow silk scarf with a fringe. Trista had left it in his loft one memorable night, and Neal had kept it for a souvenir. He'd tell her he'd worn it for good luck. As Neal gazed at his wavy reflection in the old mirror he'd propped up against the wall, he thought he looked very dashing, a bit like the ace pilots in the newsreel footage from World War Two.

There was a honk outside the window, and Neal looked out to see Tom's old VW bus pulling up in front. Tom had taken the day off to watch Neal's debut. The door opened, and Tom got out the passenger's side because the driver's door didn't work. As he walked toward the door, he waved in the direction of Neal's window.

Neal hurried to the hot plate that served as his stove. He'd better put on water for coffee. Tom drank it by the gallon, and he swore his students wouldn't recognize him without a mug of coffee in his fist and a Marlboro hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“How's it hanging, Neal?” Tom came through the door, puffing a little. The three-floor climb always winded him. “I hope you put on the coffee.”

“It'll be ready in a minute. Take a look at the foam packing I designed last night. I think we could carry raw eggs in those boxes, and they wouldn't even jiggle.”

While Tom admired the packing materials, Neal admired Tom. He'd really dressed up for the occasion. Tom was wearing a new leather jacket that Neal had never seen before, and he'd definitely trimmed his beard. He had a brand new blue beret, too. The old one had been mint green with a stain on the side. Tom always wore a beret. He'd told Neal that a person lost eighty percent of his body heat through the top of his head, and he got cold in the winter without it. And in the summer, Tom claimed he was susceptible to sunstroke. Neal wished Tom would just come out and say that he wore the beret to cover up his premature baldness.

It took only twenty minutes to pack up the boxes. They lined cardboard packing crates with the foam that Neal had cut and placed the tubes carefully inside. The city had offered to transport his equipment, but Neal had declined. City employees who were used to carrying heavy metal desks and sewer pipes wouldn't be cautious enough with his precious cargo.

“All set?” Tom opened the passenger door and slid over behind the wheel. “You're quiet this morning. Nervous?”

“A little. Or maybe it's just too early to talk.” Tom took the hint and was silent as he started the bus and pulled out into the heavy morning traffic. He didn't say a word until they were turning left on Melrose Avenue.

“Do you think
On the Town
will do any live interviews?”

“I don't know. Maybe.” Neal grinned as he realized why Tom had worn new clothes. “I suppose they might talk to some of the spectators, if there are any.”

“Oh, there will be. I told my students to come out and watch. They're going to carry a big sign that says NEON BY NEAL FAN CLUB. The fan club part was Suzanne Dickson's idea, and I couldn't talk her out of it. Arrested adolescence. How do I look?”

“Great, Tom. You look like everyone's conception of an artist, except you're a little too clean. You ought to smear some paint on that jacket so the folks out there in La La Land will know you're serious about your work.”

“But I just got this jacket! There's no way I'm going to caulk up a hundred and fifty bucks' worth of leather with . . .” Tom glanced at Neal, and his voice trailed off. “You were kidding, right?”

“I was kidding. If I get a chance to talk to the producer, I'll point you out. That way you can get in a plug for the college. They'll be so impressed, they might even raise your salary.”

“Oh, sure!”

The engine on Tom's old bus was laboring hard, but it made it up the steep grade. Tom pulled over to the shoulder at the top of the freeway overpass and parked as close to the scaffolding as he could. Then he turned to Neal with a serious expression on his face.

“I went to see my father last night, and he's going to watch
On the Town
every night until they run It. Do you think it'll be soon?”

“I'll find out. Hey . . . maybe I should do a Carol Burnett and tug on my earlobe to send him a signal.”

“He'd really like that. Come on, Neal. We'd better get this show on the road before the camera trucks get here.”

Neal sighed as he got out of the van. Tom's father was in the hospital with terminal leukemia, and he wasn't expected to last much longer. It must be a real bummer to know you were going to die, especially if there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it. When he hit the big one, he hoped it would be fast and painless.

Cars whizzed past them in the fast lane as they began to unload the boxes. The roar was deafening and every time a big rig passed, Neal and Tom were buffeted by the wind. Everyone who drove past stared at them, and a few drivers honked their horns. One driver actually pulled over to the shoulder and asked Tom if he should call Triple A. Tom explained the situation, and the man decided he'd stay and watch. He said it must take real balls to climb out on that scaffolding and hang over the freeway below. He didn't know if he could do it, but he sure wished Neal luck. Neal smiled and said it was no big deal, but his hands started to sweat just thinking about it, and he had to wipe them off on his shirt before he could go on with the unloading.

Then three carloads of Tom's students pulled up, and Neal had to shake hands all around and admire their signs. They all wanted to help, and he let them carry some of the boxes after they'd promised to be very careful. Neal noticed that Suzanne Dickson, the one who'd come up with the fan club idea, stuck so close to Tom that she almost tripped him up a couple of times. She was a design major, and she certainly had designs on Tom.

They had just finished unloading when an
On the Town
mobile unit drove up. One of the students shouted out that there was another mobile unit parked on the shoulder of the freeway that crossed beneath the overpass. Neal didn't look down to check. It was best if he didn't think about the distance from the top of the scaffolding to the freeway below.

The producer got out of the mobile unit. He had a big clipboard tucked under his arm, and he looked so young that Neal wondered whether this was his first assignment. He had to shout to make himself heard over the blasting horns and the traffic noise as he explained to Neal about double coverage. He was in charge of the first unit, and they'd be shooting from up here. The second unit was the truck below. They'd intercut so the folks at home would have some concept of the height involved. What they were after was exciting coverage.

The producer took time to answer a couple of Tom's questions. No, the hostess of
On the Town
wouldn't arrive for a couple of hours. They'd do her spots with Neal later in a quieter setting. This traffic noise was driving the sound man crazy. And yes, he thought an interview with Tom would be a nice touch. They'd been roommates in college? That was good. A little human interest was always a plus. Why didn't Tom walk over to the scaffolding with Neal and steady it while he climbed on? He could pull on the cables and look a little worried about the rigging. Then the audience would wonder whether something was wrong, and it would punch up the drama.

The cameraman finally got what he said was primo footage of Neal strapping on his specially designed backpack with the long padded pockets that held the fragile glass tubes. It took five takes before he was satisfied. Then the producer shouted that Neal should get on the scaffolding. They'd wing it from there. Neal should just forget about them and start his work.

Neal's legs were shaking a little as he walked toward the scaffolding with Tom. He was glad his back was toward the camera. Tom was the one who was supposed to look worried, not him.

Tom said something, but Neal couldn't hear him with all the noise. He was probably reminding him to tug on his earlobe. Then Tom held the platform, and Neal climbed up over the rail. Good thing he'd bought new jeans. The old ones were getting a little thin in the crotch.

The camera was on him now, and Neal put a big smile on his face. Then he gave the thumbs-up signal and Tom released his hold on the platform. The scaffolding gave a sickening lurch, and it was all Neal could do not to scream in terror. Why hadn't he hired a crew to do this part? The publicity wasn't worth it.

Neal slid off his backpack and bent down over it, hiding his face from the camera as he fumbled in one of the pockets. He needed a little time to compose himself before he lowered the scaffolding with the pulley system they'd rigged. Thank God he'd ordered waist-high walls on the sides of the scaffolding. He'd told the producer it was a special safety factor to protect the motorists below. If he dropped a neon tube, it could cause a terrible accident as cars swerved to avoid the glass. That wasn't the only reason of course. The walls kept him from looking down and they made it easier for him to pretend that he was standing in a little room with no ceiling. Of course, this particular little room would be swinging out over the freeway, but he wouldn't think about that or he'd puke right here on camera.

Neal took a deep breath. It was time to stand up and release the lever on the pulley to begin his descent. If he fiddled around much longer, somebody would come over and ask what was wrong. And when they did, he'd probably break down and beg to get out.

With legs that were trembling a little, Neal stood up. Courage. He had to look courageous as he reached for the lever. He knew the system worked perfectly because he'd watched the workmen test it. The cage would lower three feet for every pull of the lever. And once he was down to the level he wanted, a safety latch would hold it in place.

With a tug on his earlobe for Tom's father, and the most heroic expression he could muster, Neal grabbed the lever and pulled it. His heart was in his throat, and he held his breath as the cables creaked and the scaffolding began to lower. One foot, two feet, three feet, and the cage stopped moving. He let out his breath with a whoosh of relief and grinned widely. That hadn't been so bad. He could handle a smooth elevator ride like this, no sweat.