No Footprints (20 page)

‟I am. No reason he shouldn't tell me.”

‟Hey, Darce, let me know.”

‟Don't worry.”

I punched in the number.

It rang.

And rang.

What kind of cop with cohorts on both sides of the law doesn't pick up his phone? What reason?

Many, of course, and most of them not good. If I were wont to worry about Declan Serrano, I'd be worrying.

The law of karma is never broken.

Actions have consequences, as I discovered after sitting morning zazen in the zendo the next day, then slipping back into bed. I'd left my cell turned off. But killing your phone is electronic deferred maintenance, deferred not so long as I'd've liked since Jed Elliot had the landline number.

I picked it up on the fourth ring. ‟Good morning!” I'd learned the trick of sounding alert and chipper while still half asleep.

‟I left you three messages!”

‟Oh shit, my phone . . .” Everyone's had cell phone problems. They don't want to know yours.

‟Time's changed. We've got the Berkeley pier from nine on. Mac'll be knocking on your door at eight-thirty.”

‟Not a problem.” How had I left things with the unreliable Mr. Dale? I couldn't remember exactly, but I was eager to get the truth from him about his involvement with Varine Adamé.

What time was it? Almost eight already? I checked messages. Besides the three from Jed there was just one: from Adamé: ‟She's here! She's okay! I knew you'd want to know. She's still asleep now, and . . . I'm sure you understand. So, give us a couple days alone. After that we want to take you to dinner—dinner anywhere you choose. I'll be in touch.”

Call you later! That was it?

No way! I punched in his number now. There were questions I needed answered—this minute! Of course, I got his machine.

I considered calling Declan Serrano, but if Varine Adamé was, in fact, at home, there'd be nothing more he could tell me. In any case, there was no time. I did a speed shower, threw on ‟standard stuntwear”: black pants with give, cotton, not synthetic, in case the gag goes bad and there's fire, and a high-neck black shirt with a zipper in case I ended up not needing one that warm.

After the last tension-crammed days it'd be good to have one straightforward one filled with no more than normal problems, ones I could easily handle.

I hoisted my deal-with-any-emergency work bag and headed to the corner for espresso and Renzo's morning bun with what he called his ‟special sauce.” It was not only special to him, but special to each day. Today the crisp layers of the bun were filled with a thick pineapple paste spiced with the tiniest hit of chili. For a moment nothing else existed but the hot tangy taste. I took a sip of the coffee—a double. Per Renzo, the only reason for a single espresso was to remind you you should have had a double.

A man and two women hurried in and grabbed the table nearest the counter and, with it, Renzo's attention.

I sat, sipped, pondered Varine Adamé, and it struck me how different my feelings were for the woman I'd saved, now that I thought of her as Varine, rather than Tessa. Not that I knew either one of them! Both
illusions, just one that I liked better. I'd been caught by ‟Tessa” and her ‟I did one decent thing and now you've ruined it.” But as Varine, what would that one decent thing be? She was a rich woman—her problem was being asked to do too many decent things. She wouldn't have to pay with her life.

And yet what happened on the bridge happened.

One decent thing?

A horn blew insistently. Of course it was Macomber Dale.

‟Empty!” The mouse hole, he meant. Macomber Dale stalked to the old Civic I'd parked in front of the zendo. ‟What was I supposed to do?” he demanded.

‟What you did—call Jed.” Why was he making such a crisis of it? Why had he even gone there? Had Jed . . .

‟I was going to leave my car there, in the garage—”

‟It's safer by the zendo, believe me. Anyone can jiggle that decrepit lock and walk right in. It's protected by its shabbiness, but only barely.”

He unlocked the car and I had to scramble to get in before he was away from the curb. The guy'd been twitchy yesterday, but now he was like one of those particles in a science video springing all over its atom. His hands were shifting on the wheel, his knees nearly knocking. It clearly was not the moment to start in on his Varine connection, but it took a superhuman effort not to barrage him with questions about it. And, whose version of the encounter with Aaron Adamé could I trust? The main thing, though, was that I had to put the production first right now.
Faster!
was my ticket upward, so I resigned myself to going slower on all matters Adamé.

How had Dale ever gotten Jed to trust him with our vehicle before the shoot? In the script sequence, the shot we were setting up didn't directly follow the last scene with the car, so if Dale managed to scrape a fender it
wouldn't be a continuity crisis. But anything more major would. The problem with junkers—another problem—is the older the car the more individual it becomes with its fading paint, ripped seat covers, mirrors jutting at angles of their own, and of course those scrapes and dents. It'd be easier to reshoot scenes than to hunt up a duplicate and poke and scrape it till it matched.

‟Mac, how come Jed let you take this car?”

He looked sheepish.

Oh shit!

All five lanes of the Bay Bridge were jammed. Mac jerked from one sluggish line of cars to another.

I could've called Jed and said . . . what?
I'd just
assumed
. . . and now here I was paying the price.

Mac was watching me, waiting for me to say something. The man was barely even looking at the traffic on this five-lane weave of speeding vehicles!

I had plenty of scores to settle with him, but the middle of the freeway was not the place. I waited a minute, pulled out my phone, and called my answering service.

One message: My agent needed more résumé packets. With an updated video.

I redialed Adamé. If I was going to die on this bridge I wanted answers from Varine about her contract with Mac.

But they—no fools—didn't answer.

I called Declan Serrano's cell. No answer.

Next, I tried Byron's number. Nothing there either.

By the time we got off the bridge I was every bit as frustrated as he. Three major freeways looped around and into each other. Traffic was all but stopped. We were an inch behind the car in front, with Dale playing
the clutch against the gas. All the emotion of the last two days began to pour forth as I watched the guy chance wrecking our car and screwing up the shoot.

‟This the way you handled Var—”

‟Your guru—”

What?
‟My teacher? Leo?” Where'd that come from?

‟Whatever.”
Now I've got your attention,
his smug expression said.

Had he gone to Leo to confess? Zen priests aren't like Catholics; they don't absolve sins. But no reason he'd know that. ‟Leo?”

‟He was carrying on about karma. I mean, like, mine's bad.”

Bad karma, the flag term of the pop Zen world! Few concepts have been as distorted as karma. Still, if bad karma existed in the way Mac thought, who could be more deserving? ‟Bad karma? How'd he put that?” This was going to be interesting.

‟Your teacher. He was going on about consequences.”

‟Actions have consequences?”
How many times did I have to be reminded of that today?
If Leo'd been talking to me he would have said that every action or inaction has consequences because all things are interconnected. Karma is the weave of life. But talking to Mac . . . ?

‟Yeah, consequences.” He was now eyeing the left lane where cars were moving.

‟We get off at University, up ahead.”

‟Right.” He shot over.

‟What consequences?”

‟He said if I'd thought before . . . But then he said
before
was gone. Only it's not exactly how... ”

‟The past is gone, the future illusion.”

‟Yeah, and something about a tangled web—”

All my ancient tangled karma from beginningless greed, hate, and delusion, I now fully avow. I knew the traditional chant of repentance, but what did that have to do with—

‟Tangled with the stuff that happened before?” he demanded. ‟The mistakes I made?”

‟Mistakes? With Varine Adamé?”
Mistakes about our funding?

He cut right, managing to swing into the next lane and the next. Behind, brakes screeched. University Avenue exit's tricky; there's no easy way to get over the freeway. I could have helped him, but I didn't.

I said, ‟The contract you made—”

‟Contracts are paper.” He hung a U and headed back across the freeway. On the top of the overpass he slowed, looking ahead at the wooded roadway, the bay, San Francisco beyond. ‟It's the economy,” he added, as if that explained everything. ‟Bad.”

Oh shit!
‟
How
bad?”

‟Total bad. Took a beating in the market . . . serious beating. Treading water . . . maybe. You wait for the turnaround but, sometimes, dead is dead.”

‟So, just
how
bad?”

He said nothing. Which said everything.

‟What about the Adamés? They guaranteed—”

‟Not going to happen.”

‟But didn't they sign—does Jed know?”

‟Doubt it.”

‟The director, the other producers? Didn't you tell anyone?” I couldn't believe it! How could he—‟We haven't been shooting that long! You must've known things were shaky. How come—”

‟It's not hard to convince people your money's good.”

I'd meant how come you didn't warn a single person!

We were on filled land now, here in the Berkeley Marina. The roadway was like waves. He hit every crest, nearly sending me into the roof each time.

I'd collar Jed as soon as we got to the site. He'd be on the horn pronto. Would we even do a set-up today? Was there any point? Only if the other backers could absorb this. If we blew off this shoot, even if we got the spot again a month or two from now, how much of a continuity problem would we end up with? How many actors would have other gigs? And the director, the crews? It was a nightmare.

‟Hey,” he protested, ‟I haven't done anything so terrible. What's the worst that can happen, people don't get to go to a big dark room, slobber down popcorn, and stare at a screen for a couple hours? It's not like—”

‟Not like what? Not like
people
make movies? Not like
people
lose their jobs? Like vendors we contract with getting stiffed? Not like us losing cred with the city? So you were just playing us!”

‟No! I wanted to be a movie producer! I wanted things to work out for once. And I thought they would this time.” He sneaked a glance at me. ‟Things happen. Like upswings. Why not now?”

‟But they didn't happen, did they? How long've you known?”

‟I don't
know
now. Look, if I could have pulled this out of the fire, I would. If
I
could get out I would. You don't know what it's like always being the screw-up!”

I didn't have time for his emotional baggage. ‟Look, Varine Adamé gave you a guarantee—”

‟She didn't
give
me anything! We had a deal and now she's not paying. She hired me—”

‟To do what?”

‟Hassle the cop.”

‟Oh, right!” I said in full sarcasm. ‟Listen, I'm asking you—” But, he wasn't listening at all.

‟She used me. Don't you get it—no more money!”

‟There's Jed. Pull over. We'll talk about this on the sidewalk!”

‟Look, I—”

‟Stop the fucking car!”

But he didn't. He hit the gas.

‟Are you out of your mind?” I screamed as he shot through the intersection. ‟Pull over here!” I jabbed a finger toward our lighting truck on the side of the road.

Ignoring me, he whipped past it, past the bait and tackle shop, past the exit from the parking lot beside it. The rest of University Avenue was blocked off for our set-up. Mac shot around the detour sign pointing outsiders through the parking lot.

‟Slow down! We've got crew here! They're not even thinking ‛street.' They're thinking ‛set.'”

‟Fuck 'em!”

‟Get a grip! They're people you know!”

He stared ahead, jaw jutting, hands clenched on the wheel. Gravel shot from beneath the tires. I eyeballed the terrain—macadam broken, tree roots erupting, underbrush composed of God knew what. Not a clear place to chance a dive.