Syrup (33 page)

We sleep until seven. This is pretty late, even though it’s only three hours’ sleep, but we have a sleepless night in front of us. When I wake up, I almost feel refreshed.

Then we start.

I’m carrying bowls of cereal through to the office, so we can work and eat at the same time, when I hear 6 in the shower. I pause for a moment, listening, because it sounds very much as if 6 is on the phone.

“Tina, you have been amazing,” 6 is saying. The shower slips into one of its brief pipe-shuddering fits, and she takes a second to fix it. “Scat and I know how much you’ve done for us. And when Hollywood producers want to talk to us about how we did this and what we want to do next, we’re going to tell them all about you.” Pause. “Thanks, Tina. You know it’s just to get around Kline. I’d have you on location the whole time.”

I head through to the office.

“Of course,” 6 says into the cellphone, then swallows a mouthful of corn flakes. I’m impressed by her dexterity. “Kline, this is your baby. We know what we want to achieve, but you know which shots will get us there. We’ve always said that.”

I nod approval, pulling on my jacket.

“No, Tina won’t be there. You don’t want her on set, she’s not on set.” She listens. “No, I don’t think you were harsh. You’re the director. If you find her distracting, then she goes.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Well, that’s very kind, and I’ll tell her that. Thank you. No, really, thank you.”

“Scat, I’m sorry,” Jerry says firmly, “but I told you before. No can do. I mean it.”

“I understand that,” I say. Sitting on my spaceship in the hangar, I’m Mr. Reasonable. Reasonable wouldn’t melt in my mouth. “But there must be something that means more to you than your game. Come
on,
Jerry. There must be something I can do for you that will change your mind.”

“Scat,” Jerry says wearily. “There’s not. Tonight’s our only opportunity to play the final. I can’t let down the guys. Understand?”

I sigh. “Okay. But I’ll call you later. When I think of something.”

“Whatever,” Jerry says, and hangs up.

I head off for a coffee before trying California, and on the way I almost bump into Winona Ryder. I’m a bit of a Winona fan, so I take a moment to stop and gape. Her eyes flick over me and she keeps walking, carrying her scaled tail in her hands. It’s a beautiful moment.

While I’m standing there staring after her, I nearly get clobbered by a stage light. “Sorry, bud,” says the kid carrying it, and I hurry out of the way. There’s a lot of people working very hard today, courtesy of a rev-up speech Kline made while I was on the phone. I still don’t know if we’re going to make it, but everyone here is going to try.

I get a coffee for 6, too, and find her standing behind Kline. “Here.”

She glances at me, takes the coffee, then peers back at the stage. It’s set up for the final confrontation between Tom and Winona, and there’s weird mechanical junk strewn over the floor, alien goo oozing from the walls and a couple of battered Coke machines. “Thanks.”

“How are we doing?”

6 considers. “We’re doing okay.”

“Is that good enough?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But it’ll be close.”

“California, you gorgeous thing.” I haven’t even met this girl but feel compelled to flirt with her. It must be the name. “How you doing?”

“It’s
madness
here,” she tells me. “You wouldn’t believe how much hand-holding the LAPD need to block off a few streets.”

“I’m going to give you lots more work,” I tell her. “Okay?”

“Aw,
Scat.”

“But in return,” I say generously, “I will personally introduce you to Tom Cruise.”

“Hey,” California says brightly. “Deal. Anything for a celebrity.”

I freeze. “Oh, shit.”

“Scat,” Gwyneth says, putting down her script. The makeup artist is doing something to her eyes, and bathed in the wattage of a dozen light bulbs she looks almost angelic. “I’m kind of busy. Can’t this wait?”

“Gwyneth,” I say seriously, “I’m about to ask you for a huge favor. It will be a major pain in the ass. You won’t want to do it.”

“Sounds tempting,” Gwyneth says.

“But I really need your help. I’m desperate.”

“Uh-huh,” Gwyneth says, as the makeup guy traces around her lips. “And why do I want to do this huge favor?” The makeup guy frowns at her.

I drop into the chair beside her. “You have to admit, your role has become a lot more interesting since 6 and I beefed it up. Strong female roles must be so hard to find—”

She eyes me suspiciously. “You didn’t do that for me.”

“Well, true. But—”

“Sorry,” she says, picking up her script.

“Oh,” I say, “so maybe you’re not interested in strong roles. Maybe next time I’m making a film and I need a female lead, I should just call up Julia Roberts and say—”

“You might never make another film.”

“True,” I admit. “But then again . . .”

Gwyneth looks at me for a long time. Finally she sighs. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Scat,” Jerry says tiredly, “it’s kind of hard to work with you interrupting all the time.”

“Jerry, I have an offer.”

“Save it, all right? I’ve already—”

“You don’t want to let down your buddies, right? With Warlords tonight?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” I say, “the thing is, Gwyneth Paltrow is a bit of a Warlords fan, too.”

Silence. “Really?”

“Sure. I was talking over our little situation with her, and she said she’d love to play. If it’s all right with you.”

A long pause. “You’d let her play with us? Even though we can’t do your film?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” I say. “See, you only get Gwyneth if you do the film. Tonight.”

“Oh,” Jerry says, “oh, I see. You’re blackmailing me. Is that it?”

“Well,” I say, “yeah.”

“Oh.” He thinks for a second. “So while I’m working on
Backlash,
Gwyneth is playing Warlords with my friends?”

“That’s right,” I say. When he hesitates, I add, “You’ve got to think they’d be impressed.”

“Boy,” Jerry says, “you don’t have to tell
me
.” He pauses, and I can almost hear him biting his fingernails. “Gwyneth
Paltrow
.”

“So,” I say, hardly daring to hope, “do we have a deal?”

A long sigh from Jerry. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll finish your damn film.”

We’re meant to finish at six, and if anyone wanted to be difficult, they could walk off the set right then. But they don’t. We go until ten, and no one, not even our multimillion-dollar talent, says a word.

Finally, Kline says, “Okay. That is it. We are done.”

It’s strange: a hush falls over the hangar. There’s no cheering, no slapping of backs, or even mutterings of
Thank God for that.
Everyone just falls silent.

“I would like to thank every one of you,” Kline says. He stands up in his crane, looking over the sixty or so people present. “You have all performed exceptionally well under considerable pressure. This could not have been done without you.”

Then
they cheer.

When 6, Gwyneth and I arrive at Visuality, there are a half dozen young, sweaty men in the lobby. When Gwyneth enters, a low
ahhhh
emanates from them.

“Oh, God,” Gwyneth says.

I take charge. “Hi guys. Is Jerry here?”

“Here,” Jerry says, emerging from the hallway. I notice he’s freshly shaved.

I nudge Gwyneth. She takes a deep breath, then says, “Uh, hi, Jerry.”

“Ohhh,” Jerry says.

So we do it: Gwyneth sits down with a coven of war gamers to a table laden with miniature ogres and dragons and aliens or whatever the hell they’re meant to be, and 6, Jerry and I get to work on
Backlash.
Every time Gwyneth tries to make a move, guys rush to explain why that’s not legal, but despite this, she seems to be doing pretty well. I’m not sure if this is because she has innate Warlords talent or because all the other players are trying to ally with her.

Around one, we order a couple of monster pizzas and sit around on the floor—there’s no disturbing the table, of course—and munch them down. Revitalized, we work solidly on
Backlash
until dawn: coloring laser flashes, painting aliens, tweaking Winona’s extra teeth. The warlords don’t last so long: they’re all done by two. Gwyneth is on the winning side: a skinny guy with a big grin and a propensity for declaring “Now is the time of the Orcish clan” has struck down anyone who dared attack her. Everyone tells Gwyneth how good she is for a beginner, and they’re genuinely sad when she calls a cab. Gwyneth just looks exhausted.

When the sunlight starts leaking through Jerry’s
Star Wars
blinds, it’s a surprise. We blink and look at one another for a second, trying to remember what we were doing before we were consumed by a world of Coke-drinking aliens.

“Hey,” 6 says. “It’s Saturday.”

“That’s it,” Jerry says. The screen reads:
Compiling Movie: Pass 1 of 17016.
“It’s rendering.”

“We’ve done it,” I say wonderingly. “We’ve really done it.” I look at my watch. “And with twelve hours to spare.”

“No.” Jerry is shaking his head. “Scat, I told you about this. It’s rendering. We can’t lay it onto film until the computer finishes rendering.”

“Yes,” I say slowly. Irritably, too. “But it’s rendering
now
.”

Jerry sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Rendering takes a long time, Scat. Even with computers like this.”

“How long?” 6 says.

“Can’t tell. Some parts take awhile, some render real quick.” Jerry points to the screen, just as it clicks over to
Pass 2 of 17016.
“But it’s got to do
that
another seventeen thousand times.”

“Holy shit,” I say.

“Jerry,” 6 says tightly. “How long?”

Jerry shrugs. “Twelve hours.”

6’s eyes widen. “Jerry, that’s not good enough.”

“Hey, guys, there’s nothing we can do. It has to render.”

“Don’t tell me there’s nothing we can do,” 6 says. “There’s always something we can do. How can we make it go faster?”

“Look,” Jerry says, starting to lose it, “this is it. This computer is fully maxed out doing the rendering. And it’s a fast computer. Unless you want to go buy yourselves a Hewlett-Packard V-class, this is it.”

“How much?” 6 demands. “For a, uh—”

“A million,” Jerry says. “Okay? A million. And even if we had one, we’d need days to get it loaded and running. Look, it can’t be done faster.”

6 takes a couple of deep breaths. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. What’s the worst-case scenario?”

Jerry rubs his eyes. “Well, if we’re lucky, it’ll take nine hours. It’ll
probably
take ten to twelve. If we’re not lucky . . .” He shrugs. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen,” 6 breathes.

I force myself through the addition. “That’s eleven at night. We’re scheduled to screen at eight.”

“That’s unacceptable,” 6 says. “We can’t stall a hall full of celebrities for three hours.”

Jerry looks like he’s about to scream, or cry, or maybe both, so I say, “Okay, let’s calm down. We’ll probably finish in time. 6, I know this is difficult, but you just need to face the fact that this is out of your control.”

6 stares at me, and for a moment I’m sure she’s going to argue. Then she takes a deep breath. “Fine,” she says. “I can do that.”

In the cab, 6 mutters, “I can’t believe we just have to wait.”

We’re showered, changed and at Mann’s Chinese Theatre by ten. 6 has slipped into something less comfortable but a hell of a lot more attractive: a long, sheer black dress, killer heels and tiny ear studs. She’s also wearing her glasses, and I can’t believe how sexy she looks.

“6,” I say again, “you look gorgeous. Really.” I tug at my collar. “How do I look?”

6 frowns at my suit. “Aggressive.”

“Aggressive? Really?” I’m a little taken aback; it’s just a suit and red jacket. Okay, the jacket is pretty sharp. And the tie has little pictures of Uncle Sam, scowling and pointing. But they’re pretty small pictures.

Despite myself, I’m awed at being here. I’ve never visited Mann’s before, not even to gape at celebrity handprints: the only time I’ve ever seen this place has been on TV. Today there are already a lot of people around, sweeping the sidewalk, arranging signs, roping off areas. 6 spots California in the lobby and we head over.

“California,” 6 says, “this is Scat.”

She’s young, blond, and even wearing a Coca-Cola T-shirt. “
Hi
, Scat. You excited?”

“Just a little,” I lie.

“You should be,” she says, grinning. “This is going to be the biggest film of the zips!”

“What?”

“The
zips
,” California says, tossing her hair happily. “You know, two thousand and zip. The ‘80s, the ’90s, the zips.”

“Oh, right.”

“So, are you here to help?”

“We sure are,” I say. “Although you look like you’ve got everything under control.”

“Ha,” California says, grinning. “Looks are deceiving. I really need you guys.”

At three, I break to call Jerry. “It’s doing pass 12,020,” he tells me.

“Is that good?”

“Well, if it was linear, it’d be finished by five.”

“Hey, great!”

“But it’s not,” Jerry continues. “The end is loaded up with special effects, so that’ll take longer.”