Smoke and Shadows (17 page)

“You ran out after Lee because I told you to go check on him?”

“Yes.”

“You were so worried about him, you forgot you were still wearing your radio. Remembered to turn it off, but forgot you were wearing it.”

Tony glanced down at the holster riding his hip. “Yeah. I was worried.”

“And how was he?”

Controlled by a minion of the Shadowlord.

Flat on his ass under a gate leading to another world.

Sloshing with vodka . . .

None of the above.

“I . . . uh, I never actually caught up to him.”

“So you're saying you left early and still didn't do what I asked you to?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

Peter stared at him for a long moment, then snorted softly. “You just used up all your saved-the-stuntman goodwill, Tony. Next time you run off like that, you can return the radio and keep on going.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Tell Alan Wu I need him on set to run over his blocking the moment he's done then hit the office and see if those dialogue changes are ready. And,” he raised his voice, “I'd like to get started on time for a change, people! Why aren't those cameras set?”

As Tony hurried for the exit, he heard the soundstage begin to rev up behind him. And the good news, he still had a job. And the bad news, that job was still at ground zero for a Shadowlord invasion.

Unless it wasn't.

Seven fifty-one.

Three and a half hours.

He hated waiting.

Alan Wu, who played Detective Emanuel Chan,
Darkest Night's
recurring police presence, guaranteed at least one day's work a week, was still in the chair when Tony reached the makeup room.

“Look at this hair, Tony.” Everett waved a thick strand of black hair in Tony's general direction without much regard for the head it was attached to. “Don't quote me on this, but is this not beautiful hair?”

“It's the same hair he had last week, Everett.” Tony grinned as he moved around so Alan could see him in the mirror. Everett's fascination with Alan's hair and the crew's awareness of it left the actor alternately flattered and embarrassed. “As soon as you're done here, Peter would like to see you on set so that he . . .”

“. . . can run over my blocking. Same old. Same old.”

Detective Chan liked to move when he talked, his constant motion in direct and deliberate contrast to Raymond Dark's brooding stillness. It made his scenes harder to shoot, as a stationary actor was easier for both light and sound but, since CB himself had been responsible for that bit of character development, no one argued too loudly against it; they just scheduled extra time and counted on Alan to hit his marks.

Fortunately, twenty years in the business made Alan the closest thing to a sure bet on the set.

The late Catherine's less than loving mom and dad were in the other two chairs being worked on by Everett's assistant—who worked part-time for CB Productions and part-time at a local funeral parlor. She'd told Tony once that thanks to
Six Feet Under,
people saw her second job as the more exotic. “But for me—you know, corpses, actors—meat's meat. At least the dead dudes don't complain that natural beige foundation makes them look fat.”

Lee was in the same scene, but he wasn't due on set until 8:30. Two hours and forty-five minutes before the gate. Tony paused outside his dressing room door, imagined he could hear the rustle of fabric, actually could hear muffled profanity, raised his hand to knock, changed his mind, and ran.

Terrified he'd hear Lee's door open before he was out of sight.

He hit the production office just as Amy, hair and fingernails a matching burgundy, was shrugging out of her jacket. Crossing toward her, he lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself, Kemosabe. You still work here?”

It appeared that yesterday's early departure was common knowledge. Great. The last thing he needed was a reputation as a slacker. Well, maybe not the last thing; he supposed he needed homicidal shadows less, but still . . . “All has been forgiven,” he told her, pushing the staple remover around her desk with the tip of one finger, “but apparently I'm going to have to rescue another stuntman before I do it again.”

Amy glanced around the office. “Don't see anyone in need of rescue.”

“Too bad. Did you know that clock is two hours off?”

She turned to look and snorted. “We reset it to Hawaiian time.”

“That's not . . .”

“Did you come in here to criticize, or are you actually hanging around for a reason?”

“I need today's dialogue changes.”

The changes weren't on Amy's desk. Just to be on the safe side, she quickly checked Rachel's desk, the top of both filing cabinets, and the gray metal shelving unit.

Together, they turned toward the bull pen.

“I went in last time,” Amy told him, crossing her arms over her UBC sweatshirt.

“I'm the
set
PA,” he reminded her. “The bull pen's way outside my job description.”

“You want to get anywhere in this business, Tony, you have to show initiative.”

“I'd rather wrestle Richard Simmons.”

“You wish.”

“Hey, guys, what's up?”

Together, they turned toward the office PA.

Veronica's eyes widened at the sight of their smiles and she took a step back. “What?”

“I need you to pick up some dialogue changes from the writers for this morning's shoot,” Amy told her while Tony tried to keep the word “sucker” from showing on his face in any way.

She looked a little confused but nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

They watched her stride purposefully into the bull pen and exit considerably faster a few moments later clutching four sheets of paper to her chest.

“What is that smell?”

“No one knows.” Amy pried the pages from Veronica's white-knuckled fingers and headed for the photocopier. “What're we up to? Blue?”

Tony checked his sides for the latest script revision color. “Yeah, blue.”

“Why blue?” Veronica asked.

Tony shrugged. “Because the camera breakdowns are on green.”

“That's not a reason for blue.”

Amy patted her on the shoulder as she handed Tony the photocopies. “One of the first things you've got to learn in this business, kid, is that a lot of stuff happens just because.”

“But why do . . . ?”

“Because.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Just because.” Dropping into her chair, Amy reached for the ringing phone. “And while we're on the topic, can you try and find another ream of blue paper in that stack of office supplies in the kitchen. CB Productions. How can I help?”

When Veronica continued to look confused, Tony turned her toward the kitchen and gave her a little shove. He'd taken two steps toward the soundstage when the front doors opened and Zev came in, one hand beating time to the rhythm in his headphones. Tony waited until he was sure the musical director could see him, then he smiled and waved.

Zev's return salutation was distinctly frosty and he continued straight through to post without stopping to talk.

By the time Tony had turned to ask Amy what was up, she already had her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Because you were a shit to him yesterday.”

“You could at least wait until I asked.”

“Time is money, buckaroo. Go apologize.”

He waved the dialogue changes in answer as she turned her attention back to the phone and headed for the soundstage. Apologize? A suggestion that proved Amy didn't understand guys. Guys didn't apologize; the other guy, the guy not being apologized to, got even.
Fucking great. If Lee thinks what happened yesterday was my fault, I'm going to have to pull CB himself out of a burning car if I want to keep my . . .

“Shit. Sorry.” He sidestepped the body heading for the makeup room, realized who it was an instant later, and kept walking. Maybe a little faster. Places to go. Things to do. Dialogue changes to deliver.

“Hey, Tony!”

Crap.

Half hidden behind a not very convincing fake bearskin hat, he turned and tried to look as though he wasn't remembering the feel of bare skin under his hands. “Yeah?”

“Yesterday, after I left, Brenda says you took off on my bike.”

And crap again. The wardrobe department's windows looked out into the parking lot and Brenda had been trying to get into Lee's pants in more than a professional way for months. Over half the crew believed she already had.

Not surprisingly, Lee sounded pretty pissed off.

“Uh, yeah. Don't you remember?” Because if Lee'd gotten his memory back overnight, Tony needed to know now.

“Remember what?”

Good. Anger turning to suspicion and uneasiness. Well, not exactly
good
but definitely better than it could be. Tony dredged up a smile and proceeded to lie through his teeth. He'd been told more than once it was one of his most marketable skills. “You told me to take it to your condo for you, but you never showed and I couldn't get into the garage so I brought it back here.”

“I told you to take it to my condo?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Tony shrugged and flipped a bit of off-color fur back and forth. “Beats the hell out of me. You said you had a killer headache, asked if I could ride, I said I could and . . .” He shrugged again and played the only hand he had. “That must've been one hell of a headache if you can't remember. You okay?”

“Uh . . .” Lee's brow furrowed and Tony flinched to see the flash of panic in his eyes. Sure, anyone might panic at losing so large a chunk of time, but for an actor to suddenly feel he couldn't rely on his memory . . . After a long moment, Lee decided to grab the line Tony'd thrown him. “It was a killer headache, totally killer—still not entirely gone, I'm afraid. Listen, thanks, man.”

“No problem.” He waved the blue sheets again, like cerulean semaphore for
I've got to haul ass
, and hauled ass for the soundstage.
And the Oscar goes to . . .
Except this was television not movies and syndicated television besides but an Oscar caliber performance regardless. He just wished he didn't feel like such a shit.

I should tell him. I should tell him that it has nothing to do with him. That the shadow minions of a dark wizard took over his body and that's why he can't remember.
Tony snorted as he shoved through the last of the costumes.
Oh, yeah, I'm sure it'd comfort him to think that while he was losing his memory, I was losing my mind.

Better the comfort of a lie than the absurdity of the truth.

At the monitors, he handed Peter the changes. The director glanced over them then passed all but two sets to Tina. Those two sets, he passed back to Tony. “Give these to Mum and Dad. Tell them I need them out here in . . . Sorge!”

The DP glanced up from sketching Alan's path across the living room in the air with long sweeping movements of both arms.

“How long?”

“Vingt.”
Unaware he was standing directly under an interdimensional gate, Sorge shrugged.
“Vingt-cinq.”

“Make it twenty.” Peter turned his attention back to Tony. “Tell them I need them out here in twenty minutes. Suggest that they actually know the new lines.”

“Really?” That last bit sounded suspect.

“Be diplomatic.”

“Uh, sure.” Apparently not.

“And get them back here on time.”

“Right.”

He could be diplomatic. He checked his watch against the time code running across the bottom of the tech monitor and headed back toward the dressing rooms. Odds were good they were both out of makeup by now and anyway, the dressing rooms were on the way.

Memory making his heart pound, just for that moment envying Lee's memory loss, Tony reminded himself that
that
shadow was gone. That the shadow following it had been destroyed.
He'd
destroyed it.

The door to Catherine's—Nikki's—dressing room remained off its hinges and Mom and Dad—he didn't bother checking their actual names, if the morning went well, they'd be gone by lunch—were in the two farthest away. Fortunately, both doors were open.
Fortunately,
because Tony was suddenly afraid that if he had to knock, he wouldn't be able to. Dad was reading the paper. Mom had her laptop out.

Their shadows were muted and gray.

He cleared his throat and held up the pages. “Dialogue changes, guys. The director needs you on the set in twenty minutes with the changes down.”

“In twenty minutes?” Mom looked appalled.

Tony glanced at the top page. “I think most of the changes are Alan's. Detective Chan's. He usually gets the exposition and that's what the writers keep changing, so it's probably changed a couple of your reactions.” He smiled reassuringly as they took the pages. “Nothing big.”

“I mean, I know my lines.”

The newspaper was abruptly folded down. “Are you implying I don't?”

“I wasn't talking about you. Jesus, Frank. Get over yourself.” She flipped through the pages and frowned, the makeup on her forehead creasing. “We're doing all four pages today?”

“Hopefully, we're doing all four pages by 11:00,” he told her, glancing at his sides. Her name was Laura. He couldn't know one and not the other, it just didn't seem fair. “Then three more before lunch and we're doing seven this afternoon—touch wood.” Reaching out, he pressed a finger against a two by four. “We're a bit behind.”