And if Dave didn't want to go?
Tough. Luis would take the camera himself. He'd reported and shot tape simultaneously on the barge and that had worked out just fine. Even Jake had said so.
Jake. Luis wasn't sure what the deal with Jake was. She wasn't talking to him any more than she had to, but it wasn't an "I'm mad at you" not-talking. It was more an "I'm disappointed in you" kind of not-talking. He didn't know if she'd told Gwen yet. And he didn't know if she intended to.
Jake was acting like he stole money or something. If he stole anything, it was what was already his. His "intellectual property," like they say.
So what if he used TV8's equipment? It was the man behind it that mattered. The camera was like a paintbrush and the film was the paint, but he, Luis, was the master painter.
Luis thought about that, wandering down the line of fencing. He had something here, he was sure of it. Something that even Jake and Gwen could understand.
Those little kids on the other side of the fence were watching him, like he was somebody, because he
was
somebody. He was a reporter and an artist, and TV8 no more owned him and his film than Glidden owned the Mona Lisa because Leonardo DiCaprio used their paint.
"Mr. Martin?"
He looked up and saw a kid of about six trying to pass a Lake Days t-shirt and a Sharpie over the fence. "Can I have your autograph?
Now
that
was more like it.
George:
"
Welcome back to the Refresh Yourself Fourth.
"
Neal:
"
In just a few minutes, we'll be joined by Angela Firenze Guida. As we've reported, Ms. Firenze Guida is the daughter of Pasquale Firenze, who was killed in Friday's explosion.
"
George:
"
She is also the wife of Ray Guida, who is being sought for questioning in that blast. She's agreed to talk with us about her father and the salute planned at the end of this show, but before that...
"
The papers in front of George blew off the desk. Jake set aside her Croc-questions and her Luis-suspicions for the time being and watched as George peered calmly into the camera.
"
As you can see, the wind is changing direction a bit here, but as long as the--
"
"
Shit, Jake, the fog is really getting bad out here.
"
Pete was calling from the boat, and this time he sounded more scared than anxious to get away from Martha.
"
The Coast Guard has posted a small craft warning. We’re going to have to come in.
"
Shoot. Or maybe
not
shoot. Maybe the fireworks would be called off. Though postponing at this point might be worse than seeing the thing through tonight. One way or the other, Jake needed to get Pete and Martha safely off the lake.
"
Get out of there now, Pete.
"
Behind the anchors, Jake could just make out the running lights as the Coast Guard attempted to warn boaters. Fog horns sounded in the distance.
A wind gust hit the side of the truck, rocking it, and Jake picked up the phone, keeping one eye on the monitor while George and Neal made windblown happy talk and waited for the first salute or, alternatively, the fog.
"
Ready Camera Six, take Camera Six.
"
Then, to her tech director:
"
Get me Brett.
"
Brett Varich was the station’s chief meteorologist. Archie had him on the line in seconds.
"
Brett, it’s Jake. What's your best guess on the fog?
"
"
The wind is shifting, Jake, and coming off the lake. I'm afraid you're in for some fog."
Nuts. "Okay, Brett. Thanks."
As she hung up the phone there was a perfunctory tap on the door and a blonde woman--a very pretty blonde woman, from what Jake could see of her--stuck her head in the door. "Wendy Jacobus? I'm Dianne Aamot." She climbed in, ignoring Archie, whose mouth was hanging open.
Not only was Simon's ex-wife beautiful, she was very tall. And well-endowed. If this was what Simon had co-habitated with, what in the world did he want with scrawny little Jake?
Scrawny little Jake didn't have time to think about it, because as she took her hand off the phone, it rang. Bryan: "Jake what's it look like there? Are your cameras fogged in?"
Jake dragged her eyes away from Dianne Aamot, and checked the monitors. The stage cameras on the bluff were clear, so was the camera on the Waverly. The lower cameras--Dave's, the seawall and the breakwater--were all showing fog.
She told Bryan as much, and he hung up. Without even a goodbye.
"I'm terribly sorry I'm late," Dianne Aamot was saying, "but the police wouldn't let me through."
Jake's attention was diverted by Callie’s shot, which was a bit off. The crowd was pressing in again. "Kate, get those people back,
"
she radioed to her floor director at the stage. Then to Archie, who was still standing and staring? "Ready, Camera Two, Archie?"
He nodded and turned back to the console, while Jake returned to her guest. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to chat right now," she said, politely but firmly.
Dianne Aamot, to her credit, just nodded. "I understand completely. I just wanted to see...meet you, and," she pulled a business card out of her purse, "if you'll give me a call sometime, we can talk about the liability on the microwave van."
Jake blanched and Dianne Aamot saw it. "Don't worry, you're not personally liable, we just have issues to deal with concerning the insurance carrier."
Kate's voice came back over the radio. "Jake, we've got a worse problem than the crowd. Angela Firenze's not here."
Geez, you can stop worrying about one thing for a second, and then another gets dumped in your lap. "What do you mean, she's not there? She's supposed to be on camera in less than ten minutes."
"Sorry, Jake. There was a woman standing just inside the rope--long dark hair, battery-powered fireworks earrings--I thought it was her. It wasn't."
No kidding. Angela Firenze wouldn't be caught dead in battery-operated fireworks earrings. "You have anybody to go looking?"
Callie’s camera started to swing back away from the crowd and toward Neal, as Kate crossed in front to move the crowd back. "No, and the fog is rolling in below us and these people are getting nuts. Are we still a go for the fireworks?"
"I'm not sure. Listen, I'm sending Archie over to help find Angela. Tell George and Neal to fill, and I'll see what I can do."
She turned to Archie, who had gone back to ogling Dianne. "Take Camera Two, Archie, and then I hate to ask you to be a gopher, but..."
Her tech director pulled his headset off. "Just call me a friend you can count on."
Dianne Aamot went to follow him. "I'll get out of your way," she said, extending her hand to Jake. Dianne held on just a second too long, studying Jake. If Jake had any doubt the "liability discussion" was an excuse to meet--or as Dianne put it, "see"--Jake, she didn't anymore.
"Great," Jake said, taking her hand back. "I'll give you a call. Tomorrow, probably."
"Great," Dianne echoed, and climbed out. She stopped outside the door, seeming undecided about something, her face half in shadow and half in the light of the production van. "If that's Angela Firenze you're looking for--"
Jake, who was already back scanning the monitors, looked up, "Yes?" she said, trying to hurry the woman along.
"You might want to check my ex-husband's bed. At least," she leaned forward into the van, so now she was completely in the light, "that's where she was the last time I saw her."
*****
If Simon didn't know better, he would think he'd stumbled on a family reunion instead of a firing site.
Kids were being chased by other kids, Frisbees and footballs were flying in all directions, and people--young, old, and everything in between--were sitting at picnic tables with plates of food in front of them.
All the activity ceased as Simon approached. At first he thought he was the cause, but then he saw the man in blue jeans, dark shirt, and white clerical collar, head bowed and hands folded, at the end of a long table. Simon recognized him from Pasquale's funeral.
"We ask your blessing on this show tonight, Lord. On the workers who fire the display, and on the spectators who enjoy it. We ask that you keep everyone safe in your hand and," the young priest lifted his head and surveyed the fog that was billowing in around them, "we ask that you take a nice big breath and blow this damn fog out of here."
Everyone laughed and calls of "Amen, Father Bill!" came from the crowd. Father Bill sobered again. "One special note tonight, Lord. We lost two men last week--one for certain, and one for whom we are trying to hold out hope. We ask that you bless the soul of Pasquale Firenze, and let this show be, as he would say, the show of his life."
Another chorus of "Amen" followed, and the group seated at the long table stood. It was the fireworks crew, including Tudy, and they were going to work. Father Bill joined them as they headed toward cars parked near the fence. He apparently was one of the crew.
"Simon."
Simon hadn't seen Pat come up. He held a radio in his hand.
"Where's everyone going?" Simon asked, as one after another, the crew got into cars and drove them in a slow caravan around the firing area. If they'd been in the Wild West, Simon would say they were circling the wagons.
"We're ringing the firing area, so we can use the headlights for light. If something happens in this fuckin' fog..." Pat shook the radio at the sky. "They'll just park them and then come back here to the firing console."
Sure enough, each car was turning so its headlights pointed inward toward the mortars and then stopping. It was like synchronized swimming, only with cars. And drier.
Simon was already losing some of the headlights in the fog. "You’re really going to shoot?"
Pat shook the radio again. "Williams says it’s a go. And the mayor says it’s Williams’ call."
Simon looked back toward the park where the bulk of the spectators sat. From this distance Shore Park looked like a Jell-o parfait. The cream center layer was the shelf of thickening fog that started about ten feet off the ground and rose almost to the top of the bluff, where it was clear again.
Which was probably the impetus for the guy trying to climb the bluff in his Chevy Blazer.
"Jesus," said Pat, following Simon‘s gaze.
The Blazer had made it nearly halfway up the side of the bluff, apparently trying to get itself a better view. There was no road and it was a nearly vertical incline, but you can't blame a drunk for trying. As they watched, the SUV backslid. The guy downshifted and gunned the motor. The truck leapt forward and disappeared into the fog shelf. Damned if he wasn't going to make it, Simon thought.
Or not.
The spinning of invisible tires heralded the Blazer's return to earth, as it slipped back down out of the fog bank and then flipped, rolling ever so slowly back down.
The crowd cheered.
"And people say
we're
nuts," Pat muttered.
**
***
Dianne Aamot must be a heck of a lawyer, Jake thought. Look at the amount of damage she'd been able to inflict in a short time.
But...Simon and Angela?
Could be, Jake admitted to herself. Jake had even gotten vibes to that effect the night she and Simon had dinner with the Firenzes. But was Dianne saying she'd caught them in the act and that's why the marriage had ended?
If so, it was a very different story than the one Simon had told. But then again, in Jake's experience nothing was ever black and white, just a whole lot of gray.
Like the fog.
On the monitor, George pointed down toward where the lake had been. High on the bluff where the anchors sat, the sky was still clear. Problem was, most of the crowd was below fog level and would never see the show. Might make them a tad miffed.
Jake forced herself to switch gears mentally and then switched frequencies, literally, to the one the Firenzes' radios were set to. One thing they'd learned from the Lake Days disaster was to make sure the radios were compatible.
"TV8 to Pat Firenze. Pat are you there?"
"Pat Firenze here."
"Pat, this is Jake at TV8. What's going on--are you canceling?"
Pat growled, or at least it sounded like a growl over the radio. "Williams says we're a go."
No wonder Pat was growling. "Up here on the bluff, the stars are out," Jake said. "But it looks to me like dense fog is starting to roll in down there."
"You got that right."
"I know the shells will clear the fog so we'll be fine for TV, but there are half a million people in the park who aren't going to be able to see anything."