Smoke and Shadows (3 page)

“She tried. She can't get through.”

They used the services of a freelance location finder—who no one could ever find.

“Amy . . .”

“Is busy.”

Across the office, Rachel's assistant flipped him the finger and continued convincing someone to do something they clearly weren't happy about.

He sighed and wrapped his fingers around the warm plastic—as far as he could tell, the office phones never got a chance to cool down. “Who is it?”

“Rajeet Singh at the permit office.” Rachel had a second receiver halfway to her ear. “Just let her talk,” she told him again, reached across to hit the hold button on his phone, and snapped, “CB Productions.”

Tony moved as far away as the cord allowed, and turned his back. “Ms. Singh? How can I help you?”

“It's about that night shoot you've got lined up on Lakefield Drive . . .” Everything after that disappeared into the argument coming through the jack in his left ear and the ambient noise in the office. Resting one cheek on the edge of Rachel's desk, Tony did as instructed and let her talk.

From where he was sitting, he could see the front doors, nearly blocked by a stack of cardboard boxes, the door leading to the bull pen—the cramped hole that the show's three staff writers called their own, although not in CB's hearing—and CB's office.

If he turned a little, he could see Mason's office and through the open door, Mason's personal assistant, Jennifer. Snide remarks about just what exactly her job entailed had ended the day she'd pushed past a terrified security guard and strong-armed a pair of Mason's more rabid fans off the set and back into their 1983 Dodge Dart. She rode with the Dykes on Bikes during Pride Parade and someday Tony promised himself he'd find the guts to ask her about her tattoos.

Next to Mason, the art department—one room, one person, and a sideline in erotic greeting cards everyone pretended they didn't know about. Then finance, the kitchen, and the door leading to post production. Somewhere amid the half dozen cubbyholes crammed with equipment, Zev Sero, CB's music director, had an office but Tony hadn't yet been able to find it.

Behind him and to the right, the costuming department. Directly behind him, the stairs leading to the basement and special effects. Given CB's way of making a nickel scream, Tony had been amazed to discover that the FX was done in house. He was more amazed when he found out Arra Pelindrake was a middle-aged woman who'd been with CB—through bad television and worse—for the last seven years. Safer not to think of the possible reasons why.

“. . . so does it have to be that street at that time?”

He glanced over at Rachel who appeared to be attacking a pile of order forms with a black magic marker. “Uh, yes.”

“Fine. But I'm doing you guys a significant favor here and I want it remembered on election day.”

“Election day . . . ?”

“Municipal elections. City council.
Don't
forget to vote. I'll send your permit over this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” But he was thanking a dial tone. He handed Rachel the receiver in time for her to answer another line and turned to see Amy's shadow come out of Mason's office.

Or not.

His own shadow elongated and contracted again as he walked across the office and by the time he reached Amy's side, he'd almost convinced himself that he'd merely seen Amy's do the same thing. Almost. Except Amy had been standing, essentially motionless, beside her desk.

“You okay?” she asked, sitting down and reaching for her mouse.

“Yeah. Fine.” Her shadow reached for the mouse's shadow. Nothing overtly strange about that. “Just having an FX moment.”

“Whatever. What do you want?”

“Lee's not here yet and he was supposed to be in makeup at eleven.”

“Do I look like his baby-sitter?”

“Peter wants you to call him.”

“Yeah? When? In my copious amounts of . . .” She snatched up the ringing phone. “CB Productions, please hold . . . spare time?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” She reached for the rolodex. So did her shadow. “What are you looking at? I got a boob hanging out or something?”

“Why would I be looking at that?”

“Good point.” Glancing past his shoulder, she grinned. “Hey, Zev. Tony's not looking at my boobs.”

“Uh . . . good?”

Tony turned in time to catch the flush of red on Zev's cheeks above the short black beard and smiled in sympathy. On her good days, Amy went about two postal codes beyond blunt.

The music director returned his smile, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans as though he suddenly didn't know what to do with them. “You're off set? I mean, I know you're off set,” he continued before Tony could answer, “you're here. I just . . . Why?”

“Peter sent me out to have someone call Lee. He's not here yet.”

“He is. I, uh, saw him from Barb's office.”

Barb Dixon was the entire finance department.

“What were you doing in with Madame Number-cruncher?” Amy asked.

Zev shrugged. “She gets swamped at the end of the month. Sometimes I help her out; I'm good with numbers.”

“Yeah?” Tony'd been leaning out around the boxes, watching for Lee to come in the door, but that got his attention. “I totally suck at math and I'm trying to come up with a budget. I've got to buy a car—the commute's fucking killing me. Maybe you can help
me
out sometime.”

“Sure.” Zev's cheeks darkened again and yanking a hand from his pocket, he ran it back through his hair.

“You . . . uh . . .”

“I know.” He replaced his yarmulke and headed for the door to post production. “You know where I am, just give me a call.”

At least that's what Tony thought he'd said. The words had run together into one long, embarrassed sound. Fortunately, months on the ear jack had made him pretty skilled at working out the inaudible. “Hey, Zev?”

The music director paused, one foot over the threshold.

“That piece behind Mason at the window last ep? With all the strings? It really rocked.”

“Thank you.” His shadow slipped through the closing door at the last minute.

“He likes you.”

“What?” Caught up in concerns about his own sanity, it took Tony a moment to figure out what Amy was talking about. “Who? Zev?”

“Duh. He's a nice guy. Oh, but wait, why would you notice a nice guy who likes you when there's . . .” She paused and smirked.

“What?” Tony demanded as the pause lengthened.

Behind him, the front door opened and a familiar velvet voice said, “Man, you would not believe the traffic out there! I almost had to take the bike up on the fucking sidewalk at one point.”

Answering Amy's sarcastic kissy face with a single finger, Tony turned.

Lee Nicholas, aka James Taylor Grant, Raymond Dark's junior partner and the vampire detective's eyes and ears in the light, was six foot one with short dark hair, green eyes, chiseled cheekbones and the kind of body that owed as much to lucky genetics as his personal trainer. Although the show kept him in preppy casual, he was currently wearing a black leather jacket, faded jeans, black leather chaps, motorcycle boots . . . When he unzipped the jacket to expose a tight black T-shirt, Tony felt his mouth go dry.

“Hey, Lee, how many cows were killed for that outfit?”

“Not a one.” He grinned down at Amy, showing perfect teeth and a dimple one of the more poetic on-line fan sites had described as wicked. “They all lived long, fulfilled bovine lives and died happily of old age. How many migrant workers did you exploit for all that cotton?”

“I picked every blossom with my own lily white . . . CB Productions, can I help you? Left you on hold?” Mouthing
oops
she waved both Tony and Lee away from her desk.

“So, you're off the set.” He handed Tony his helmet in full realization that it would be taken and carried for him. “Has Peter finished up early?”

“No. Uh, late. That is, he's going to be finishing late and he wanted me to tell you that you wouldn't be needed on the set until after, you know, lunch.” Tony smiled weakly, fully realizing how he sounded. He'd been taking care of himself, one way or another, since he was fourteen. He'd seen things that redefined the word terrifying. He'd fought against the darkness—not metaphorically,
literally
fought against the darkness. Well, helped . . . He was twenty-four years old for Christ's sake! And yet he couldn't talk to Lee Nicholas without coming across like a babbling idiot. Idiot being a particularly apt description since the actor was straight with a well documented weakness for the kind of blondes he couldn't take home to Mother.

Lee's mother was a very nice woman. She'd been to the studio a couple of times.

Tony suddenly realized that Lee was waiting for him to reply to something he'd totally missed hearing. “What?”

“I said, thank you for carrying my helmet. I'll see you on set.”

“Right. Yeah. Uh, you're welcome.” And the dressing room door closed, the scuffed paint less than a centimeter from his nose.

Tony had no memory of leaving the production office.

He walked back to the sound stage; his shadow lingered outside Lee's door.

“Hey, Tony, you up for some second unit work tonight?”

Marshmallow strawberry halfway to his mouth, Tony turned to see Amy approaching the craft services table waving a set of sides—the night's schedule reduced to pocket size. “Out on Lakefield?”

“That's the one. Arra's going to blow the beemer. You'll pick up a little overtime and get to watch a symbol of bourgeois excess take a hit. Hard to beat.”

“Bourgeois excess?” He snorted and chewed. “Who talks like that?”

“Obviously, me. And if you're going to give me a hard time, I'll call in another PA to do it.”

Tony waited. Picked a marshmallow banana out of the bowl.

“Okay, Pam asked for you and CB wouldn't let me call in even if she hadn't. Happy?” She shoved the cut sheets up against his chest. “Trucks are there at eleven, shoot by midnight, gone by one and if you believe that, I've got some waterfront land going cheap.”

“He led his city through the darkest night toward the dawn.”

Heart slamming against his ribs, Tony jumped forward and spun around, managing to accomplish both movements more or less simultaneously and still stay on his feet. He scowled at the shadowy figure just barely visible at the edge of the streetlight's circle, knowing that every nuance of his expression could be clearly seen. “Fuck, Henry! You just don't sneak up on a guy and purr bad cutlines into his ear!”

“Sorry.” Henry stepped into the light, red-gold hair gleaming, full lips curved up into a smile.

Tony knew that smile. It was the one that went along with
It's fun to be a vampire!
Which was not only a much better cutline than the one plastered all over the
Darkest Night
promo package, it was indicative of an almost playful mood—playful as it referred to an undead creature of the night. “Where did you park?”

“Don't worry; I'm well out of the way.”

“Cops give you any hassle?”

The smile changed slightly and Henry shoved his hands into the pockets of his oiled-canvas trenchcoat. “Do they ever?”

Tony glanced down the road to where a pair of constables from the Burnaby RCMP detachment stood beside their cruiser. “You didn't, you know, vamp them?”

“Do I ever?”

“Sometimes.”