Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [42]
Right. The narrative. With Mann everything was about the narrative. And she was so anti-gun, you’d think you’d find her out on weekends, arms linked with Oprah Winfrey and George Clooney, singing “Kumbaya” at a rally.
“This could be over in twenty minutes,” O’Neal. “Don’t dismiss it.”
“We can’t use the first team.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re already busy.”
O’Neal knew there were two jobs this weekend, and he had to admit, he was bummed to be in a backup role for the second. For some reason, Mann had wanted two completely different primary teams. He knew little about the other job, other than that it was “on the other side of the mountain” and set for that night. Making this a kind of twilight doubleheader for Mann.
“What about a fire? We can light it from the bottom. It’s L.A., and it is the season. Completely plausible. We can even figure out a way to pin it on her.”
“It’s sloppy. The actress and Hardie could make it out. And too hard to control. Once a fire breaks out, it could wipe out dozens of homes before the fire department makes it up here. The arson investigators would have a field day.”
Yeah, O’Neal thought. But they’d be dead, wouldn’t they?
He held his tongue. This was why she was the director and he was the deputy. Not for lacking of trying, though. Maybe someday he’d earn a top spot on the production team. He’d put in the hours, certainly.
Mann finished up by running a wet wipe over her eyes to remove the dried blood and dirt. She pulled a black dress over her bikini, and applied lipstick as best she could without a mirror. She could pass for an aging Hollywood Hills trophy wife who’d endured a particularly rough crow’s-feet plastic surgery session.
“I’m going back down to the other vantage point. I’ll check in with A.D. Make sure he’s still functional.”
A.D. was indeed still functional.
He’d passed through shock and come through it okay, all things considered.
Now he was directly under the bottom floor, keeping watch. If they were going to bolt, they’d most likely try it from the windows closest to the ground. The drop wasn’t too crazy; you could survive. Hell, he survived being kicked in the balls and falling from the top floor. A drop off the bottom floor? No problem at all.
“You sure you’re okay?” Mann asked, crouching down next to him. “You can still see and hear?”
“Yeah. You know, I’m kind of surprised about it myself… but I’m still in this. Don’t count me out, boss.”
“I won’t.”
“How’s your eye? You can’t even tell with those glasses on.”
“I need you to focus.”
“Okay, I can focus. What do you want me to do?”
“How far do you think you can crawl?”
Mann knew O’Neal was impatient to finish this. So was she. But you don’t go this far and make a mistake at the very end. The narrative was everything. Now that she knew a little more about Hardie, she’d figured out the perfect way to eliminate him.
He wouldn’t even know it was coming.
15
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
—Movie cliché
THE FIRST hour slid by Hardie and Lane on the second floor, taking up a position in the hallway between the bathroom and the stairway to the lower level. Their weapons: a corkscrew and a slightly used mic stand. Hardie wanted to make a run for it right away. The Indians were wounded; this was the time for the cowboys to make their getaway. But Lane refused—no way, no how—and reminded Hardie of what happened the last time he tried to walk out the front door. Hardie had no choice but to concede her point. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
They didn’t say too much to each other. Lane had either sobered up or had descended into a deeper level of shock. She complained about her eye hurting and stared at the soundproofed walls, breathing slowly, blinking every so often. Clearly, it hurt when she blinked.
Hardie cracked his knuckles, bending each finger and pressing it with his thumb until his joint popped. Then he continued pressing down with his thumb, even when his joints had nothing left to give.
“Will you stop that,” Lane said.
“Sorry.”
The waiting