"Look, I think I've got enough footage to work with for now. Let me
just get the release signed take this film downtown, and get it
processed. Maybe we can come back for another shoot when I figure out
exactly where this is going."
"Anytime. Just give me some notice and I'll try to have the place
cleaned up more next time."
"Don't worry. I like it to look real. Just sign the release and I'll
take it from there." I was about to set Rachel back on the floor when
something caught in my sweater. Looking down, I realized it was a tiny
charm bracelet, with two little medallions on it. One was a little red
plastic likeness of Pocahontas, the Disney character, and the other was
a silver face of a cat, long and stylized. And on the back, those
curious lines and dots again, only these were arranged differently from
those on the one Carly's boy Kevin had.
"Paula, what's this? This cat. Where'd you get it?"
"Oh, that." She smiled. "She was wearing it when I got her, on a little
silk cord around her waist, under her diaper. They told me it was a
gift from her real mother, a keepsake. Sort of breaks your heart, but
the way they said it, you want to keep it forever. . . ."
At that moment Erica was just plugging the phone back in, and the
second she did, the old, black Panasonic cordless began to ring.
"Hang on a sec," Paula said. "Let me get that. My agent is supposed--"
She'd picked up the phone and was plopping back onto the couch. "Hi."
Then her look turned blank. "No, of course not." She fell into an
uncomfortable pause, looking around at everybody. Then she continued.
"Nobody's contacted me." She halted again, her face white, and stared
directly at me. I abruptly sensed that I was the topic of the
conversation. "Sure I'm sure. . . . Yes, I remember signing. . . .
Don't worry. I'd have no reason to. . . . Okay, sure, I'll let you
know."
She clicked off the phone and looked up with startled eyes. "It was
somebody who said they worked for Children of Light. She wanted to know
if you'd contacted me." Her face collapsed. "You. She asked me
specifically about _you_. By name. How did--?"
"I have no idea." My hands were growing cold. Had Carly told them about
me? Why would she do that? "Anyway, you handled it okay."
Which made me wonder. If Children of Light was such a perfect
organization, why was Paula so frightened she immediately felt
compelled to lie, to swear she hadn't broken their rules?
"Right." Her composure was slowly coming back. "Look, now that I think
about it, why should they care? It doesn't make any sense. They got
their money." She turned to me. "Let me have that release."
She seized the paper and endorsed it with a flourish.
My pulse was still in overdrive, but I hugged her, then signaled the
crew that shooting was over for the day.
"Okay, everybody. Time to wrap."
The gang immediately began striking the lights and rolling up
electrical cords. They would take the equipment back downtown and
deliver the film to the lab, while I would head home. It had been a
long day and lots of thinking was needed. Besides, it was starting to
rain, a dismal spatter against Paula's grimy windows, as the gray
spring afternoon had begun darkening toward sullen evening.
"Listen, I enjoyed this." Paula had taken Rachel in her arms and was
stroking her blond hair. "I really love talking about her. She's
changed my life."
I gave her another hug. "You're great. And you're going to be wonderful
in the film." If I used her. The whole thing was getting unnerving.
"You have no idea how much you've helped." Then I said good-bye to
Rachel, who responded with a perfect "Bye, bye" through her haze of
spaghetti sauce.
Okay, get the superintendent. Crank up the freight elevator. Get out of
here.
Scott Ventri, key grip, took charge of handling the gear, dictating
which equipment got loaded on first. I watched long enough to make sure
everything was going okay, and then I joined Arlene, old friend and
queen of outrageous makeup, on the other elevator.
"You notice it?" she whispered. The door had just closed.
"Notice what?" I knew full well what she was talking about. But it just
felt too bizarre.
"Those kids could almost be twins. That little boy last week, and this
girl. They look just alike. It's spooky."
"Guess their parents couldn't figure out what was causing those
pregnancies. So they just kept having more babies." I decided to try to
insert some humor, deflect the conversation. "Maybe we should tell
Paula and Carly."
"Very dumb." Arlene bit at a long, red, false fingernail, a perennial
habit for as long as I'd known her. "We should mind our own business,
that's what we should do."
"Works for me. But it also proves we were smart not to shoot any
footage of the kids. The whole world would realize something's funny."
Then I had an idea. "Want to come downtown to my place after we unload?
Have some deep thoughts over what all this means?"
First the kids, then the call. What was this guy Alex Goddard, whoever
he was, up to? Definitely time to talk to somebody. . . .
"Gee, I'd love to," Arlene was saying, "but I can't. I gotta go out to
Kew Gardens for my mom and dad's anniversary tonight. Their
thirty-fifth, can you believe? Of course, I was a very late baby." She
blinked her dark, languid eyes, as though rehearsing the line for a
downtown club.
"A miracle of modern fertility science, right?" Shit. Arlene, I need
you.
"Right." She giggled, then seemed to study the flashing lights on the
elevator's control panel. "God, those kids, they're too good to be
true. I'd love to have one like that." She impatiently pounded the
number one a couple of times, perhaps hoping to speed our creaky
descent. "I can get bonked every night of the week, but I can't get a
serious boyfriend. New York's clubs aren't exactly brimming with the
vine-covered-cottage-and-picket-fence type. And as for the pickings at
work, given the kind of pictures David makes, forget it. Last thing I
need is some twenty-year-old pothead who thinks with his wang."
"I'm afraid I'm not helping you much with this one." I'd cast _Baby
Love_ mostly with Off-Broadway unknowns. The actress Mary Gregg was a
veteran of Joseph Papp's original Public Theater, the experimental
enterprise downtown. The few male parts all went to guys who were
either gay or married.
"Oy, what can you do, right? If it happens, it happens." Arlene watched
the door begin to stutter open as we bumped onto the lobby level. Then
she zeroed in on me. "You really want a kid too, don't you? I mean,
that's why you did this script, right? Which, by the way, is great. I
mean the script."
"I think most women do, down deep."
She smiled. "Well, if I ever have one, it's going to be the
old-fashioned way. It's a heck of a lot cheaper than adopting." She was
heading out, into the front foyer. "Not to mention more fun getting
there."
On that I definitely had to agree.
The lobby's prewar look was gray and dismal, and as we emerged onto the
street, the rain had turned into a steady downpour. Lou was off again
today, down at the hospital with Sarah, so I'd engaged a doorman from a
new co-op across the street to keep an eye on our vans. A crisp twenty
had extracted his solemn promise to do just that. At the moment,
however, he was nowhere to be seen. Proving, I suppose, David's theory
that we needed our own security guy at all location shoots.
Lou, I thought, I hope you're finally getting through to her.
"No limo, but at least we get first call on the vans," Arlene observed,
her voice not hiding the sarcasm. "Just once I'd
like to work for somebody who had serious VIP transportation."
"David would walk before he'd get a limo."
We were headed down the street, me digging out my keys, when I noticed
the man standing in the rain. He was just behind our lead van, a
three-year-old gray Ford, waiting for us.
My first thought was he must be connected to Nicky Russo, David's
wiseguy banker, here to bust my chops over the Teamster issue. Screw
him. Just my luck he'd send somebody the very day Lou was not on hand.
But then I realized I'd guessed wrong. The man was more Hispanic than
Italian. He also was short, solidly built, late fifties maybe, with
intense eyes and gray hair that circled his balding pate like the dirty
snow around a volcano's rim. As he moved toward us, I thought I
detected something military in his bearing, not so much the crispness
of a soldier but rather the authoritative swagger of an officer. Well,
maybe a retired officer.
"The paper on your windshield says you are filming a movie," came a
voice with a definite Spanish accent. No greetings, no hiya, how're you
doin'? Just the blunt statement. Then, having established what was
already clear to all at hand, he continued. "It says the title is _Baby
Love_. Why are you making this movie here?"
That was it. I glanced at Arlene, who'd turned white as a sheet. You
get a lot of onlookers around a location shoot, but not too many who
challenge your right to exist, which was exactly what was coming
through in his menacing tone.
I handed Arlene the keys. "Here, go ahead and open up. I'll handle
this."
Then I turned back to him. "What you saw in the windshield of the vans
is a New York City Film Board permit. That's all the information we are
required to provide. If you read it, you know everything I'm obliged to
tell you." I returned his stare. "However, if people ask nicely, I'm
happy to answer their questions."
"Are you making this movie about a person in this building? Your other
films have been documentaries."
God help me, I thought. Is this what my fans are like?
Then it hit me. I don't know how I'd missed the connection, but now it
just leapt out. First the phone call, then this hood. Somebody was
tracking me.
"I'm scouting locations," I lied, feeling a chill go through me. "We're
second unit for an action film, shooting some prep footage for the
producers. Does the name Arnold Schwarzenegger mean anything to you?"
"Then why is the film about babies?"
"That's meant to be a joke. Remember the movie _Twins_? It's a joke
title. Do you understand?"
At that moment, Paul Nulty came barging out the door with a huge klieg
light, followed by several other members of the crew carrying sound
gear. Our cordial tete-a-tete was about to be disrupted.
My new Hispanic friend saw them and abruptly drew up. That was when I
noticed the shoulder holster under his jacket, containing some sort of
snub-nosed pistol.
Jesus, I thought, this must be what some kind of hired killer looks
like. That gun's not a prop.
"I think you are lying." He closed his jacket and, ignoring my crew,
bored in relentlessly on me, his eyes dead and merciless. "That is a
big mistake."
It was the first time in my life I'd ever stood next to a man who had a
gun and was deeply ticked at me. He'd wanted me to see his piece, just
to make sure I took him seriously. He wasn't threatening me, per se.
Rather he was letting me know how strongly he cared about what I was
doing.
Well, damn him, but I still was scared. I might have managed to bluff
Nicky Russo, but he was a guy who operated by an age-old set of
Sicilian rules. This thug didn't strike me as the rule-book type.
Hand shaking, I pulled out my cell phone, flicked it open, and punched
in 911.
"Listen, if you're threatening me with a gun, I'm calling the cops.
Whatever problem you have with the New York film industry, you can
explain it to them."
New York's police emergency number was still ringing as he abruptly
turned and strode away.
I clicked the phone shut and moved to get out of the way as a trolley
loaded with more gear was rolled past me down the sidewalk.
Unfortunately, I also took my eyes off him for a second, and when I
looked up again, he seemed to have disappeared into the rain, though I
did notice somebody who could have been him get into a long black car
well down the block and speed off toward Broadway.
"What did that creep want?" Arlene asked, coming back with the keys.
I was only slowly returning to reality, and it took me a few moments to
form a coherent answer through all the adrenaline surging into my brain.
"I . . . I don't know. But I think I'd better warn everybody to keep an
eye out for strangers. He's . . . he's wound a little tight, to put it
mildly." I was still shaking, which she fortunately failed to notice.
At that point, there seemed no great reason to spook her with mention
of the gun.
"Boy, he wasn't just some homeless junkie," she said. "He looked like a
heavy in one of David's old action pictures. All he needed was a
Mack-10."
"Right." Jesus, Arlene, I think he might have had one. "So let's get
moving."
As I watched the vans being loaded, slowly calming down, I kept
thinking about him. He was undoubtedly connected to the phone call, but
why would anybody be so worried about what I was doing? I couldn't
think of any serious reason.
Half an hour later we were all headed downtown. Along the rain-swept
streets the "All Beef" hot-dog vendors cowered under their
red-and-yellow striped umbrellas, while departing office workers,
briefcases perched above their heads as makeshift protection, scurried
along the edges of buildings searching for cabs. While Arlene continued
to chat nonstop, I tried to do a little mental processing. And my mind
kept drifting back to the sight of little Rachel, and Kevin. What
perfect kids. The way she was running. . . .
Hey, wait a minute. How could they be siblings? Brother and sister?
Rachel was almost exactly half a year older than Kevin. Biology didn't
work that way. No way could they be related, but still . . . they
looked so alike.
I realized Arlene hadn't put it together about the ages. The
brother/sister theory made absolutely no sense. Those kids were born
six months apart.
If that wasn't strange enough, why did they both have those tiny cat
medallions with the lines and dots on the back? Which were actually
kind of creepy, more like sacred amulets than little toys.
Talk to Lou. He might have some insights.
No, better yet, go to the source. Children of Light. Call Alex
Goddard's adoption agency or clinic or whatever it is and make an
appointment.