The entire structure stood on a platform supported by sawhorses, beneath which sat a small gasoline generator and a system of pulleys and winches. When Charlie tested the machinery, the effect was quite convincing: As pressure built, the forms began to grind until, with a rip, they slid apart, rending the earth of this model world. It was exactly what would happen on December 29th. Exactly what was happening already under the ground.
Then Charlie went about setting up the charge. By his side were plastic explosives, which he lifted gingerly from a corrugated box. When the time came, he would have to know the exact direction of the slippage, which would determine the direction of the neutralizing charge. This was the wild card and, in the end, he’d have to make an educated guess. For now, the only question was simply whether or not a retroshock would work.
Charlie took the packs of explosives and joined them to create a single, or united, charge. Out of one end ran an electronic fuse, controlled by remote; out of the other was a detonator pin which would conduct and focus the explosive charge, with pinpoint accuracy, to a specific place in the model’s crevice.
When the wiring was complete, Charlie carried the remote to a far corner of the yard. It was only then that he realized he had forgotten, for quite some time, to breathe. He looked up and noticed the way the sky crested above the treetops and extended upward, out of reach. It felt like the moment before a thunderstorm, the moment before a fight. “OK,” Charlie whispered, as if a normal tone of voice would detonate the charge.
Then he flipped the switch, and all hell broke loose.
The call came in at three-seventeen — an explosion at 418 North Spaulding Avenue. Parked in the lot at Canter’s, having a cup of coffee and eating a knish, Officer Eric Blair picked up his handset and radioed that he was on his way.
When Blair arrived on the scene, there was the usual complement of reporters, all screaming frantically into cell phones and trying to get inside. A second police cruiser pulled up simultaneously, and two officers set up a barrier across the street. Blair walked around to the back of the building, where smoke continued to billow lazily into the air. By the fence, what looked like an oversized ping pong table lay in several pieces on its side. A hole had been blown through one end, and there was a three-feet-deep crater in the ground.
Another policeman entered the yard and began to comb for evidence. Blair approached Charlie, who was sitting on the back stoop. His white button-down shirt was streaked with dirt; his eyes were glazed, his lashes singed.
“You all right?” Blair asked.
Charlie nodded, staring at the place where his model once stood.
“Then would you mind explaining what the hell is going on?”
CITY UNPLUGGED
LOUIS NAVARO HAD AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE TICKER doctor in Torrance at one, so he decided to pay a surprise morning visit to the home of his handyman, with the intention of finding out if the guy was truly a lousy worker or just in the habit of drinking early. Navaro could forgive the man his mediocrity, could forgive even his own mediocrity, but a drunk was a drunk was a drunk.
The handyman lived on Las Palmas Avenue, north of Hollywood Boulevard — in the land of malt liquor and crack smoke, of struggling guitar players and cold beans eaten from from cans. Navaro had planned only to drop in, say hello to the guy and check him out, then hop right on the 101 and pick up the 405 down to Torrance. At ten o’clock, though, the handyman didn’t answer his door, so Navaro decided he’d walk around the neighborhood to see how it had changed.
He didn’t get far. Hollywood Boulevard was closed to pedestrian and vehicular traffic from Highland to Fairfax. Proprietors of seedy establishments stood on sidewalks, arms folded, incensed; the tourists had no way to get to those T-shirts and fuzzy dice and postcard racks. At a street corner, as Navaro hit the change-light-please button, a policeman stopped him with his arm.
“Closed off. Sorry.” In his other hand the cop held a Mag-Lite like a billy club.
“What’s going on?”
“Making a movie.” The cop sounded like he was directing it. “Warners. Earthquake picture. Big one.”
Navaro sighed, then noticed a guy behind the barrier — a familiar face. The guy wore a black linen suit and spoke on a cellular phone. Navaro squinted, and it came to him.
“Hey! Ian!”
“OK, fella!” The cop held out his flashlight.
“I know that guy,” Navaro told him.
“Yeah, an’ Bridge Bridges is my brother.”
“Hey!” Navaro called again.
Ian looked at him, blinked, and scurried into a trailer.
“Kid used to live in my building.” Navaro turned and walked away. “I hope he chokes on his vomit.”
Navaro didn’t remember getting onto the 101, nor could he recall the fifteen-minute drive north to the 405 interchange. He’d made the trip before, and there was no mystery in it. Besides, he’d been rebuffed by this kid, Ian, and in his current state of mind that didn’t help things. He’d misjudged the little sonuvabitch. He should have been nicer, but how the hell could he have known? “The kid scratches his belly all day and ends up a millionaire,” he said aloud. Then he cut off a Toyota Corolla.
Navaro’s reverie was interrupted when he reached the 405 and found it closed. He was irked further to see other drivers continuing north on the 101, forewarned by huge flashing arrows and detour markers to use an alternate route. Lost in thought, Navaro alone had not seen the signs.
He stopped his car, got out, and walked to a barrier where several dozen onlookers had assembled. From their conversation, he discerned that a movie was being shot, a truck was about to be blown up, and Bridge Bridges was on his way.
Suddenly, as the crowd watched, a helicopter began its descent. Wind from its propellers ripped through everyone’s hair, and some people covered their faces with their arms. The helicopter landed, and even Navaro joined in the applause when Bridge Bridges emerged. Behind the actor were Henny Rarlin and, still talking on his cellular phone, Ian Marcus. Navaro rubbed his eyes.
Just an hour ago, moments before he’d seen Navaro on Hollywood Boulevard, Ian had been approached by an officious looking man in a Dragnet suit who’d handed him a summons. When he saw the words “Theft of Intellectual Property,” Ian understood that Jon Kravitz, his erstwhile friend and collaborator, was suing him. Reading further, he found that unless he properly compensated this Jon Kravitz, Ear to the Ground could be enjoined. Bob Semel had called him immediately, and so had Michael Lipman — from his new corner office at ICM. Nothing yet from Ethan. Dr. Ehrich Weiss had come to his trailer wondering if he wanted to talk. Even Grace had been almost sweet to him. His lawyer was on his way to the set. Things were bad, and Ian was scared. There would be depositions taken. Depositions!
His father would fly out. Or he would go home and lie in bed for a week. Maybe Grace would take him back. Maybe she’d be surprised by the change in him. Through such a humbling experience, he’d learn integrity, and that’s not such a bad thing.
Henny Rarlin grabbed Ian’s arm. “We need a line for when the truck is going down and they’re about to die.”
“But I thought …”
“Yeah, but now we need a line.”
Ian thought a moment.
“What do you think about ‘fuck?’”
“Fuck? Why ‘fuck?’”
“Homage to Butch Cassidy. Ironic because we one-up them language-wise, and then switch the result. Cassidy and Sundance live. These guys don’t.”