He picked up the second card. ‘As for this one . . . well, I don’t hate anybody – except Mo when he writes a scene funnier than me.’
Friday, October 8, 11:52 A.M.
Once the three of them had settled down, and drunk three cups of coffee each, and laid waste to a carton of cinnamon doughnuts, they started to write in earnest. By eight minutes of twelve they had reconstructed Lizzie’s concert scene to the point where even Mo had to admit that it was ‘almost humorous.’ Having said that, he collapsed into uncontrollable laughter, punching his desk and stamping on the floor.
‘I’m dying here,’ he protested, gasping for air. ‘You know what you did, Lizzie? You killed me.’
The phone rang. Frank picked it up and Daphne said, ‘Mr Bell? I had a call for you but the caller hung up.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘A woman. She said that somebody needed to see you, down in the parking lot. She said it was urgent.’
‘She didn’t give a name?’
‘No, that’s all she said. “Tell Mr Bell that somebody needs to see him, down in the parking lot, urgent.”’
Frowning, Frank slowly put down the phone and went to the window. He looked down into the parking lot, but at first he couldn’t see anybody at all, except for a Pizza Hut delivery boy climbing out of his car. But then, close to the steps that led up to the commissary building, he saw a small figure standing in the shadows.
‘Danny,’ he breathed. And this time it could be the real Danny, not just another spirit pretending to be Danny. He tossed his script on to Lizzie’s desk, crossed the office and opened the door.
Lizzie said, ‘What? You’re that jealous?’
‘Sorry – back in a minute . . . There’s somebody I have to see.’
Lizzie and Mo exchanged bewildered looks as he hurried out of the office. He ran along the echoing corridor until he reached the stairs. As he clattered down the first flight, he almost collided with the Pizza Hut delivery boy who was coming up. The delivery boy had spiky hair and dark glasses and was carrying a big insulated bag.
‘Bell, Cohen & Fries Partnership?’ he asked, peering at a grease-transparent delivery note.
‘Fifth door on the right.’
Frank vaulted down the rest of the stairs, through the lobby and out of the front door. He ran across the parking lot, dodging out of the way of a wardrobe assistant who was pushing a rack of swaying ball gowns. By the time he reached the commissary building, however, Danny had gone. He stood on the steps, panting, looking around him.
An electrician in an X-Files T-shirt came past with pliers and screwdrivers hanging from his belt. ‘You didn’t see a young boy around here?’ Frank asked him. ‘Eight years old, brown hair, blue windbreaker.’
The electrician narrowed his eyes as if he were thinking extra hard. ‘No, sir. Can’t say that I have.’
Frank quickly walked the length of the commissary building but there was no sign of Danny anywhere. Either he had vanished, or else he was hiding someplace. So why had he appeared? And who had called the office to say that Frank was wanted so urgently? A woman. But who?
He was still circling around the parking lot when he saw the brown metallic Honda belonging to the Pizza Hut delivery boy. The Pizza Hut delivery boy who had asked where Frank’s office was. Even though none of them had ordered pizza.
Dread gripped his chest like a heart attack. He turned around and stared up in horror at his office window, where he could see Mo placidly standing with his arms folded, puffing at his cigar.
‘Mo! Mo! Get out of there! Mo!’
Mo must have heard him, because he took his cigar out of his mouth and lifted it up in salute. Frank frantically waved his arms and screamed, ‘Get out of there! Get out of there! The pizza guy! For Christ’s sake, Mo! It’s the pizza guy!’
He sprinted back to the office building. As he ran across the lobby, he shouted to the receptionist, ‘Police! Call the police! And the paramedics! It’s a bomb!’
‘A what?’ said the girl, staring at him in bewilderment.
‘Bomb!’ he shouted, his voice distorted as he ran up the stairs.
Friday, October 7, 12:01 P.M.
Lizzie lit another cigarette. ‘I’m not so sure about Dusty’s grandma dying of cancer. What do you think? I mean, she could still be dying, but maybe she could be dying of something more amusing.’
‘Oh, you mean like kwashiorkor? That would be a scream.’
‘I don’t know. I still don’t think that tragedy is the right road for us to go down. OK, writing about death may help Frank to get over Danny, but Pigs is all about small humiliations, like having the holes in your shoes stuffed with newspaper and only having plain bread and butter for your packed lunch because that’s all your mom can afford.’
‘Whereas dying of cancer – that’s really embarrassing, right?’
‘Let’s talk to Frank about it.’
Mo was staring out of the window. ‘Frank’s down there in the parking lot.’
‘What?’
‘Take a look at him – he’s waving his arms.’
Lizzie stood up and looked out of the window, too. ‘You’re right. Maybe this is a new kind of script meeting by semaphore.’
‘I’ve got it,’ said Mo. ‘He’s thinking of writing an episode for deaf people. Great idea. We could call it If Pigs Could Sign.’
‘He’s coming back inside. Do you think he’s OK?’
Mo sighed. ‘I don’t know, Lizzie. I think Frank’s much more upset than he’s showing us. When you lose somebody you love, it screws up your head. But when your kids die before you do – well, it screws up your entire reason for being here on earth.’
Daphne knocked at the door. ‘Did either of you order pizza?’
‘Not me,’ said Lizzie. ‘Mo?’
‘Pizza? Are you kidding? I’ve just eaten four and a half doughnuts.’
Daphne turned around to the delivery boy, and said, ‘Sorry,’ but he pushed his way into the office behind her. ‘Hey, this is the Bell, Cohen & Fries Partnership, right? Large Neopolitan with extra chilies.’
‘Extra chilies?’ said Mo. ‘My proctologist would kill me.’
The delivery boy laid his insulated bag on Frank’s desk and opened it up. ‘Actually,’ he said, sounding oddly breathless, ‘you guys are only getting what you deserve.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Lizzie. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t open that thing in here. I hate the smell of pizza. Pizza smells like sweat.’
The delivery boy ignored her. He eased a large square package out of his bag, about the size of a pizza box, but wrapped in plain gray paper. As he put it down, Mo saw that two wires ran out of his sleeve into the side of it. He stared at the delivery boy and said, in a thick, congested voice, ‘What the hell is that?’ Then, more slowly, ‘Is that what I think it is?’
The delivery boy took off his sunglasses. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three or twenty-four. His eyes were dark brown, with long feminine lashes, and there was an angry red spot by the side of his mouth. Any mother’s son.
‘That’s right. We’re taking you off the air, old man. You and all of your lies.’
‘What is it?’ said Lizzie. ‘Mo? What’s going on? What’s he talking about?’
‘Daphne,’ said Mo, ‘go dial nine-one-one. Tell them it’s a bomb.’
‘Don’t fucking move!’ screamed the delivery boy, holding up his right hand and displaying a small black electrical switch. Daphne stayed where she was, her eyes wide, biting her finger.