One night late the phone rang in my apartment and I was sure it was Eva again. Maris answered, but her eyes widened when she heard who was calling. Excitedly, she waved me over to the phone and, pointing to the receiver, said, "It's Weber Gregston!"
Gregston was the hottest director in Hollywood. I'd read an interview with him about his newest film, Breathing You, which had been nominated for six Oscars. I knew about him through Nicholas, who'd once been his assistant on a film.
"Hello, Walker Easterling?"
"Yes?"
"Hi. Weber Gregston. Listen, I called about a couple of things. I just heard about Nicholas Sylvian. Jesus, I wish I'd known sooner. I'd've come to the funeral. I just talked with Eva. Can you tell me more about what happened? I didn't get a very clear picture from her."
We talked half an hour about Nicholas and I liked everything Gregston said. He was genuinely grieved about the death. You could easily tell he'd admired and enjoyed Nicholas very much. What was especially nice was his knowledge of the Sylvian films. He spoke about shots and angles in them as if he'd seen each film three times and paid the closest attention. Our dead friend would have loved to hear the conversation. He had thought Gregston the only near genius in contemporary film.
"Listen, Walker, there's something else. I'm right in the middle of shooting a film out here. It's a little embarrassing to say, but one of my actors had a heart attack yesterday and I need someone fast to fill in for him. It'd be about five days of shooting in L.A. I saw you in Nicholas's film and he said you're good to work with. Do you think you could get away for ten days and fly over? I know it's short notice, but you'd get good money besides doing me a great favor."
Maris was sitting right next to me. I put my hand over the receiver and asked if she wanted to go to California for a couple of weeks. She threw both hands up, closed her eyes, and gave the lucky air a big kiss.
CHAPTER THREE
1.
The bad thing about flying to California was that the trip would have to start at the Vienna airport so soon after the massacre. For some strange reason, I'd . . . forgotten for a while that Nicholas died there. Maybe because I didn't want to think about it, maybe because I'd thought about it too much. The realization struck me on the ride out there.
"God, I completely forgot about where we're going."
Maris was looking out the window and turned to me, smiling. "What do you mean?"
"To the airport. You know. Nicholas."
"Yes, I know. Someone told me they haven't replaced the glass windows yet. You can still see the bullet holes."
"That's not very reassuring, is it?" I put my hand on her knee. She covered it with hers. "I've always liked going to airports before. They're exciting and make me start dreaming as soon as I get close and see the planes taking off and landing."
"Walker, I've got to tell you one thing about this trip: I'm an absolute chicken when it comes to flying. The worst." She reached into her handbag and took out a small pharmacy bottle.
"What's that?"
"Valium. Real strong ones. I took a couple before we left, so if I pass out halfway across the Atlantic, you'll know why."
The bus drove up the ramp to the departure section and stopped. I looked at Maris and took a sad deep breath. "I really ain't looking forward to going in there."
"Me either. Let's do it fast and get it over with."
Unfortunately, there was a long line at the check-in counter and we had to wait. Maris asked if I'd mind staying with the bags a few minutes while she went to buy magazines.
Looking around after she'd left, I noticed there were security police everywhere, "Kobras," in berets and battle dress, carrying stubby gray Uzi machine pistols that looked like strange plumbing fixtures under their arms. What disturbed me most was that these men looked at everyone and everything with completely attentive, suspicious eyes. They trusted no one. And they had probably been told not to. It reminded me of a friend who'd been in Vietnam and said when he was there, everyone was suspect. He'd watched a child hand a bouquet of flowers to the driver of an American troop transport truck and then run away. The truck blew up seconds later.
Maris returned looking as if someone had hit her. "I had to look. Walker, there really are bullet holes all over the windows downstairs! It's unbelievable. One of the soldiers told me there was a shoot-out over there on the escalator."
She pointed off to the left. I told her I wanted to take a look.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. If I see it, then maybe I won't think about it so much. My imagination is my worst enemy these days."
I walked across the floor listening to the sounds of excited travelers, the P.A. announcing flights to everywhere. A typical day at the airport. The same sounds Nicholas would have heard as he stood at the El Al counter waiting to check in. I looked for that counter but then thought better about really finding it. What did I expect or want to see there? Chalk outlines of the bodies on the ground? Old bloodstains? The shot-out windows would be enough.
The escalator Maris had pointed out was built next to a steep staircase. I started down those stairs because I wanted to come across the windows at my own speed. If I didn't like what I saw, I could turn around and go right back up.
Seeing those bullet holes would be final proof the attack had actually happened and Nicholas was one of the victims. Otherwise, his death for us was only a composite of news reports and hysterical phone calls, a service at the Steinhof church, and dropping his widow off at the door of a crematorium.
I descended the stairs slowly, holding the rail for support. There was an overhang in front of me, so I'd counted fifteen steps before the windows began to come into view. I went down two more before noticing the woman passing me on the right, moving fast down the metal steps of the escalator. She wore a full-length fur coat and sunglasses and had the kind of perfect mood hair that comes with long hours in the chair at the best Friseur in town. She jingled when she moved because of all the jewelry she wore. The jingling was distracting, so I stopped to have a look at her. She had that fast purposeful walk and straight-ahead glare of an important person in a big hurry. Beep-beep – out of the way for a Hard Charger!
She suddenly stumbled and fell face forward onto the sharp edge of the moving steel step. I grabbed for her instinctively but was too far away. Jewelry clanked hard against metal, then a quiet, thicker sound – skin and bone hitting. She flailed her arms, cried out, somersaulting down one step after another, hitting and rolling. Her coat and skirt flew up, legs spread helplessly. She was wearing peach-colored panties. There was a small purple bruise inside one thigh.
I ran down some stairs, trying to catch up, but by then she was in a heap at the bottom. Her hair was already being sucked into the grate at the foot of the escalator. She lay unmoving as the stairs tore her scalp off.
I heard a scream and unconsciously stuck my arm out to the right. It hit something and I grabbed on to it. Looking quickly, I saw I'd caught the woman by the arm as she was stumbling. The same woman who'd just fallen! She steadied herself and smiled gratefully at me. Horrified, I looked at the bottom of the escalator. No one there. I'd seen everything take place before it happened. Stopped it before it continued.