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Authors: J. A. Jance
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was give rise to a whole series of visions of low-grade science-fiction movies. My blank stare must have registered. “He flies whatever parts of the set have to go up and down,” Osgood added.
He turned to the man on the stage. “Alan, this is Detective Beaumont from Seattle P.D. He wants to talk to you.”
“People in hell want ice water too,” Alan Dale replied without looking away from the man above us.
Osgood glanced fitfully at my card, which he still held. “He’s with Homicide. He only wants to talk with you for a few minutes.”
Alan Dale turned on him then. Jasmine’s head carpenter wasn’t a big man, but he was tough. Standing on that undressed, empty stage, he was in his element. This was his territory.
“I don’t give a shit where he’s from or what he wants. I’ve got a curtain in a little over five hours. I’m not talking to Saint Peter himself until this son of a bitch of a scrim goes up and down like clockwork. We’ve still got to reweld the track on the revolve.”
With that, his focus returned to the man on the truss. “You got it now, Ray?”
“Close,” Ray called down. “Almost.”
Dan Osgood stuck his tail between his legs and began to slink away across the stage, but I held my ground. When Alan Dale lowered his eyes to the stage, I was still standing there.
“Look,” I said, “you’ve got a job to do and so do I. One of the stagehands who worked here yesterday was murdered last night. I have to ask you a couple of questions about him, that’s all.”
“Murdered?” Alan Dale appeared mildly interested. “Which one?”
“His name was Morris.”
“Rick Morris, that little creep?”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“He’s worked for us before. I felt like murdering him myself,” Alan Dale said. “I caught the little shit going through one of the trunks instead of unloading it. I fired his ass on the spot. Gave him his check and told him to hit the road.”
“Hey, Alan,” Ray called down from up above us. “Stop your jawing and try pulling the rope. I think I finally got ’er.”
Alan Dale strode away from me to a wall covered with a mass of block-and-tackle gear. He chose one rope seemingly at random, released it, then gave it a long, hard pull. The transparent curtain rose soundlessly into the air until it stopped smoothly at the bottom of the truss.
“Hot dog! Now if we can just get the worm gear working on that goddamned turntable, we’ll be in great shape.”
Somehow the flyman made it to the stage floor in far less time than I would have thought possible. Maybe he really could fly, but as he walked past us, beads of sweat covered his forehead. He stopped long enough to wipe his face dry with one grimy sleeve.
“Whoever designed this motherfucker ought to have to put it up and strike it every other day for the rest of his natural life.”
With that, Ray stalked toward the back of the stage, where a golden band shell stood cloaked in semidarkness. When he reached it, he turned and called back to Alan Dale. “You coming or not? Drag that welding lead over here.”
“I’ll be right there.” The head carpenter bent over to pick up a welding lead from the floor in front of him, but a voice, calling his name over a backstage intercom, stopped him before he had taken two steps toward the band shell.
“Alan? Alan, are you there?”
Alan Dale sighed, stopped, and turned toward the speaker that was mounted beside the bank of ropes. “Yeah, Ed. I’m here. Whaddaya need?”
“I’m on my way to see Jasmine. She wants to know if you’ve got the revolve fixed. Did the parts come?”
Alan glanced back at the band shell. “All except the goddamned clutch. The supplier’s out of them. He’s trying to find one.”
“Can you make it work? We don’t want what happened in Portland to happen here.”
“I can make it work. It won’t be great, but it’ll work.”
“Good,” the man on the intercom replied. “I’ll tell her.”
With a
He turned to the man on the stage. “Alan, this is Detective Beaumont from Seattle P.D. He wants to talk to you.”
“People in hell want ice water too,” Alan Dale replied without looking away from the man above us.
Osgood glanced fitfully at my card, which he still held. “He’s with Homicide. He only wants to talk with you for a few minutes.”
Alan Dale turned on him then. Jasmine’s head carpenter wasn’t a big man, but he was tough. Standing on that undressed, empty stage, he was in his element. This was his territory.
“I don’t give a shit where he’s from or what he wants. I’ve got a curtain in a little over five hours. I’m not talking to Saint Peter himself until this son of a bitch of a scrim goes up and down like clockwork. We’ve still got to reweld the track on the revolve.”
With that, his focus returned to the man on the truss. “You got it now, Ray?”
“Close,” Ray called down. “Almost.”
Dan Osgood stuck his tail between his legs and began to slink away across the stage, but I held my ground. When Alan Dale lowered his eyes to the stage, I was still standing there.
“Look,” I said, “you’ve got a job to do and so do I. One of the stagehands who worked here yesterday was murdered last night. I have to ask you a couple of questions about him, that’s all.”
“Murdered?” Alan Dale appeared mildly interested. “Which one?”
“His name was Morris.”
“Rick Morris, that little creep?”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“He’s worked for us before. I felt like murdering him myself,” Alan Dale said. “I caught the little shit going through one of the trunks instead of unloading it. I fired his ass on the spot. Gave him his check and told him to hit the road.”
“Hey, Alan,” Ray called down from up above us. “Stop your jawing and try pulling the rope. I think I finally got ’er.”
Alan Dale strode away from me to a wall covered with a mass of block-and-tackle gear. He chose one rope seemingly at random, released it, then gave it a long, hard pull. The transparent curtain rose soundlessly into the air until it stopped smoothly at the bottom of the truss.
“Hot dog! Now if we can just get the worm gear working on that goddamned turntable, we’ll be in great shape.”
Somehow the flyman made it to the stage floor in far less time than I would have thought possible. Maybe he really could fly, but as he walked past us, beads of sweat covered his forehead. He stopped long enough to wipe his face dry with one grimy sleeve.
“Whoever designed this motherfucker ought to have to put it up and strike it every other day for the rest of his natural life.”
With that, Ray stalked toward the back of the stage, where a golden band shell stood cloaked in semidarkness. When he reached it, he turned and called back to Alan Dale. “You coming or not? Drag that welding lead over here.”
“I’ll be right there.” The head carpenter bent over to pick up a welding lead from the floor in front of him, but a voice, calling his name over a backstage intercom, stopped him before he had taken two steps toward the band shell.
“Alan? Alan, are you there?”
Alan Dale sighed, stopped, and turned toward the speaker that was mounted beside the bank of ropes. “Yeah, Ed. I’m here. Whaddaya need?”
“I’m on my way to see Jasmine. She wants to know if you’ve got the revolve fixed. Did the parts come?”
Alan glanced back at the band shell. “All except the goddamned clutch. The supplier’s out of them. He’s trying to find one.”
“Can you make it work? We don’t want what happened in Portland to happen here.”
“I can make it work. It won’t be great, but it’ll work.”
“Good,” the man on the intercom replied. “I’ll tell her.”
With a
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