The security guards saw the camera lights and the first one turned to the man trailing, yelled something to the other, who ran back up the hill. The first one continued down, and shouted at Creek, ‘‘Hey, no cameras here, no cameras.’’
A group of masked women headed toward him, walled him off from the rest of the milling crowd, pushed him toward the ramp. Frustrated, he climbed up the loading dock and hurried to the open door. Just as he was about to go through the door, he jumped back, and a young man in a blue oxford cloth shirt and jeans ran out of the building and headed toward the lights.
Anna said to the microphone, her voice calm, even, ‘‘Creek, there’s a kid coming in, watch him. Jason, stay with the pig.’’
Creek backpedaled. When Anna spoke into his ear, he’d looked up from his eyepiece and spotted the kid in the blue shirt: trouble, maybe. Trouble made good movies. The kid was striding toward them, a dark smear under his nose, one hand cupping his jaw. He seemed to be crying.
‘‘They were gonna kill this pig, for nothing—for soap tests or something, shampoo,’’ the masked pig-man shouted at Jason’s camera. The pig was freaking out, long shrieking bleats, like a woman being stabbed. ‘‘She’s gonna live now,’’ pig-man shouted, as the pig struggled against him. ‘‘She’s gonna live.’’
The patio was chaos, with the cameras and the pig-man, the women with cages, all swirling around: Blue shirt arrived and Anna saw that he was crying, tears running down his cheeks as Creek tracked him with the lens. The dark smear was blood, which streamed from his nose and across his lips and chin.
‘‘Give me that pig,’’ he screamed, and he ran at the pigman. ‘‘Gimme that.’’ The animal women blocked him out, not hitting him, just body blocking. Both Creek and Jason tracked the twirling scrum while Anna tried to stay out of their line; she kept the Nagra pointed, picking up the overall noise, which could be laid back into the tape later, if needed.
The Bee caught Anna’s arm: ‘‘He’s just a flunky, forget him,’’ she shouted, over the screams and grunting of the struggle. ‘‘But we’re gonna do the mice now. Get the mice, in the garbage cans.’’
The women with the blue garbage can were waiting their turn with the lights, and Anna spoke into the mike again: ‘‘Jason, get out of there. Go over to that blue garbage can, it’s full of mice, they’re gonna turn them loose.’’ Jason took a step back, lifted his head, spotted the garbage can. ‘‘Creek, stay with the kid,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Stay with the kid.’’
As Jason came up, the women with the garbage can, who’d been waiting, popped the lid and tipped it, and two hundred or three hundred mice, some black, some white, some tan, scurried down the sides and ran out onto the patio, looked around and headed for the nearest piece of cover.
Jason hung close and then the kid in the blue shirt went that way, screaming, ‘‘Gimme those,’’ and, sobbing, tried to corral the mice. They were everywhere, running over his feet, over his hands, avoiding him, making the break. He finally gave up and slumped on the ground, his head in his hands, the mice all around.
Jeez: this is almost too good,
Anna thought. As Creek tracked him, the Bee came back with her nagging voice: ‘‘Do you want an on-camera statement?’’
And Anna thought, Who’s running this thing? But she had to smile at the other woman’s effective management: ‘‘Yeah, but we’d better hurry,’’ Anna said. ‘‘The cops’ll be coming.’’
Anna said into the mike, ‘‘Jason, get on the Bee, she’ll make a statement.’’ She pushed the mike up, raised her voice, shouted, ‘‘Rat, where are you?’’
The man with the pig turned toward her: ‘‘I’m the Rat,’’ he said. His teeth were bared, his face spotted with what looked like mud, but could be pig shit.
‘‘We’re gonna need you over here: we need a comment,’’ Anna said.
‘‘No problem,’’ he said. He handed the struggling pig to a woman. ‘‘What exactly do you want?’’ The Rat had a deep, smooth voice, a singer’s baritone. His eyes were pale blue behind the black mask.
‘‘Just tell us why you did it,’’ Anna said, nodding at Jason’s camera.
He leaned forward and stage-whispered, ‘‘For the publicity.’’
Anna grinned back and said, ‘‘Tell that to the camera.’’
Jason yelled, ‘‘Hey, Rat: You wanna do this, or what?’’
As the Rat and the Bee talked to Jason’s camera, Anna pulled the mike down in front of her face and said, ‘‘Creek, let’s talk to the kid. Let me in there first.’’
Creek hung back a couple of steps, so the camera wouldn’t be right in the kid’s face. Anna squatted next to him, and patted him on the shoulder. ‘‘Are you okay?’’
The kid looked up, dazed, a pale teenage child with brown eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Are you okay?’’ Anna asked again.
‘‘They’re gonna fire me,’’ he said. He looked back at the building. ‘‘I was supposed to watch them. They were my responsibility, the animals. I was supposed to keep everybody out, but they came in so fast . . .’’
‘‘How’d you get the bloody nose?’’ Anna asked.
‘‘I tried to hold the door, but they kicked through. Then about four of them held me and I couldn’t get to the phone, and they tipped everything over in the lab, all the animal cages, everything.’’ He touched his face. ‘‘I think the door hit me . . .’’
‘‘Look, there’s gonna be two sides to this,’’ Anna said. She looked back at Creek, and said, ‘‘Creek.’’
Creek stepped away, spotted a mouse looking at him from the top of the loading dock and closed in on it. Behind him, the Bee and the Rat were still talking to Jason’s camera; the pig was still struggling with the woman who’d taken it, but the squealing had stopped, and the scene was almost quiet.
Anna turned back to the kid and continued, ‘‘The animal rights guys will be heroes to some people. And some people will be heroes to the scientific community.’’
She patted his thigh. ‘‘Now, go like this. From your nose.’’
She made an upward rubbing gesture with her hand, on her own face.
The kid gulped. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Want to keep your job?’’ Anna grinned at him. She was a small woman, dark-haired, with an oval face and corn-flower-blue eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses: she had an effect on young males. ‘‘Be a hero. Smear a little blood around your face and we’ll put you on camera, telling your side. Believe me, they won’t fire you.’’
‘‘I need the job,’’ the kid said tentatively.
‘‘Smear a little blood and stand up . . . what’s your name?’’
The kid was no dummy: He’d been born in front of a TV set. He wiped blood up his cheek and said, ‘‘Charles Mc-Kinley . . . How do I look?’’ His cheek looked like a raw sirloin.
‘‘Great. That’s McKinley, M-c-K-i-n-l-e-y, Charles, regular spelling.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ He touched his face again: the blood was brilliant red.
‘‘What’s your job up there, Charles?’’ Anna got a few more details about the job, his age, where he lived.
‘‘That’s really great,’’ she said. ‘‘Now what . . .’’
The pig screamed, and Anna turned.
The woman who’d been holding it had carried it toward Jason’s camera, where Jason was interviewing the Rat. As it screamed, the animal kicked free, and ran.
The Rat stooped and tried to scoop it up, like a bouncing football; but the pig went through, smacked into his ankle, and the Rat fell squarely on his butt: ‘‘Shit,’’ he shouted. ‘‘Get the pig . . .’’
Jason was still on him, lights in his face: He rolled and the pig, now panicked, ran behind the woman who’d originally held him, did another quick turn, and as the Rat tried to get to his feet, ran squarely into the Rat’s chest, knocking him flat on his butt again.
Jason stayed with it as the Rat scrambled to his feet.
> Anna grinned and turned back to the kid: ‘‘. . . Tell us what happened, talk to this camera,’’ Anna said, pointing at Creek. ‘‘Creek, come on back.’’
Creek lit up and the kid told his story, breaking into tears again as he got caught up with it.
Anna stepped away to watch Jason, and when the Rat got tangled in a long complicated explanation of animal rights, she broke in: ‘‘How come all the women in the group?’’
‘‘There are some guys—they just didn’t make it tonight,’’ Rat said. He started to say more, when Anna’s cell phone rang.
She unclipped it and stepped away, glanced at Creek, who was still with the kid. ‘‘Yeah.’’
Louis, calling from the truck seventy-five feet away, excited: ‘‘Jesus, Anna, we got a jumper on Wilshire, he’s on a ledge.’’
‘‘Where?’’ A basic rule: everything happened at once. Anna looked back at the two interviews, calculating.
‘‘I don’t know, somewhere on Wilshire, close, I think. I’m getting the address up.’’
‘‘Get it now,’’ Anna rapped. Very tense: a jumper would make everything. The networks, CNN, everything—if they got the jump. She could hear Louis tapping on the laptop keys, where he kept the address database. ‘‘C’mon, c’mon.’’
‘‘I’m getting it . . .’’
‘‘How’re we doing on the cops here?’’
‘‘You got a couple-three minutes, I just heard the call.’’
‘‘Get the address, Louis.’’
‘‘I’m hurrying.’’
Anna turned to Creek: ‘‘Get ready to wrap it up.’’
And to the kid, ‘‘Cops’ll be here to help, minute or two.’’
Louis came back on the phone: ‘‘Jesus, Anna, it’s just down the street, we’re a half-mile out. And he’s still up there.’’
Anna spoke into the mike, her voice urgent: ‘‘Jason, Creek. Back in the truck. Now! Kill the lights. Move it!’’
‘‘Hey, what, what?’’ Jason kept shooting.
‘‘Close down! Get in the truck. Now.’’
Creek’s light went down and he was moving, no questions, but the Rat shouted at her, ‘‘Wait a minute, wait, what’re
. . . Hey, Anna, we didn’t talk.’’ And the Bee started toward her.
Anna, the phone pressed to her ear, walking back toward the truck, fumbled a card out of her shirt pocket and thrust it back at the Rat: ‘‘Call me. We gotta go.’’
Creek yelled at her: ‘‘What?’’
‘‘We got a jumper,’’ she shouted back. ‘‘Let’s go, Jason . . .’’
They ran toward the truck: Louis had climbed into the driver’s seat and was backing off the sidewalk.
As Anna and Creek came up, he jammed it into park and climbed over the seat into the back, as Jason came through the side. Creek slipped into the driver’s seat and Louis shouted, ‘‘Down Westwood, then left on Wilshire, it’s three blocks, it’s a place called the Shamrock.’’
Creek: ‘‘I know the place: Jesus, it’s two minutes from here.’’
‘‘Gotta hustle,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Gotta hustle, gotta hustle.’’
Creek spun the truck in a U-turn, paused at Le Conte long enough to make sure he wouldn’t hit anything, then swept through.
‘‘Louis, whatever happens with the jumper, this animal thing is an A-tape,’’ Anna said over her shoulder. ‘‘We want the bloody-nose kid to be a hero . . .’’
Jason said, ‘‘That pig really pissed off the Rat, I think it’s heading for a barbeque.’’
‘‘I got a great shot of this little mouse, Louis, really cute,’’ Creek shouted over his shoulder.
‘‘Shut up, shut up,’’ Louis said to them all. He had an earphone clamped over one ear. Then, ‘‘The guy’s still out there. On a ledge. There’s hotel people talking to him. He’s from a party, high-school kids.’’
Creek had the gas pedal on the floor and they just caught the light at Wilshire. As they swept through the intersection, Anna said to Jason, ‘‘Give yourself some space on your tape. You gotta be ready, but the first tape is good, too.’’
‘‘I’m ready,’’ Jason said.
‘‘Creek?’’
Creek nodded. Creek was always ready.
‘‘Louis, talk to me,’’ Anna said.
Louis’ eyes were closed, and he was leaning away from them, listening hard. ‘‘There’re cars on the way, we got maybe a minute by ourselves. Maybe two minutes.’’
Anna said, ‘‘Where’s that Three truck? Weren’t they still out?’’
‘‘They were drifting down south after that chase,’’ Louis said. ‘‘They’re way the hell down by Huntington Beach. They’re out of it.’’
Anna said, ‘‘Jason, I want you tight on the guy. Creek will pull back a bit, get the full jump, if he goes. But I wanna see his face . . .’’
‘‘You got it, sugarbun,’’ Jason said.
Creek showed his teeth: ‘‘Sugarbun?’’
Jason grinned at him: ‘‘Me’n Anna getting intimate.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ Creek glanced at Anna, who rolled her eyes.
‘‘Me’n Anna doing the thing,’’ Jason said. He was almost talking to himself, looked as though he might giggle. He was wound, his eyes big: He liked the movement, maybe too much. He was talented: might go big in Hollywood someday, Anna thought, if he didn’t blow his brains out through his nose. ‘‘Doin’ the thing,’’ he muttered.
‘‘Shamrock,’’ Anna said, and pointed. Ahead, a twentystory green-glass-and-steel building showed a bright green neon shamrock at the top. And Jason, who’d crawled between the seats, spotted the jumper: ‘‘There he is! He’s toward the bottom, like five or six stories up, you can see him . . .’’
He pointed, and Anna noticed that his hand had a tremor: not the trembling of excitement, but the jerk of a nerve breakdown. She glanced at his stark, underfed face: Christ, she thought, he’s back on the crank.
She turned away from his straining face, and looked where he was looking. Five stories, Anna counted: And there he was. The would-be jumper wore dark pants and a white shirt. From a block away, in the lights that bathed the outside of the building, he looked like a fly stuck to a sheet of glass. ‘‘Get us there, Creek,’’ Anna said, breathlessly.
They were doing seventy-five, the wheels screaming, right up to the hotel, then Creek hammered the brake and cut sideways and they went over the curb again and Jason spilled out, running toward the hotel with his camera.
The man on the ledge had his back to a sheet of plate glass, his arms spread. The ledge, Anna thought, wasn’t more than a foot wide—she could see the tips of his shoes.
‘‘Guys, I’m gonna try to get up there,’’ Anna said into her mike as she dropped from the truck. ‘‘You’re gonna be on your own for a minute: Jason, I want face .’’ She sprinted toward the hotel’s front entrance, the Nagra flapping under her arm.
Hotels didn’t want to know about media. As far as hotels were concerned, no media was good media. Anna had two options. She could try to sneak in, but that took time. Or she could run. She ran forty miles a week on the beach and if the stairs were placed right, no hotel security man in California could catch her.
She hit the glass doors and went through the lobby like she was on a motorcycle. Two bellmen huddled at the reception desk with a couple of clerks, and one of the bellmen saw her and just had time to turn, to open his mouth and shout, ‘‘Hey,’’ when she was past him. The elevators were straight ahead, and a brass plaque with an arrow pointing to the right said Stairs .
She took the stairs. Ran up one flight, two, then a man shouting again, from the bottom, ‘‘Hey . . .’’ Third floor, not even breathing hard. Anna got off at the fourth: There’d be security on the fifth floor, and the desk people might have called them. She ran into the hall on the fourth floor, looked right and left, decided that the right end would be the far end of the hotel. There should be another flight of stairs that way.
br /> She ran down the hall, now aware of her heart pounding in her chest, turned a corner past a niche with Coke, ice and candy machines, to another stairway. She pulled open the door, looked up and down, heard nothing and ran up to Five. She took three seconds, two long breaths, pulled off her headset, shoved it with the Nagra up under her jacket in back, held it with one hand and sauntered into the hallway.
Halfway down, three older men—security, probably—stood outside an open doorway. A dozen kids were scattered up and down the hall, a few of them talking, most just looking down at the open door. All the kids were dressed up, the boys in suits and ties, the girls in pink-and-blue party dresses, all with the stark white look of fear on their faces.
One of the security men looked toward Anna, and even leaned her way—but as he did, a woman shrieked, and the men in suits turned and ran through the open door.
My God, Anna thought, he jumped.
The girls in pastel dresses were looking at the door, the boys were looking at each other, all were frozen. Anna knew that this was one of the moments she’d remember: they were like sculpture in some modern wise-cracking installation called California Kids.
Then Anna moved, and when she did, a couple of the girls began sobbing, and one of the boys yelled, ‘‘Oh no. No, Jacob . . .’’
Anna ran lightly down the hall, found another open door a few rooms closer than the one where the security men had been. She looked inside: a man and woman, both grayhaired, horrified, were standing at their window, looking out. Anna stepped inside:
‘‘Did he jump?’’
The woman, white-faced, looked at her, her mouth working, nothing coming out, then: ‘‘Oh my God.’’
Anna stepped around an open suitcase, walked across the room and looked out the window. The jumper was facedown, a black-and-white silhouette on the yellow stone, six feet from the pool. Ten feet from the body, Jason was moving in with his camera. From across the pool, Creek also focused on the body.
Anna took out the recorder, hit the record switch, held it by her side: didn’t hide it, just held it like a purse.