Читать книгу Matinees With Miriam - Vicki Essex - Страница 14
ОглавлениеSHANE DIDN’T GET back to Everville until the middle of the following week. He’d had paperwork to do at the Sagmar offices, and then he’d had to arrange for a more permanent place to stay for his “vacation” and pack. The B and B was nice, but he needed a better Wi-Fi connection if he was going to work. He wouldn’t waste this vacation relaxing.
He found a sublet near Silver Lake—a little house just down the road from the beach, much like the place his family used to vacation in. It took him an additional day to settle in. He bought groceries, set up the internet connection and then made some phone calls. The PI Sanjay had recommended worked fast—he’d already emailed a preliminary report on Miriam Bateman. Shane sat down to read it.
Miriam Bateman
Born: December 1, 1986,
Hudson Falls, NY
Parents: Jeannie Ansen (mother)—deceased (overdose)
Richard Bateman (father)—incarcerated at Rochester Penitentiary, serving twenty years for drug possession, drug trafficking, possession of a firearm, perjury in the first degree, contempt of court, assault on a police officer...
The list went on. Shane grimaced. He kept reading.
Education: BA in Film Studies, CUNY
Currently employed: Freelance writer for various publications under the pseudonym M. J. Baille.
A list of writing credits was included, with hyperlinks to her articles. She wrote on a number of subjects, mainly about pop culture, with copious movie and book reviews. Shane read through a few of the shorter ones. Her tone and style were whip-smart and a little snarky. And these weren’t just typical plot summaries with thumbs up or down: they delved into deeper issues, criticizing Hollywood for its lack of diversity and strong roles for women. She went on at length about several films that had missed major storyline opportunities. She dissected the themes and significance of several works.
He found more articles by M. J. Baille on the decline of independent second-run theaters. She waxed on about the lost nostalgia of the smaller theater. She complained about how difficult it was to fill seats in expensive megaplexes with good independent films when people could download movies illegally. It seemed she knew everything there was to know about the movie industry, and had even interviewed some of Hollywood’s biggest names.
Shane sat back after nearly three hours of intense reading. It was fascinating stuff, and he agreed, or at least sympathized, with some of her views. No wonder she was so invested in the Crown. It wasn’t just a representation of her grandfather’s legacy—it was the last stronghold in her ongoing war against change and progress.
Prying the property from her hands would be a lot more difficult than he first thought. But every battle had a turning point, every defense a weakness. He just had to find hers.
* * *
MIRA CLOSED HER laptop after a long, hard day of writing. Her neck cracked as she rolled her shoulders. She really needed to get away from her desk more often, but freelancing meant longer hours and more work by necessity. People often smarmily remarked on how nice it must be to work from home in her pajamas, but they had no idea how hard she worked for so little pay and zero benefits or job security. Frankly, she’d probably be better off if she served coffee at the local café. Human interaction and food service were not her calling, however. The lingering smell of burned soup was proof of that.
Her thoughts strayed to Shane. He had said he’d be back Monday, but he hadn’t phoned, emailed or come by, and it was now Thursday. Not that she was expecting him to—in fact, it was a good thing he hadn’t. Maybe he’d finally given up.
That was only wishful thinking on her part, though. Since Grandpa’s passing, she’d felt as though she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. That shoe was the demise of the Crown. If she didn’t get the theater open and generating income again, the city could condemn the building.
Mira rubbed her eyes. Worrying about it wouldn’t solve anything, and she didn’t need another sleepless night. She needed to relax.
She rummaged through her collection and pulled out Casablanca. It’d been her and Grandpa’s favorite movie. She’d cut her teeth on film storytelling listening to him talk about all the ways it’d become the timeless classic that it was. She’d made it the subject of numerous projects and essays in film school.
She popped the DVD into the player connected to the older model digital projector she’d bought secondhand online. It wasn’t a theater-quality piece of equipment—it was mostly used for office presentations and not much good for projecting on anything bigger than Mira herself, plus the replacement bulbs were hard to find—but it was better than her laptop screen. She’d always believed in watching movies the way they were meant to be watched.
As the on-disc commercials and advertisements played, she put a bag of popcorn into the microwave, then on a whim, decided to hook herself into the harness to have another go at that busted rig coupling. She didn’t need to sit through the film to enjoy it—she knew all the lines by heart, though she did love that moment when Ilsa meets Rick again for the first time in the film.
In short order, she was hooked into the rig and was pulling herself along the track, checking every inch as she went. The broken coupling that joined one part of the track to the next was bent just enough that she couldn’t get the wheels of the stock to jump the gap. Replacing it would be best, but the more she looked at it, the more she wondered if shifting it a few millimeters over would solve the problem. She studied the bolts in the ceiling—she wasn’t sure she had the equipment to take them out, or the strength, but she had to try.
Stretching, she pulled herself up and grabbed the wrench from her tool belt. She could barely get a grip on the bolt. Her arms were about two inches too short to get any real purchase, but she twisted anyway, torquing her whole body in the hopes that something would give.
Something gave, all right. Her biceps protested sharply, and pain shot through her wrist. The wrench clattered onto the stage below. The sudden release of tension made her tip downward, almost headfirst, and the sudden shift in weight made her spin in place. She flailed, trying to right herself like a wildly tilting helicopter blade. Tools slipped from her belt and rained down onto the stage below before she managed to grab hold of the track to stop her wild midair pirouette. She caught her breath and waited for the world to stop spinning.
That had never happened before. She looked up and groaned: part of the ceiling where the track was bolted had come loose. A steady drip of dirty brown water leaked from the gaping hole.
No need to panic. The track was still connected, so all she had to do was pull herself back to the catwalk. She reached for the tether rope, then swore when a tug didn’t return her to safety. The rope had tangled up around the rig.
She spent ten minutes trying to use the slack to get it unlooped from the tangle, but it was hopeless. She gave a frustrated whimper as the music in Casablanca swelled. She had no choice—she’d have to call Arty or Janice to help get her down.
And get yelled at, most likely. She could just imagine the smug satisfaction with which Arty would tell her he’d been right about the rig. Or the utter disappointment and worry on Janice’s aged face as the older woman gently told her for the billionth time that everything she did was risky and dangerous. She set her teeth as she pulled out her cell phone. At least that hadn’t fallen in her wild spin.
The perimeter alarm chimed. The feed brought up an image of a tall man in jeans and a T-shirt with something in his arms.
It was Shane Patel.
Relief and elation flooded her, overriding the dread that came with confronting the man after her public breakdown. In spite of her humiliation, she’d never been so glad to see the real estate developer.
She dialed his number. She’d programmed it into her contacts list after he’d given her his card only because she wanted to make sure she could screen his calls, not because she’d ever intended to call him.
“Shane Patel.”
“Mr. Patel, it’s Mira—Miriam Bateman.” She was a little chagrined by how breathless she sounded. “I can see you’re standing outside the Crown.”
He paused. She imagined he was searching for a camera.
“The back door is open. Listen, I’m in the auditorium. I... I need your help.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I just need you to hurry in, please.” She didn’t want to be beholden to him, but she’d prefer he help her down rather than Arty or worse, the fire department.
“Okay, hang on. I’m keeping the line open. Are you hurt? What’s the problem?”
Mira hesitated. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Not another fire, I hope?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”
“I’m fine. Just get in here,” she said impatiently.
She heard the outer back door groan open. His footsteps were muffled by the carpeting, and then the doors to the auditorium opened. “Miriam?”
The music to the film chose that precise moment to swell. Ilsa and Rick, meeting again after years apart. Her face flushed as Shane approached the stage, his head swiveling as he scanned the rows of worn velvet-covered seats. “Ms. Bateman?” he called again. “Where are you?”
“Up here.”
He squinted and shaded his eyes against the floodlights above her. “How...?”
“It’s a fly rig,” she explained. “It was installed years ago for a production of Peter Pan. I was doing some maintenance, but the track broke loose and I’m stuck.”
“Holy—” Shane leaped onto the stage and stared up into the fly gallery from beneath her. Thank God she wasn’t wearing a skirt. “I’ll call the fire department.”
“Please, don’t. I’m fine. The rig will hold.” She hoped. “I just need to get down.”
“How?”
“My lead line is tangled.” She gave the rope a wave to demonstrate. “If you can find a long stick or something to get it off the rig, I can pull myself back.”
He disappeared behind the heavy, faded curtain. She could hear him rummaging around. “I don’t see anything here. Is there a broom or something in your office?”
“No. A rope will do, if you can throw it to me.”
He reappeared a minute later, rope in hand. “How’s this?”
“Great! Now, the ladder to the catwalk above the stage is to your right.” She pointed. “Climb up and throw me one end.”
He looked up, frowning. “Maybe I should just call the fire department.”
“No need for that.” She couldn’t bear it if they saw her like this. And who knew what the fire marshal might say if he discovered she was living here. “A lot of them are volunteers from around the county. They’ll probably be getting ready for bed. Or they might have a real emergency.”
She could see Shane’s brow furrow even from up there, and she got a feeling he was holding something back. “What’s wrong?”
“Is the ladder safe?”
“I’ve never fallen from it.”
“And the catwalk?”
She huffed. “What’s the matter?”
He wiped a hand across his mouth. “I should call the fire department.”
“No! Please, Shane—” she gripped the rope and spun herself around “—I’m begging you. I don’t want them here.” She couldn’t handle a bunch of townspeople shaking their heads at her. Whispering about her. Stupid girl, getting herself tangled up there...
He didn’t look convinced. Desperate, she made a bargain. “Look, if you help me down, I’ll listen to anything you have to say, sit in on all your presentations, whatever. Just don’t call anyone else.”
He hesitated. “All right. Hang on.”
It took a really long time for him to climb the ladder. The rungs rang with each step. The higher he got, the longer the pauses between clangs. Eventually, he reached the catwalk. He gripped both rails, the rope he’d found slung over his shoulder. His jaw worked as he focused on her. He’d gone quite pale.
“Are you all right?”
“I...have a thing...about heights.”
“It’s not that high up,” she assured him hastily, though Grandpa had told her a stagehand had once fallen and broken both legs decades ago. “Just don’t look down.”
“Wasn’t my plan.” His voice was thin, coming out on a shaky breath.
