No Footprints Read Online Free PDF Page B

ripped off by one of the pro gangs and halfway to L.A. by
now, but to keep amateur boosters from clanking and smashing and waking the neighbors, thus making our next request for a permit lots harder. It’d been such a hassle I half-wished I’d just hunted up Declan Serrano at the cop shop and paid off. But we had an arrangement with the city, one I wasn’t about to screw up by aligning myself with the boss of the Mission district (and beyond).
    Even so, rerouting traffic doesn’t make you—much less the city—popular with the citizenry. We had an hour, two at best, to block out the action before police would close us down. Tomorrow we’d do the take. As I crossed the barricade, I couldn’t help but smile to finally see the crane and dolly in place and the old Honda sitting ready for its moment of stardom.
    Thoughts— just thoughts! as Leo would remind me—of the woman on the bridge kept tugging. I was glad to have the necessity of the now to push them aside.
    Jed Elliot, my favorite second unit director, was running this stunt operation. His normal mode was three double-caffs tight: Mr. Perfectionism. That’s what you want from the person responsible for the final word on the safety of the movie stunts. He was used to giving orders and having young assistants jump. But now he was snout-to-snout with a fellow I’d never seen. Jed had faced down the city liaison and screamed at a first unit director who could’ve fired him, but this guy had him on his heels. Compared to this lunatic Jed was Mr. Calm. This guy was bouncing foot to foot, arms flying, head in Jed’s face as if there was any chance of Jed or anyone else in the Mission failing to hear his low opinion of Jed’s operating plan, personnel choices, and all-around competence, as illustrated by the ranter’s not having been notified of today’s set-up here.
    There was no way Jed could stop the guy. At six in the morning! At this site I’d busted my butt to set up!
    Only money could create such a scene. Was he one of the new backers?
It didn’t matter who he was, because in a minute, blinds in Victorians were going to snap up, neighbors were going to glare, and we’d be toast.
    I could not let that happen, backer or no.
    I strode over. ‟Hey, Jed. That the car?”
    â€ŸWhat? Yeah.” Quickly, he added, ‟You met Macomber Dale?”
    â€ŸMac,” he snapped. Seizing the moment, Jed moved off.
    â€ŸDarcy Lott.”
    â€Ÿ You’re the stunt driver?”
    â€ŸI am. And you’re—”
    â€ŸThe producer.”
    The producer! Big leap from backer to the producer. Was that truth or self-promotion? I’d have to find out, pronto.
    For the moment, I flashed a smile at the newborn producer, gave his hand a squeeze and release, and called to Jed. ‟How’re we on time?”
    â€ŸYou can finish your coffee and do the check, both.”
    This time my smile was genuine. With a stunt car, particularly one I’m going to be close to rolling at the top of the hill, checking it out involves a lot more than lifting the hood.
    I nodded a ‟so long” to Macomber. For all the good it did.
    He kept pace with me.
    I picked up speed but the hint was lost on him. I’d intended to rescue Jed, but at this rate I’d soon be screaming myself. I put my cup on the car roof and turned.
    He looked at me challengingly. ‟I know cars. I have an old Studebaker I rebuilt from—”
    â€ŸHey!” I’m not at my most gracious at this hour of the morning.
    â€ŸI can—”
    I took a breath and gave him an easy exit. ‟Go away or I’ll run you over. It’ll make a great shot.”

    â€ŸListen, I’m not some gofer here. Practically, this whole movie’s coming out of my pocket. I can—”
    â€ŸNo, you can’t! If you’re planning to hang over my shoulder, you can’t. You can force Jed to waste time