About Face (7 page)

“Rod
is
kind of sweet,” Rita said during one of the fidgeting shots.

“We could use this shot if we want Plush to think he's sweet, too.”

“Depends,” she answered, pulling the old wool sweater she was wearing over her head. The space was unheated and she always started an editing session with three layers. As the machines warmed the room, she'd peel down to a loose camisole. We'd been a couple once, and every so often I wondered whether we ought to get back together. “How sweet are the Plush people?”

“I got a glimpse of them when they came for a meeting, but no more,” I said. “Dr. Plush seemed quite full of himself.”

“It's his wife who runs the business side.”

“No fidgeting,” I decided.

We moved on. I was creating a list of shots on my pad while Rita sorted them into virtual bins. A few hours later we were down to the tape we'd shot on Friday, the scenes meant to show Rod's personal side. We watched him fumble the Frisbee in the Ultimate game. Mike trotted by, gave Rod a pat on the butt, and told him he'd get 'em next time. Rod looked at the Frisbee like it was some kind of alien saucer.

“That's not bad,” I said. “We need a little humor.”

“Can't leave out the full-frontal nerdity,” Rita said. She skipped ahead to a shot in which several players leaped as one for a floating Frisbee. It was tipped, tipped again, and landed in
the hands of a young woman who then quickly passed it to a teammate. “Here we go. Teamwork. Striving. Grabbing for the plastic disk.”

“If they like this sort of thing, they will find this the sort of thing they like.”

Rita chuckled. The old Abe Lincoln line was a motto we used when we created a scene that we thought was a little cheesy but knew the client would appreciate.

“Mike will love it,” I said. I tipped back in my chair. “Okay, I think we've enough to build an assembly. Will this keep you busy for the rest of the evening?”

“Plenty. You can go look for Alissa.”

“Thanks, Rita. Mind if I check my email again?”

She brought up her browser and we switched chairs. As soon as I logged on, the message popped out at me. “Look at this,” I said. “We're on a roll.”

Subj: alissa

From: sPcLdy

this is alissas mother wendy, please do not worry about her. she will be present for the dinner, she knows its important. send place and time and i will give her the information. wendy :
)

Rita lifted her eyebrows at me. “In the nick of time.”

“Yeah.” I frowned. “I don't know if I believe it, but . . .”

“Quit looking on the dark side, Bill. The whole Alissa thing has been blown out of proportion from the start, if you ask me. It's been a product of Rod's nervousness.”

“It's interesting that Wendy doesn't know the place and time,” I said. “Then again, maybe Rod hadn't told Alissa yet.”

“And the message fits with your theory that Alissa had just gone to help Wendy with something and didn't want to tell anyone.”

“I suppose. Well, you're in luck, Rita. You're stuck with me tonight after all.”

“Joy. You'll go with Rod tomorrow night, too?”

“Oh, yes. To shoot the happy ending: Rod signs the deal and gets the girl. The company's saved and everyone's satisfied.”

“Even if that doesn't come true, you've got a legitimate way to string Rupert along now.”

“Yeah. I'll call Rod and tell him. Then I'll call Rupert. I just have to be careful which strings I pull. I don't know what all they're attached to.”

“Do you think she'll really be there?”

It was only the 89th time Rod had asked. I knew he wanted me to say yes. But for the 89th time, the best I could offer was, “Wendy said she would.” And for the 89th time Rod said that was what worried him. I was looking forward to the dinner if only to put an end to the questions. I was also hoping I'd at last get to meet Alissa.

He was in the bathroom when I arrived. I waited outside, feeling like a best man.

“Rod,” I called, “we're supposed to be there in five minutes.”

The bathroom door swung open. He was still in his boxers and a T-shirt that read
LIKE YOU, ONLY SMARTER
.

“How does this work, Bill?” he said. “How do you get your hair under control?”

I stood next to him facing the mirror. Rod was trying to get a strand of reddish hair to sit down over a thin spot. The strand kept popping up like a jack-in-the-box. My own hair was a study in chaos theory, a landscape of swirls and eddies the color of dirty flax.

“I keep it short,” I said. “If it grows out too much, it looks like a place in the grass where a deer spent a bad night.”

Rod wet his hand and smacked the offending strand down again. It would not stay.

“Do you have any hair gel?” I asked.

“You mean like Brylcreem?”

I searched through his drawers for something to improvise with. He didn't even have hand lotion. Alissa must not have spent nights with him. I found some antibiotic ointment and applied it to the strand.

Rod let out a sigh of relief. “That's better.”

“Good. Now let's get going.”

He dressed himself up in a charcoal suit and unobtrusive tie. I straightened his tie and gave him a little push toward the door.

We drove down 280 in the twilight. I'd already assured Rod that Silicon Glamour would leave us alone. Rupert had gotten my message about Alissa. He wanted to see her first thing tomorrow morning; I told him that would be up to Alissa. Meanwhile, I just wanted to get Rod through the dinner. I said I'd been able to spend most of yesterday and today cutting a decent rough version of the film.

Rod's nervousness only increased. “Are you sure we should show it? It seems kind of, I don't know . . . egotistical.”

“You're supposed to have some ego as an executive. I know you've got it as an engineer. You can let the film do your talking for you.”

“Good point. I'll just sit back and enjoy.”

Sylvain Partners, the VC firm, had arranged the dinner. It was in a private room at a restaurant in Palo Alto. I brought my camera and laptop with us in through the main part of the restaurant and then through a dimly lit corridor, off of which branched the kitchen and rest rooms. A fourth door, attended by a young man in a suit, led into the windowless private room.

A fire blazed in the flagstone hearth. A small bar in the corner was stocked with martini glasses. The long, oval table was set for sixteen. A baroque painting with lots of pink cherubic flesh took up one wall. The flesh was given extra glow by rose-tinted halogen lighting and candles on wall sconces. The painting came with a pair of curtains that could be closed, but this was a dinner in which skin would be in favor.

My eyes immediately went to the focal point of the room: a woman in a short beaded dress. Her back was to us. Highlighted almond hair cascaded down her shoulders. Seven or eight guests were gathered around her. They burst into laughter at something she said. Rod picked up his pace. From the eagerness in his step, I thought he might bend her back in a big, dramatic kiss. Instead, he stopped three feet behind her.

“Alissa?” he said.

She turned. “Hello, Rod. Where have you been?”

The guests beamed. Alissa wore a smile, but not quite the one I expected: It was more coy than mysterious. Rod froze, and as I came even with him, incredulity flashed across his face. Then he forced a smile and stepped forward to meet her embrace. A chorus of oohs and aahs went up.

Rod swiveled with Alissa so that I saw his face. It showed panic. Putting his arm around her waist, he pulled her toward the door. “Alissa, honey, could we go over here—”

She squirmed. “Rod, honey, what about the guests?”

I grabbed my video camera case and stepped in. “We need a picture. If you'll just come over here where the light's better . . .”

Voices rose in mock protest, imploring Rod not to deprive them of Alissa. Mike said, “Let the lovebirds have their fun. Lucky guy!”

We hustled the complaining Alissa out through the door. The guy tending it stood there gaping at us. I told him to go inside.

Rod disengaged his arm from behind Alissa's back. They stared at each other in the passageway between the restaurant and the private room. Rod's face was flushed.

“Who are you?”
he demanded.

She took a step back toward the private room. I blocked the way. She cast a resentful glance at me, whirled, and said, “Rod, what is wrong with you?”

Rod stood trembling, his gaze fixed on a small gem around her neck as if he'd become hypnotized by it. Alissa had been wearing the same necklace in the photograph.

I scrutinized the woman's face. It was a close facsimile of the one I'd seen: The hair was done as Alissa's had been, the eyebrows had the same contour, the nose the same slight upturn. . . . But this woman had too much swagger, too much insinuation in her manner. In place of the mysterious playful smile was a calculated pout.

“Where is Alissa?” I said.

She gave a miffed shrug. “I'm just trying to help. Don't look at me like I'm some kind of witch.”

Rod found his voice, but it was subdued. “Who are you?” he repeated.

She sighed again, then lowered her eyes. “I'm Cindy. Alissa's sister. She couldn't come after all.” The eyes grew wider. “My mother couldn't get hold of you to tell you. She thought it would be better to send me than to have no one show up.”

“So Wendy's behind this,” Rod said. “Alissa never mentioned a sister.”

She turned her palms up in a gesture that said that was Alissa's fault, not hers. I looked more closely. Though from a distance she appeared to be Alissa's age, up close the rilled forehead and sag around the jaw were visible. The coyness clashed with the hard, worn grain of the voice.

“You're not Cindy. You're Wendy,” I said.

Rod jumped back as if he'd stepped on a snake. “I don't want her here,” he said to me.

“Oh, come on, Rod.” She switched on a winning smile. My discovery didn't faze her; she seemed proud of having pulled off the illusion, even if just for a moment. “Don't be such a prude. You weren't with my daughter, were you?”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“You don't know?” The smile remained glued to her face as she waited for an answer. When it didn't come, she said, “Well, if you're good, I might tell you.”

I reached for her elbow. “Tell us now. Then we'll go.”

The transformation was instant. Her preternaturally green eyes flashed. Her lips became thin and hard, her voice terse. “Don't you touch me. I'll scream and everyone in that room will come to see what you're doing. How you're hurting Alissa.”

Rod grimaced. “She smells like cigarettes,” he said to me, as if this were the final insult. “Alissa doesn't smoke.”

I thought about clamping a hand over Wendy's mouth and physically removing her. But I'd have to drag her through the main part of the restaurant. I looked at the rest room door.

She saw me looking. “Don't even think about it. I'll press charges.”

I wavered, then decided against it. The rest room was a dead end, anyway. “You better be careful,” Wendy said. “We've got our eye on you.”

I stepped up to her. “We? Are you talking about Silicon Glamour?”

The door to the private room opened and a busboy rushed out with a tray of used glasses. He gave us a curious look as he went by.

“Let's go back inside,” Wendy said. “Your colleagues will start to gossip. They already know me as Alissa.”

Rod's face shriveled with capitulation. “Why are you doing this?”

“It'll work out well for everyone,” she answered. “You'll see.” Rod edged in the direction of her proffered hand. “Wait, Rod,” I said. I was at the pay phone opposite the rest rooms. “I'm calling the police. Unless you'd prefer not to be arrested for impersonating your daughter, Wendy.”

“My daughter the hustler? Sorry, I mean escort. Sorry, I mean
associate
. Won't your guests be fascinated to hear about that?”

“No,” Rod said. “No police.”

She slithered her hand under his elbow. “You boys just won't trust me, will you? Be patient. You saw how well I did with the guests. You'll learn in time. I know what's best.”

Rod hung his head. I put down the phone. “You better live up to your word,” I said.

She gave a little fling of the hair toward the banquet room. “They like me. I'm here to help. Just relax, Rod.”

She took him back into the party. I followed, camera in hand. This was going to require documentation.

» » » » »

I found Sylvain's AV guy and explained what needed to be done to play our video. I'd brought my laptop and could run it off that, if necessary, but he said he had all the equipment. I wouldn't have to do anything until the time came to cue it up after dinner.

I returned to the party and got my camera ready. Rod's teeth remained clenched through the cocktail hour. At the same time as he had to endure Wendy, he didn't know if his new business partners were going to spring some Alissa-inspired surprise on
him. Wendy's charade made that scenario seem all the more likely. Yet I had to admit she stayed in character, deflecting questions that could have embarrassed Rod, keeping him from having to open his mouth too much.

For the time being, I hung back, drinking soda water, watching the guests, taking in the buzz of conversation. Appetizers were consumed and the time came for the first round of toasts. They would be followed by the signing of the contracts, then dinner and more toasts. Dr. Plush, the dermatologist who'd started the company, gravitated toward me when he saw my camera.