Beating the Babushka

by Tim Maleeny

  On the rugged hills overlooking the bridge from the north, a dark-haired woman watched helplessly as she clutched a young girl to her breast. She looked on in horror as an enormous shadow swept over them, blocking out the sun. The tidal wave was only seconds away.

  Grace turned to Cape with a broad smile.

  “Isn’t it great?”

  Cape was speechless as he watched the tidal wave sweep across the screen in the edit studio, washing away the bridge and crashing into the city near the Ferry Building. As the century-old clock tower broke in half and the wave devoured the streets south of Market, he turned to Grace with an indignant look on his face.

  “You just destroyed my apartment.”

  Grace put a hand on his knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “It wasn’t personal,” she replied. “I had to destroy the whole city.”

  “Oh, I guess that’s okay then.”

  They were sitting in an edit suite at Industrial Light & Magic, the room dark except for the flickering light from the television monitors. Cape sat next to Grace on a black leather sofa about ten feet back from the screens, below which sat a young man with a goatee and a hoop earring. He moved his hands like a pianist across a mixing board covered with buttons, dials, and sliding knobs. After the city was reduced to churning rubble by the elemental fury of the ocean, he turned and looked questioningly at Grace.

  “You want to see it again?”

  “Absolutely,” replied Grace. “Can you play it at half speed?”

  When the earthquake struck again, Cape unconsciously gripped the arm of the sofa while Grace narrated.

  “The asteroid has broken into fragments in space,” she explained, “because the attempt to destroy it has failed. So a massive meteor shower is pummeling the Earth.”

  “And when is this supposed to take place?” asked Cape as he watched the suspension cable snap and twist across the bridge in slow motion.

  Grace ignored the question, too caught up in her descriptions. “One of the bigger chunks hit the ocean about a hundred miles off the California coast, which triggered a massive earthquake and, of course, a deadly tidal wave.”

  “Of course,” said Cape, forcing a smile.

  “Jake,” Grace called to the editor. “Freeze it there.” The editor pushed a button. On the screen hundreds of people stood by their cars, clutched their loved ones, ran for safety, or simply stared impotently at their impending aquatic doom. Grace stepped to the monitor and circled some of the tragic figures with her index finger.

  “See these people?” she asked.

  Cape nodded, squinting at the screen.

  “They’re not real people.”

  “Of course they’re not real people,” replied Cape. “They’re actors.”

  Grace shook her head. “They’re not even that. One hundred percent digital, created one pixel at a time by a computer.” She nodded at the editor, who pushed a button. The picture zoomed and started to move, one frame at a time.

  Cape looked more closely. The people on the bridge looked as real as anyone he’d ever met, down to the smallest detail. One man’s hair was tousled as if he’d just run his hands through it—you could see each strand move independently in the wind. Behind him a woman had lost her shoe. Cape could see a small hole in her sock and the tiny blister on her heel. Grace’s finger traced the panicked crowd one by one, pointing out wrinkles, folds, even reflections in their eyes.

  “Why pay extras when you can make them yourself?” She rested her hand on the editor’s shoulder. “Thanks, Jake.”

  Cape was still studying the screen. “Incredible.”

  Grace smiled, obviously pleased to have impressed him.

  “The CGI is cutting edge—sorry, computer-generated imagery. You saw the last three Star Wars movies?”

  “Sure.”

  “Remember the winged alien with the elephant’s nose?” she asked. “The one who owned Darth Vader’s mother as a slave?”

  “Yeah,” said Cape. “He was blue.”

  Grace nodded. “He was completely digital, created by the artists here. All they did to complete the character was hire an actor to record his voice.”

  “I think I read an article about that.”

  “That was just one character, but now we can create hundreds.”

  “Must be expensive.”

  “Not as bad as casting calls and talent payments, by the time you’re through,” replied Grace. “And no problems with SAG, the actors’ union. But it does get expensive, and time consuming. That’s why I’m so excited—we’re ahead of schedule with this scene.” She turned back to the screen and frowned. “But I think the tidal wave needs more work. It needs to be…bigger.”

  Cape looked hopeful. “Does that mean I’ll have time to move into an apartment on top of one of the hills in Pacific Heights before the tidal wave hits?”

  Grace smiled apologetically. “We’re destroying the whole city.”

  Cape shrugged. “Then how about a last meal?”

  “Good idea,” replied Grace, checking her watch. “I’ll buy.”

  The cafeteria was nicer than most restaurants in the city, plus it was relatively deserted. The producers, editors, and computer artists worked such odd hours that the typical lunchtime rush didn’t occur. People came and went at all hours, sometimes just grabbing food to bring back to their editing bay.

  Cape went for a turkey sandwich and chips while Grace loaded up on Cobb salad. Once the necessary condiments and utensils had been gathered, they sat down at an empty table some distance from anyone else.

  “So how is it going?” Grace asked.

  Cape hesitated by biting into his sandwich, trying to decide what to tell her. He’d given her regular updates, but now that he was sitting across from her, he realized that he’d omitted some details along the way. Grace knew he’d almost been killed in Ghirardelli Square, but he never mentioned his attackers were Russian. Similarly, he never told her about the Major’s visit to his office, or about Ursa. Cape described his meetings at the Empire’s offices but left out the Pole. All along he had edited himself instinctively, thinking he was being expedient, focusing on things that mattered directly to Grace. But now Cape wondered if his subconscious had other reasons.

  He told himself Grace would only worry, or maybe even stop the investigation if she feared too much for his safety. A detective’s job was to solve the case, not burden the client with his problems. But studying her now, as Grace looked at him expectantly, Cape wondered if some part of him didn’t completely trust his own client. And after the past few days, he worried it might be impossible for him to trust anyone, period.

  He shook himself from his reverie as Grace’s expression changed to concern at his extended silence. “It’s going just fine,” he said reassuringly. “If discovering what you don’t know is considered making progress, then I’m about to crack the case.”

  She smiled sympathetically. “You were looking for a connection to the drugs in Tom’s room?”

  “Yes,” said Cape. “But I’m not sure that’s the right angle. I talked to some of the characters involved in the local drug trade, and I didn’t get the reactions I was expecting.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t involved.”

  “True.” Cape nodded. “But suspecting a connection and establishing one are worlds apart. And unless that’s the right angle, I’ll never establish a motive. Without a motive, it’s hard to track a killer.”

  Grace worked the muscles in her jaw. “Which means you won’t find the people who killed Tom.”

  Cape studied the grim determination in her eyes, suddenly disgusted with himself for having doubts about her integrity.

  “I’ll find them,” he said. “I just need a new angle.”

  “That’s why you called about the movie’s budget?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “How’s it look?”

  “It’s a mess,” replied Grace, pulling a folder from her bag and laying it on the table. “F
rankly, I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Why not?” asked Cape. “You’ve handled the entire production budget on other films—isn’t that what you told me?”

  Grace shook her head. “That’s not the problem. I understand the entries, but it doesn’t make any sense. I thought Tom—” She hesitated before continuing. “I thought Tom would be more organized.”

  Cape leaned forward and opened the folder. “Give me an example.”

  Grace ran her finger down a column of numbers along the left side of the first page. “These are estimates,” she explained. “Pretty standard entries for a film of this scale, separated into three broad categories: preproduction, production, and postproduction.”

  “Preproduction is scouting locations, that sort of thing?” asked Cape.

  “Exactly,” replied Grace. “Everything you do before you start shooting. Once the cameras start rolling and you’re on location, then you’re in production.”

  “And postproduction?” asked Cape. “Is that editing?”

  Grace nodded. “Among other things—post can include editing, sound effects, film transfer, color correction, and special effects added to the film.”

  “Like the people on the bridge.”

  “In this case, yes,” said Grace. “Sometimes special effects get classified as production if they’re part of another scene you’re actually shooting, but Tom separated all the digital effects into postproduction budgets.”

  “Okay,” said Cape. “So what’s the problem?”

  Grace turned to the next page and pointed to a table of line items and corresponding numbers. It looked like a standard spreadsheet program.

  “These are supposed to be actuals,” said Grace, frustration audible in her voice. “The real costs incurred so far on the film.”

  “So?”

  “So according to this, we’ve already blown our budget,” said Grace, “and we’ve spent money too early, where it shouldn’t be spent yet.”

  “What do you mean by yet?”

  “Look at this,” said Grace, pointing at a number. “This is supposed to be the running total for computer effects, and it’s already over budget. But when Tom did this sheet, I hadn’t even started working with the guys here at ILM. That means Tom had already spent money on digital effects before I arrived.”

  “What effects?” asked Cape. “Early work on the bridge or the tidal wave?”

  “That’s what I thought, but nobody here seems to know,” replied Grace in an exasperated voice. “Like I said, we’re ahead of schedule on the effects, so maybe that’s what happened.”

  “Maybe it’s a billing error,” suggested Cape, “or some of the costs were pre-billed to the studio.”

  “I’ve got the bill,” replied Grace, “but it’s short on details. Just some dates and studio time. If I can’t determine what it’s for, I’m going to make ILM eat the costs.”

  “Can you do that?’

  Grace nodded. “I don’t like to be a hard-ass, but a lot of production costs get swallowed by suppliers if you run over. So much of the actual cost is people’s time and not hard costs, the accounting gets a little fuzzy sometimes.”

  Cape looked at the numbers, but they were meaningless to him. His experience told him to always follow the money, but he was in way over his head. He couldn’t even do his own taxes. This case made more sense when people were shooting at him.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Travel is over budget,” said Grace. “Still tracking down receipts for that category, but it’s almost triple what it should be.”

  Cape stared at the numbers as if they were tea leaves. “Anything else?”

  “Talent costs are also out of whack.”

  “I thought you were creating virtual actors in the computer, not paying them,” said Cape.

  “That’s the idea,” said Grace. “Don’t get me wrong—there are still a lot of real actors in this picture, like the woman watching the bridge collapse—the one holding the girl.”

  “She was in the last movie.”

  “Right,” said Grace. “But Tom and I discussed keeping these costs down by going digital, so I have to find out why the original budget got blown.”

  “When can you do that?”

  “Not while I’m finishing this movie,” said Grace. “To track down all the actual bills and costs incurred so far, then separate fact from fiction…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It will take weeks, if not months.”

  “Have you told the studio?” asked Cape.

  “Of course,” said Grace. “As soon as I saw how screwed up things were, I called Angelo, and he put me through to Adam.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Not as pissed as I expected,” replied Grace. “He said there’s nothing we can do about the budget right now, but we’re screwed if we don’t finish this picture on time. And you know what, he’s right.”

  Cape nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “But he wasn’t sanguine about the situation, either,” added Grace. “This is a big deal—if we’ve blown this budget, even the best opening weekend won’t make back the money spent on this movie.”

  “Doesn’t that affect people’s percentages—the profit sharing?”

  “For some people, absolutely,” said Grace. “For me, and for Tom’s share, it might be adios.”

  “Not Adam or Harry?” asked Cape. “Or the director?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Grace, a sarcastic smile creeping across her lips. “It’s an old Hollywood trick—the senior people get a percentage of the gross, while the hired talent gets a percentage of the net.”

  “What’s that mean in English?” asked Cape, wishing he hadn’t slept through accounting.

  “Some people get a percentage of how much money the movie generates at the box office—that’s the gross of the picture.”

  “Okay,” said Cape tentatively.

  “While some get a percentage of the net—that’s how much money the movie makes—if it’s profitable.”

  Cape thought for a moment before saying anything. “So if the movie loses money but still does well at the box office, then people like Harry and Adam still clean up?”

  “Yup,” said Grace.

  “But the studio loses money,” said Cape. “And they own the studio.”

  “That’s the insidious part.” Grace smiled. “It becomes a write-off for the studio, but Harry and Adam are listed as Executive Producers on the film—that’s how they get their individual percentages. So they get rich even if their company loses money.”

  “So that’s what an Executive Producer does,” muttered Cape. “I always wondered about all those names at the beginning of a film. When you first told me you were a producer, I just assumed…”

  “That I didn’t do a damn thing?” asked Grace lightly. “That’s a running joke in the movie business—if you don’t know what someone does on a film, just call them a producer.”

  “There certainly seem to be a lot of them.”

  Grace laughed. “The average movie has almost twelve different people with producer in their title—Executive Producers, Associate Producers, Assistant Producers, even Co-Associate Producers.”

  “What do they all do?”

  “Honestly?” replied Grace. “Even I’m not sure sometimes. Some invested in the film, some contributed to the original story concept. And a few, like me, are real production people.”

  “Doing important things,” said Cape, a teasing note to his voice.

  “Don’t patronize me,” said Grace. “The only difference between George Lucas and Ed Wood was a good producer.”

  Cape held up his hands. “Just kidding, but they all get to be in the credits, don’t they?”

  “So?”

  “The audience has to sit through an endless list of names before the film can start.”

  “Pretty boring, I’ll admit,” said Grace. “But giving people production credits keeps the price down. Some folks just want to b
e associated with films, maybe become famous, or impress their friends. So they’ll take a smaller percentage, or maybe sell their idea to a studio for less money, simply because their name shows up on the big screen.”

  “I’d take the money and leave the fame for someone else.”

  “Smart guy,” said Grace, squeezing his arm. “Just be glad you don’t work in the movie business. You’d never survive with that lack of ego.”

  Cape leaned back in his chair and stretched. His head hurt. He was perfecting the art of learning a lot about nothing important. Maybe after a few hours of sifting, his brain could glean something useful from the information overload of the past two days, but he wasn’t counting on it. “Thanks for the lesson in film accounting,” he said, sighing. “The bottom line is that the movie might lose money, right?”

  Grace nodded. “Unless I can curb costs during this final week of shooting, we’ll go over budget.”

  “A lot of money?”

  “Almost twenty million,” said Grace sheepishly.

  “That’s a lot of money,” replied Cape.

  Grace shrugged. “Yeah, even for the movie business.”

  Cape forced a smile, not wanting to appear as frustrated as he felt.

  “Did this help you at all?” asked Grace hopefully.

  “I got a chance to eat,” replied Cape. “And that always helps.”

  “What are you going to do next?”

  “Move out of the city before you finish that tidal wave,” said Cape. “Unless you’ll reconsider and destroy L.A. instead?”

  “Sorry,” said Grace. “We have to destroy San Francisco.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s in the script.”

  Cape shrugged.

  “That’s as good a reason as any,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Sally sat alone in the dark and dreamt she was flying.

  She was ten years old again, her teacher Xan leading her through the Mai Po marshes, a nature reserve consisting of shrimp ponds in the northwest corner of Hong Kong. It was a haven for migratory birds; when the shrimp ponds were drained each harvesting season, the birds feasted on tiny fish trapped in the mudflats. This time of year the ponds were full, but there were still plenty of birds for archery practice.