About Face (2 page)

Mike was a few years younger than Rod. He'd declared that both Rod and the company required an image makeover. It was no longer enough to have great technology: Your company had to project the image that it could rule the field, dominate the
market. Rod needed to make investors look at Algoplex with new eyes. Mike's campaign appeared to be paying off with the Plush deal. Not only would it bring new business, it would bring new capital from Plush's primary backer.

The film I was shooting was part of the campaign. Our last setup would show Rod at home, doing whatever it was he did in his free time. I was afraid that might mean Ping-Pong and computer games. It was another reason I wished Alissa would arrive to grace the frame.

We drove to Belmont, a leafy town north of Palo Alto. Rod had bought the house two years ago. It had cost plenty, yet was modest by neighborhood standards: a single story with a deep front lawn bordered by oak and spruce. He hadn't yet graduated to the square-foot-maximizing carbuncles that Silicon Valley millionaires liked to build, nor did he plan to. He disdained excess, and lusted after resources only to the extent that they were needed to get the job done.

Rita and Alan unloaded the gear while I toured the house with Rod. Jimmy, Algoplex's PR liaison, trailed behind. At the front stoop, Rod spoke: “Door open, please.”

The lock clicked. Rod gave the door a small push and we entered.

“You didn't tell me the house was alive,” I said.

He smiled to himself. “Just a few things I coded in. Let there be light!”

Lights came on in the dining room. I repeated the phrase as we entered the living room, to no effect. “It responds to the words,” Rod explained, “but they're linked to my voiceprint. We'd have to code in your voice to give you the power of light. I've done it for others.”

“That's all right. I'll stick to lighting the show.”

The layout was typical, a dining room and living room in front, a couple of bedrooms and a small den in back. In the basement Rod kept a Web server, a library of computer games, and no Ping-Pong table. The decor was Standard Bachelor, including an overstuffed leather couch, a Barcalounger, and an elaborate media center. But there were signs of a new style overlay: a marble vase with flowers, a couple of Modigliani prints, a cashmere throw on the sofa, healthy green plants in the den.

We'd circled back to the living room. I touched the vase. “Alissa's influence?”

“We got that at an antique sale.” Rod said it with the melancholy of one speaking of a lost time. Yet I figured she must be relatively new in his life, or the makeover would have spread farther.

“Here's what we'll do,” I said. “Come inside like we did just now. We'll follow you in with a handheld camera as your house welcomes you home. Maybe you can say something funny to greet it.” I was thinking of ways to humanize Rod. The technology had performed well in our previous days of shooting, but Rod had been rather wooden.

“Welcome, home,” he suggested.

“Right. Then, after that . . .” I looked around for signs of an animal. “Any pets?”

Rod shook his head with that same melancholy. “I had a dog named Piston, but . . . he got kind of lonely.”

Jimmy laughed at the name. Rod did have a sense of humor. He loved puns. But puns weren't cinema. This was going to be tough without Alissa. I sensed his life must have been solitary before her, with only his computer and voice-activated house for companions. No wonder he was so glum. Of all the days for Alissa to let him down . . .

Then it occurred to me that the film might be the very reason for her truancy: If she was planning to leave him, she might not want their relationship to go on record.

Rita and Alan had begun to unpack the gear in the living room. Alan drew the shades and plugged in the sound cables. Rita and I chose strategic spots for lights. She was an old friend and we'd worked together many times. Usually she did the directing and I did the shooting, but this job had come to me via my friend Wes, who knew Rod professionally, so I took the helm. She claimed to enjoy the reversal of roles.

The doorbell rang. I looked down the corridor, past the dining room. A young guy stood at the open door. He was back-lit; I couldn't see his face, only his outline. He wore a leather jacket and his hair swept up in a James Dean flourish. Rita, unfolding a light stand in the hallway, asked him what he wanted. Rod went striding to the door, shouldered Rita aside, and planted himself in front of the visitor.

“You can't come here,” Rod said in an angry voice, leading the stranger down the steps. They went around the side of the porch. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but their voices were raised. Rod was incensed, the James Dean guy self-righteous.

Suddenly he let out a shriek. “Jesus Christ! You're insane!”

I rushed to the door. Rod was brandishing a rake with thick metal prongs. The young guy turned and ran just as I got there. Rod sensed me behind him, and gave a look that said I wasn't supposed to see that. I went back to my job in the living room.

The house shook with his slam of the door when Rod returned. “Let's go,” he said irritably. “I want to get this done.”

“We'll start outside,” I said. “You'll approach the door, ask it to open—”

“Forget about that. I want to stay inside.” Rod's face was drawn, his cheeks hollow, his lips tight. This was not going to look good on camera.

“Try to relax,” I said. “Why don't you sit here on the couch. The camera will be over there so we can get the Modigliani and the vase in the background. Rita, we'll need that light about two feet to the left. Careful of the reflection on the TV screen.”

Rita moved the light stand while I framed the scene. She switched on the light. There was a flash, then a startlingly loud pop as the bulb shattered. A scrim kept the pieces from spraying onto the floor.

“Oops,” she said. “Must be a short.”

Rod exploded from the couch. “What are you doing!” he shouted. “You numbskull! Someone could have been hurt!”

“It's just a circuit breaker,” Rita replied calmly.

Rod threw his arms in the air. “You don't get it! Now I'm going to have to reset all my embedded technology. I don't have time for this!”

Rita stared at him. Rod was supposed to be the electronic genius.

“Take it easy, Rod,” I said. “We can help. Right now we need you to put on your most charming personality for the camera.”

Rod's mustache twitched. “Wysiwyg,” he declared, spreading his arms. It was engineer-speak for What You See Is What You Get.

“All right,” I announced. I slapped the lens cap back on the camera. “I'm calling it a day. We've got enough to put together the piece. If you're in a better frame of mind, we can pick up some shots tomorrow. Maybe Alissa will show.”

Rod turned without a word and walked in the direction of the basement. His lips were sealed shut, like two lines of tape. His limbs moved in robotic jerks.

Jimmy waited until he was out of earshot. “He'll be better in a few minutes.”

“No, something's thrown him off. He's not coming across well. You don't want to see that look he's got on his face splashed across the screen.”

“Just fifteen minutes,” he pleaded.

I glanced at Rita. “No,” I decided. “Our schedule is too tight. Look, I meant it about coming back tomorrow, if he wants to try again. If not, we'll be fine with what we've got. Believe me, it's the best way.”

I nodded to Alan to proceed with the breakdown. Rita had already begun on the lights. She'd shown admirable restraint. But I could tell by the crisp way she snapped the equipment cases shut that she appreciated my decision. Her camerawork would not have been kind to Rod after that outburst.

We hauled the gear back to my car. I waited an extra minute or two, but Rod did not reappear. I said good-bye to Jimmy. He promised to have Rod ready first thing in the morning.

» » » » »

An eruption happened at least once on every shoot. We knew not to take it personally. Usually the anger was meant for someone else and you were a convenient target. You tried to work through it, but in this case Rod's bad mood would have taken over the screen.

By the time we finished dinner and settled into our editing chairs to review the footage in San Francisco, Rita's ire and my irritation at Rod's outburst had melted away. Rita transferred whatever leftover offense she had to Alissa, whom she referred to as the Wayward Princess.

“You didn't see the photograph,” I said. “I've always wanted someone to give me the look she was giving him.”

Rita gave me a look of her own, one that included her eyes rolling around like lost marbles. My cell phone rang. I flipped it open and checked the caller ID. “Rod,” I said.

“His ears are burning.”

Rod dispensed with greetings. “Bill,” he said, “you've got to come down here right now. I can't—I can't stand it anymore.”

“Stand what, Rod?”

“We have to find Alissa. I'm afraid something has happened to her.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know.” His voice was quivering. “I just know that she would have called me if she was all right. She's not all right.”

“Have you called the police?”

“The police, the hospitals. Nothing. We've got to find her.”

“Let's give it till morning. I'll be there early.”

“No!” He was on the verge of tears. “Just believe me. We've got to check her apartment tonight. I'll pay you for your time. This has nothing to do with the film.”

“Okay, Rod. Take it easy.”

He gave me an address in Palo Alto. I told him I'd be there in fifty minutes. Rita frowned at me as I closed the phone. “Don't tell me you're going. It's ten at night. He's not your boss, you know.”

“He wasn't exactly ordering me. More like begging.”

“Did he say anything about this afternoon?”

“No. He's worried and he's lost in his own world. He's got no one else to call, Rita.”

“What about Mike Riley?”

“I'm sure Mike would help, but you know how shy Rod is. He won't talk to Mike about it. For some reason he trusts me.”

“Not that you're not worthy of it, Bill, but—couldn't it just be this week's new-best-friend syndrome?”

I knew what she meant. Film sets fostered a kind of hothouse intimacy. You spent twelve or eighteen hours a day working on a shoot and you developed intense relationships. I was in the middle of Rod's world right now. I felt a certain closeness, a protectiveness. His blind devotion to his work was endearing.

“Maybe so, Rita. I just can't leave the guy hanging.”

“He went a little off his rocker today, if you ask me.”

“It can't be easy, sitting alone in that house, wondering what's happened to your girlfriend. But he's rational to a fault. You saw that, too.”

“There's the problem. Too much rationality can drive anyone crazy.”

I shook my head. “Something else is going on. It started when that young guy visited—”

“Young James Dean?”

“Exactly. That's what set him off. Maybe the guy's related to Alissa. Maybe he's her new boyfriend.”

“Oh, this sounds like a great thing to put yourself in the middle of, Bill.”

I shrugged on my jacket. “He found my weak point. Curiosity.”

“Nosiness,” Rita corrected. But then her mouth twisted into one of her wry smiles. “I know you'd do the same for me. It's nice to have someone you can count on. As long as it doesn't get you hurt someday.”

A man was moving in the bushes
to my right. My fists tightened. I was in a dark spot on the street, between two lights, on my way down the sidewalk to Alissa's apartment. I stopped and checked around me to see if I'd walked into some kind of trap.

The man's shape loomed, then I recognized the sloped shoulders and splayfooted gait. “Rod, why are you hiding in there?” I said.

He shrugged and whispered, “I thought it would be safer.”

We were in an old Palo Alto neighborhood. The trees were tall and their leaves rustled in the breeze. A black iron fence ran along the sidewalk. Rod and I followed it to the gate to Alissa's apartment building, the Granada. It was designed in a hacienda style, three stories with overhanging tile roofs. Through the wrought-iron gate we could see a fountain and a thick oak tree. Beyond it was the building itself, split into two L-shaped halves by a single story in the center.

“Pretty swank, for someone her age,” I said. “Whatever she does, she must be good at it.”

Rod didn't answer. His shoulders, his arms, his whole body shrank into itself. He hesitated in front of the intercom telephone, which was set in a pillar beside the gate.

“Have you tried her yet?”

He shook his head and peered at the phone as if it would bite him. I couldn't fathom why he should be so frightened. “What apartment number?” I asked, picking up the receiver.

He told me and I punched in the numbers for 304. A woman's recorded voice picked up after two rings. It had a mellow, buttery tone, but withheld her name. I handed Rod the phone. He stared at it, then slammed it into the cradle.

“Was that Alissa?” I asked.

“Yes. We have to get in. Her light's on.”

A few windows twinkled through the iron bars. “You want to climb the gate?”

“Let's go around back,” he said, already walking along the wall.

I followed him around the corner to an alley that led to the rear of the building. Several cars were parked in a narrow lot. A Dumpster was pushed up against the single story, probably a utility room, between the building's two halves. We stood under a large elm, which provided cover of darkness. Rod pointed to a small balcony on the third floor, above and to the right of the Dumpster. A faint light glowed through a sliding glass door.