Twenty-Eight

The mad circus was coming.

Max awaited its arrival, gazing west into the night while the sun burned the horizon behind him. He'd come early, driving his rented Winnebago through LA's bright arteries until they unclogged and dropped him into the desert's lonesome void. Always the same view, a pool of cooling asphalt in a dull yellow glare, the center lines winking in and out of existence in an endless cycle of light and dark, like film flicker. The same mesmerizing view that inspired him to create Jack the Knife during an insomniac drive all those years ago.

He'd come back to the Salton Sea and parked at a campground west of the old Atomic Age town built on its dead shores. Stepping out of the camper van, he caught a whiff of the chemical fog drifting off the sea. The moon had set. Wild dogs barked on the breeze. The bones carpeting the beach clicked on the shifting tide. An eastbound flight out of LAX passed in a soft roar overhead. The air had a chilly bite. The day would raise the temperature back above eighty despite it being mid-November, nearing the terminus of If Wishes Could Kill's runway.

Max had arrived first, and for the moment, he basked, if not happy, then content. The dark reminded him of his childhood, all the late-night hours he'd spent glued to the TV with Dracula and the Wolf Man. Time lost in singular solitude, though he'd never felt quite alone with his monsters and imagination as company, and he'd always felt safe with things he could predict and control. Anyway, it paid for the director to be first on location and welcome everyone. It showed proper form and set the tone. If the director was a god on set, Max wanted them all to know he was an all-seeing god who kept score.

He spotted a glimmer of headlights on the highway. Then another, and more, blobs of lights in chained pairs, a luminous Morse message spelling I, I, I, I—

The rumble of heavy engines carried like a herald on the wind. A vast convoy approached Bombay Beach like an invading army. Though this was no army, of course, but the madcap circus, its players driving out of the dying night to greet the new day and make the impossible true. The first vehicles turned off onto Avenue A, the expanding lights glaring in Max's eyes, the engine snarl drawing the locals out of their beds to peer pale and wondering from their windows.

And what they saw—

Hollywood had come in all its saccharine, cheerful, and fevered glory. It arrived with its beautiful people and dream machines and tinseled illusion. It landed ready to deposit irritable technicians, needy talent, a deep hierarchy of sycophants, and a wide assortment of abused and sundry gofers. The circus had come to town to put on a show for all the world to see. The trucks and cars exited the cracked road one by one until the entire triumphal parade lay coiled in a cloud of dust across the campground like a vast broken serpent.

In the Winnebago, Arthur Golden's camera roared, though it didn't sound angry and demanding this time. It now radiated waves of a dark and hungry glee. Like Max, the occult apparatus had a trailblazing vision for this movie's third act. Like every camera, it emitted a psychic call to its owner to go forth and create.

As if scorched by the rising sun, the trailers stood fiery and glaring in stark contrast against pronounced leaning shadows. The last engine expired with a final puff of exhaust carried away on the desert breeze. Rodney screamed into his megaphone to get it done, they were burning daylight. The key grip and gaffer cracked their whips, and the great unpacking began.

Light stands, sun reflectors, and boxes of clamps collected in small mountains. Dorothy blessed the production with some hippie sage-burning ritual while the script supervisor chased a flurry of pages scattered by the wind. The crafties flung tables onto a patch of dirt and loaded them with bagels, muffins, and hot coffee. The honey wagons got set up downwind for when cast and crew needed to relieve themselves, not that the place's constant whiff of fishy rot could get much worse.

Max pulled his bucket hat over his thorny head. Time to work.

The first assistant director appeared in his path and raised a clipboard.

"Do you want to review the schedule, boss?"

"No," said Max. "I—"

"Shot list for the day?" Rodney produced another clipboard.

Max gave him the stink eye.

"Is everyone here?" he asked.

"All present and accounted for. What's your vision?"

"Call the troops together. It's time for a pep talk."

The assistant director's lips pursed in a barely suppressed smile. He expected this "pep talk" to involve a thorough ass chewing about efficiency. The clipboards disappeared to be replaced by a megaphone.

"ALL CAST AND CREW, REPORT HERE ON THE DOUBLE."

The crew shrugged, dropped whatever they were doing, and ambled over. The cast left their trailers. A crowd formed around the Winnebago.

"HOP TO IT, PEOPLE—"

Max swiped the megaphone out of the man's hand.

"Take five, Rodney," he said.

He stepped onto the Winnebago's front bumper and clambered up to the roof, where the whole production could see him. He hoisted the megaphone.

"Good morning, and welcome to Bombay Beach," he said. "We're at the midpoint now. In these ruins, our heroes will face old demons before they meet their maker. As for us, this will be our post until principal photography wraps. Our home for the next few weeks. Our hill to die on, so to speak. No doubt, the first thing you noticed about it is the smell."

Some crew members laughed. Heads bobbed in sour nods.

"If you're talent, I suggest you use it for your characters, as this is an unhappy place for them. As for the rest of us, well, we'll handle it like pros. Honestly, it's the least of our worries. This area has real hazards. Unstable buildings filled with rusty nails, mud, even feral dogs. Be careful. Do not horse around, go swimming, pet any dogs, or wander off by yourself. If you receive any injury, no matter how small, see your supervisor so you can get first aid."

His next sentence reached for gravitas only to come out a morbid chuckle.

"Safety first." He cleared his throat. "That's all I've got right now."

He handed the megaphone down to Rodney, who bawled, "If you have any questions, please see me! Remember, there are no stupid questions!" He seemed to consider, then added, "There are questions, however, that waste time on set!"

The crowd scowled back. Max brought his hands together in a loud clap.

"Back to work, everyone," he said. "Let's bring our masterpiece home."

Remaining on his perch, he watched the operation start up again. The second camera unit marshaled to score a few establishing shots in the morning sun. The prop master supervised the unloading of the same massive WELCOME TO LONELY PINES sign that Max had shot in Big Bear Lake. Unspooling cable, the juicers set up the genny to power the circus. Spence MacDougal ambled off to tour the ruins near the sea, judging angles and available light and where he could direct the viewer's eye. From atop the berm, soundman Frank Boston surveyed the shoreline and grinned at the natural soundtrack. A team of carpenters moved off to inspect the distant decaying buildings for basic repairs and supports to ensure they wouldn't collapse on the talent's heads.

Then Max spotted Sally returning to her trailer and suffered a sudden strange and unfamiliar longing.

He chafed to get on with the show.

This has to work, he thought.

For weeks, he'd dreaded reaching this stage of production as much as he'd longed for it. Because yes, it had to work. The killing of five cast members in a single night without anyone getting wise.

Until then, the wait was killing him.

He now had the will to complete his vision. He still wasn't sure he had the nerve. In this situation, success would be all or nothing. Any number of things could go wrong. The actors might not hold their marks, might flee, might even resist. A major technical failure with the lights, camera, or wireless microphones could cost him invaluable picture and sound. He might not have the stamina to empathize with all five actors. Just lugging around the gear by himself would be exhausting.

Believe in yourself, Arthur Golden told him every night. Stay true to your vision. I was right about Jordan. I was right about Sally. I'm right about this.

Even so, nothing felt certain, despite all his planning.

In his mind, his perfect movie continued to unfold, demanding to be finished, regardless of what it cost his sanity and health. It loomed far bigger than himself, bigger than all of them, a dark god whose birth required a grisly sacrifice.

As for the last night, it would arrive soon enough.