Number 1 watched from the grip truck as the small cadre of cars with their flashing lights sped by. His walkie-talkie crackled. It was Number 4.
“Insurance has arrived.”
Number 1 looked down at his copy of
He turned and saw Number 8 checking the hydraulic line under the rear cowling of the craft. In the camera truck, the camera department was loading magazines. In a few hours, the
The Waldorf Astoria is an historic, world-class hotel on New York’s Park Avenue. Kings, queens, and presidents have stayed in its opulent suites. To Bill’s dad, the impressive part was that their room was one floor below the famed ballroom where Guy Lombardo ushered in every New Year for decades.
“It just wasn’t New Year’s until Guy Lombardo played ‘Auld Lang Syne’ at midnight,” the elder Hiccock explained.
“Gee that’s great, Pop, I’ve got my meeting now. You and Mom going to be okay here?”
“Very,” he said as he poked at the overstuffed welcome basket, eyeing the chocolate goodies amidst the fruits, nuts, and jellybeans.
Janice was unpacking her dress for this afternoon and smoothing it out as Bill sat at his laptop and reviewed the top 50 e-mails forwarded by his staff. He quickly perused the headings and decided to go right to the SCIAD network. Only three messages in his in-box were from the Element ring.
One caught his eye with the heading, “Remo calculator — Q.E.D.” What he found when he opened it was a program that was based on the data that Peter Remo’s original “smuggled”
Just then, Cheryl knocked on his door. “Bill, your 10 o’clock is here.”
Bill looked at his watch and pulled out his iPad. He synced the e-mails to it while he adjusted his tie. He then took the twenty steps into the meeting in the adjoining suite and toward the rest of his day, which would end up at the Brooks Atkinson Theater with his wife and parents tonight.
“They will be dispatched by myself and Number 9,” Number 1 said to Number 8, referring to the two movie cops who just pulled up in their police cruiser.
Originally part of the TPF, the elite weapons and tactical patrol force of the old NYPD, today’s movie cops are more like New York City’s ambassadors to the film industry. In a good year, $3 billion dollars could be dropped into the city’s economy by movie and TV production. The NYPD Movie Unit was the key interface between a massive operating city bureaucracy and the day-to-day running of the multi-billion dollar film business. Most of the time, they stopped traffic or helped control crowds, usually acting as the shepherds of the private security people the movie companies hired. Many of those hires were ex-cops or moonlighting cops. In fact, in many cop shows and cop films, retired and moonlighting cops made a bundle as extras or tech advisors. It was safe to say that in the relatively small group of movie artisans and craftsmen, everybody knew or heard of everyone else. That made it odd that out of this whole crew, the only person these two cops knew was the catering truck guy, Sammy.
Sammy was a new guy in the business, meaning he came around within the last 10 years. An Egyptian by birth, he started as a server for one of the biggest catering services in the business. He worked hard and opened his own business and now did very well supplying breakfast, lunch, dinner, and craft services to hungry film crews on the smaller films and shows across the city. Sammy also followed the first rule of the business: cops eat free.
“Officer Ralph and Officer Fernandez, good to see you. I got cheese croissants and hazelnut blend.”
“Sounds good,” Ralph said. “What’s up for lunch?”
“Halaal food! Lamb, goat… you know!”
The Irish cop looked at the Puerto Rican cop and scrunched his face.
“The crew and the stars are out of Iran. This is what they eat,” Sammy explained. Then he had a thought. “Wait, maybe I can find some roast beef and potatoes.”
The cops smiled and Sammy got his assistant to take some food off his second truck going out to a small commercial crew shooting in Queens.
About mid-morning, the cops watched with little interest as the crew prepped for whatever they were going to shoot. Ralph looked at the permit. He saw the helicopter and some prop guns as wardrobe. The guns being wardrobe meant no gunplay and, therefore, they would not have to validate the licensee. New York law required that any gunplay, firing of blanks, or even brandishing a weapon was supervised by a licensed gunsmith or gun dealer. The cops would have to make sure his license was current and that no foul play or accidents could ensue. Also, they would call in to let the local precinct know to ignore any calls about gunshots or guns observed. At the bottom of the permit, Ralph noticed the production company had a Brooklyn address.
“Hey, didn’t Sammy say these guys were from Iran?”
“Yeah, goat eaters.”
“That’s funny.”
“It’s probably a racist comment,” Fernandez admitted.
“No, not the goat-eaters crack. The address here on the bottom of the permit… Let me check this out.”
With little else to do, Ralph exited the car and set out looking for the producer.
Bill’s secret, encrypted phone rang during his 11:30 meeting with the CEO of UniDyne Industries. “Excuse me; I’ll have to take this in private.”
He stepped into the outer room, closed the door, and answered.
“Bling,” was the monosyllabic greeting.
“Bling brothers! How are you guys doing?”
“We’re okay, sir. We are onto something, but the trail just split into two.”
“Well, it’s all moot now guys. In fact, I came up here in part to tell you guys it’s over…to buy you dinner and let you get back to your lives.”
“All the same, sir, it don’t look over from here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not over the phone, sir.”
“What do you need?”
“Is that Palumbo guy available?”
“When do you need him?”
“ASAP.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Bill grabbed his regular phone.
“Well, he only said, ‘Cheryl, cancel my meetings for the rest of the day,’ then he left. He did say that I should tell you he’ll meet up with you at the theater.”
“You don’t know where he went?” Janice asked.
“You know when he gets like that, you can’t get anything out of him.”
