Part 13 (1/2)

Ron Gingrich carried the last two bags of crushed ice to the aluminum bucket on the terrace near the pool. He split them open and dumped them in.

From the house, Jared called, ”Don't forget to light the tiki torches.”

Gingrich sent him a salute. Since getting off the flight from London he hadn't had two minutes to himself. He strolled to the garage, flip-flops slapping, got a case of Stella Artois from the stack, and schlepped it back to the terrace. His ponytail batted in the wind. The clouds had blown off and the evening was chilly and sparkling clear.

He pushed his fists into the small of his back. And he wondered yet again how he'd ended up working as a gofer for a twenty-six-year-old kid, a boy genius computer game designer who considered himself a rock star for the twenty-first century.

Ron shoved beer bottles into the ice in the king-size bucket. The previous day and a half seemed like a blur. Jet lag really was a b.i.t.c.h, especially at his age. Sure, he knew how to make things happen on the road and off. He'd managed tours for heavy metal bands for twenty years, gone on the road once with the Grateful Dead, before coming over to Jared's Silicon Valley start-up as a jack-of-all-trades, the get-it-done guy. Buy the boss twenty black T-s.h.i.+rts, and the right brand saggy jeans, and Crocs to match whatever color the cool CEOs were wearing down the road in Sunnyvale.

He was willing to put up with plenty of s.h.i.+t. He wasn't too proud to work hard, he liked to tell people.

He gazed past the pool and down the hill past the cypresses, toward the bay. From up here in this ten-million-dollar neighborhood, the water was an iridescent gray-blue in the sunset. The Sausalito ferry chugged for harbor. He could see planes taking off from SFO. From this distance they looked like silver ants crawling the sky.

What was he supposed to be doing?

He looked at his hands. He was holding two warm beers.

Ice bucket. The party. Right. He stuck the beers in the pail.

From the house came voices. People were arriving. Young tech hipsters-the guest list was mostly game designers, overgrown teenage boys who'd hit the jackpot and found a way to rake in the bucks playing video games. Plus some of the venture capitalists who funded them. And a few people from the CGI end of the film industry. Maybe even one or two folks from Industrial Light & Magic.

Jared stuck his head out the patio door. ”Ron, the tiki torches. And get rid of that stack of tools by the pool shed. Somebody might trip over it, and I have lawyers coming.”

”Sure, boss.”

”And don't call me boss.”

”Sure.” a.s.s.

Jared shouldn't mind being called boss. Jerry Garcia hadn't minded when Ron called him boss. G.o.d, he missed the Dead.

He took his iPod from his pocket, stuck in the earbuds, and scrolled through his playlist. When ”Attics of My Life” rolled into his ears, he smiled.

He got his lighter and lit the tiki torches around the pool. A chilly wind was blowing, but the boss wanted atmosphere. His gaze wandered and he saw jets taking off from SFO.

That guy going nuts on the flight from London-talk about a freak-out. When the man ran up the aisle to the emergency exit, Gingrich thought for a second that the plane was on fire. But the flames were only in the dude's head. Gingrich had watched him, thinking, WTF? Then he and Jared looked at each other and knew that if they didn't do something, it wouldn't get done. They jumped up and wrestled the wacko away from the emergency exit.

He rubbed the cut on his arm where the man's belt buckle had scratched him in the scuffle.

”Ron?”

Jared sounded perplexed. Gingrich turned.

The sun was down, the tiki torches flickering on the terrace. The noise from the party was bombastic.

”Where have you been?” Jared said.

”Going to put away those tools, like you asked.”

Jared looked at him c.o.c.keyed. ”And lock up the pool shed. The electricians didn't finish with the pool lights. There's live wiring going to the pool. We have to keep the power off. I don't want anybody accidentally mistaking the garden lighting switches for the pool.”

”Sure.”

Jared continued looking at him strangely. ”You all right, Ron?”

”Tired. The London trip kicked my b.u.t.t.”

Jared nodded, let his gaze linger a bit longer, and headed back to his guests.

Gingrich wasn't tired. He was b.l.o.o.d.y exhausted, as the Brits would say. His legs felt stiff, as if he'd been standing there by the side of the house for hours. For... c.r.a.p, he was cold. When had the sun gone down?

He glanced at his watch. ”Whoa.”

Eight P.M. How had an hour slipped away?

He ran a hand over his goatee and slapped his cheeks to wake himself up. The pool shed. Get the tools inside. Yes, boss. Then he could finally go home and hit the sack. He walked around the side of the garage.

The pool shed was toasty inside. Jared kept the pool heated like a hot spring, because he had grown up in some dusty house by the freeway in Daly City and hated dirt and loved the clean, chlorinated smell of pool water. Jared swam every day, wallowing in his wealth and just maybe, Gingrich thought, was.h.i.+ng off the stench that stuck to him from his computer games. Stuff designed for people who were bored with Grand Theft Auto and needed something a bit more stimulating. Marketed to eighth grade kids, too.

Gingrich turned on the light. It was harsh, a single bulb overhead. Moths flew around his head. The heater and pumps and filter motors chugged away.

That flight from London-what had been wrong with the wack job? The shrink who came aboard didn't think the guy was crazy. Gingrich had seen him on the floor after the cop Tasered him, in some sort of trance, turning like he was being spit-roasted. The memory made him shudder.

He could hear noise behind him at the party. Fifty party-hearty, greedy, talented, demanding guests, drinking beer and talking deals and celebrating the release of Jared's new game. It was so hot in this shed. He stared at the circuit breakers on the wall.

The pumps hummed almost hypnotically. He blinked.

Man, his legs felt stiff. He felt like he'd been standing forever. He looked at his watch. It was nine thirty P.M. People would want to swim. He should go light the tiki torches. Get some beers from the garage and pack them in ice in that big aluminum pail.

Jared would want the pool perfect. He always swam, every day. Gingrich looked at the machinery in the shed. The door had swung shut behind him. It was d.a.m.ned hot and musty in here. He heard the humming of the pumps, and ”Brokedown Palace” in his earphones.

Why was he standing in the pool shed? He didn't remember coming in. Obviously he had a reason, but...

The circuit breaker box was open. That was weird.

He looked inside at the switches. Four of them, three for the circuits on the gaudy garden lights that illuminated the gardenias and rhododendrons, and one in the center for the underwater pool lights. That breaker was flipped to off.

Jared must have asked him to come in and flip it on. Jared must want to go swimming. What time was it?

He looked at his watch. ”s.h.i.+t.”

Ten o'clock? Man, he was so tired he was completely losing track of time. Jared must want to swim in his beautiful pool in the dark, pretending he was a dolphin swimming in the deep. Maybe Jared even had a date. And the guy couldn't manage to come flip the switch himself.