J. Jance - A more perfect union

I tried not to laugh aloud. The headlines on the National Enquirer never hint that movie stars might have attacks of conscience the morning after a romantic conquest, although AIDS has made old-fashioned one-night stands an endangered species.

"You don't strike me as the type for morning-after reservations," I said with a chuckle. "Besides, you're not that much older than she is. I'm sure Merrilee Jackson is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

Parker brightened a little at that. He gave me a sardonic grin. "You know, you may be right. She was packing condoms in her purse."

I choked on a mouthful of coffee and spattered my clean tie. They don't seem to make women exactly the way they used to. For the most part, it's probably a good thing.

We got to Lake Union Drydock by a quarter to six. Unfortunately, someone hadn't negotiated an extension of the parking barricades for the last half-day of shooting.

Parking places are always at a premium in that Eastlake neighborhood. With both the weekday working people and the movie folks competing for space, it was almost impossible to park the car. We finally found a spot and walked back to the set at a respectable five after six.

The drydock was a whole lot more crowded than it had been on the weekend. The shipyard workers were all hanging around idle, swilling down free canteen coffee and doughnuts. I saw Woody Carroll just inside the gate with his own cup of coffee.

"What's going on?"

Woody shook his head in disbelief. "Nobody's working. Goldfarb's paying extra to keep the sandblaster turned off until they finish up. Too much noise, he says."

Captain Powell had been right about the king's ransom, then. If Goldfarb was paying wages to keep unionized drydock workers standing around on the job with their hands in their pockets, then it was indeed costing money. Lots of it.

Cassie Young was waiting in ambush with both hands on her hips. She didn't appear to be overjoyed to see us. "If it isn't the gold-dust twins," she remarked sarcastically. "Makeup's waiting for you, Derrick." He took off without a word. "So you decided to come back after all?" she said to me.

"I didn't have a choice."

She shrugged. "It's a good thing. Mr. Goldfarb wants to talk to you. He's out on the houseboat dock."

So Goldfarb was going to chew me out, too. Some days are like that. He was sitting up in the director's boom overlooking the houseboats when I got there. I waited until they lowered him to the ground.

"I understand you wanted to see me, Mr. Goldfarb?"

Instead of climbing my frame, he clapped one arm around my shoulder. "I'm glad to see you, Detective Beaumont. You were absolutely right about that scene with the little kid. I saw the rushes late last night. It just didn't work. Too melodramatic. We're going to shoot it again today, the whole scene. Now tell me, just exactly how would you do it?"

Wonders will never cease. Sam "The Movie Man" Goldfarb's sudden change of heart left me completely bewildered, but then I don't suffer from an overdose of artistic temperament. In fact, there isn't an artistic bone in my body.

Artistic or not, we did it my way, the whole scene, from beginning to end. Derrick Parker's gun stayed in its holster. When one stuntman finally tackled the other, it was a full body blow that sent them both crashing onto the deck of one of the houseboats. They rolled under the table where the unsuspecting family was eating a picnic dinner, but no one got hurt. The little kid didn't get shot and die.

Fight scenes are incredibly complicated and time-consuming to map out. Choreographing, they call it, and I can see why. It's very much like an elaborate dance. Everything has to come together in total synchronization. We worked on that scene all morning long, first one segment and then another. For the first time, I had some inkling of how the final product would look. Not only that, I finally felt as though I was making a contribution, doing what Captain Powell had asked me to do.

For a change, the cop didn't look stupid.

And I saved a little kid's life, even if it was only make-believe.

Protecting the lives of innocent people is what I get paid for, really. At least that's what it says in the manual.

I left the houseboat dock about noon. As far as I could see, Death in Drydock was pretty much in the can, but I had still not been officially dismissed. I headed for the coffee station where I found Woody Carroll seated on a folding chair leaning back against the building. He was drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup and holding a newspaper in his lap. Several members of the Lake Union Drydock crew were gathered around and involved in a heated debate.

"I'd never let my wife work at a job like that. Never in a million years." The comment came from a long-haired type in grubby overalls.

Several of the group nodded in agreement while another hooted with laughter. "Come on, George, admit it. You couldn't stand it if your old lady made more money than you, that's all."

"It's not that," George insisted. "It's too damn dangerous for everyone else on the job. Women aren't strong enough. They got no business goin' where they're not wanted."

I edged my way over to where Woody was sitting. "What are they talking about?" I asked.

Wordlessly, he handed me the newspaper, opened to the front page. The picture that met my eyes was a real gut-wrencher. It was one of a construction worker tumbling head over heels past the face of an unfinished building. The headline across the page told it all:

CONSTRUCTION WORKER PLUNGES 43 STORIES.

"It was a woman?" I asked.

Woody nodded. "Read it," he said.

I did.

"A 28-year-old Seattle-area construction worker fell to her death early yesterday during her fourth day on the job at Masters Plaza, a building under construction at Second and Union.

"Angie Dixon of Bothell, an apprentice ironworker, apparently became entangled in a welding lead and fell from the 43rd story of the new building, which is scheduled for completion late next year. Ms. Dixon was pronounced dead at the scene by King County's medical examiner, Dr. Howard Baker.

"One of the victim's fellow crew members, journeyman ironworker Harry Campbell, said he had sent Ms. Dixon to bring a welding lead. When she failed to return, he went looking for her in time to see her clinging to a welding hose outside the building. He was attempting to reach her when she fell.

"Mr. Raymond Dixon, the dead woman's father, said his daughter had only recently decided to break into the construction trade. He said she had previously worked in the union's bookkeeping department as a secretary and was frustrated by consistently low wages and boredom.

"Masters and Rogers, the Canadian developers of Masters Plaza, have been recording the emergence of the building with a series of time-lapse photographs. One of them, released exclusively to the Seattle Times today, happened to capture the woman's fatal plunge.

"Darren Gibson, local spokesperson for Masters and Rogers Developers, said a crew of ironworkers and operating engineers were working overtime both Saturday and Sunday in an effort to keep the building's completion deadline on schedule."

I didn't read any more. I threw the paper back in Woody Carroll's lap. "Those sorry bastards," I muttered. "They'll do anything to sell newspapers."

The debate was still swirling around me. "If she'da had more upper-body strength, she probably coulda hung onto that welding lead long enough for somebody to drag her back inside, know what I mean?" one man was saying.

"No way," the long-haired George responded. "He would have been killed, too."

Just then there was a sharp blast from the Lake Union Drydock whistle. To a man the workers got to their feet. "I guess that means we can get to work now," George said. He sauntered away, leading a group that headed in the direction of the drydocked minesweeper. There weren't any women in that particular crew. It didn't surprise me a bit.