by Lee Winter
“Yes, Doc.”
An hour later, with the written quote from Roger’s A1 Mechanics in her pocket, Sam, now dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and leather jacket, pulled her patrol car into Joe’s sheep farm, where Shezan: Mistress of Exploitation was being filmed. Far catchier title, in her opinion.
A large shadowed form skulked near the gates as she parked her car. As she got out, Sam wondered if she’d cross paths with Shezan’s bossy director today. And how she’d feel about it if she did.
She was still torn over the events of last night. On the one hand, Alex Levitin had been…well…amusing, in some ways. She was the chatty type, with a lot of opinions. She was also cute in a nerdy-glasses kind of way. Different. You didn’t get much different out here.
But whatever else Alex was, she’d also humiliated Sam in public, made her look weak and ineffectual.
It didn’t help that Alex had said some things that maybe weren’t entirely wrong. Sam might have let her anger toward a shitty, misogynistic movie affect how she’d treated Fletch, half excusing him for being an asshole. That was unacceptable. She’d correct it when he resurfaced. Sid hadn’t caught him last night. Didn’t matter. The little punk would turn up again soon.
She locked up and glanced at the guard.
Oh, no way.
“Seriously, Sid? This is the security job you got? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I know what you think of the movie.” He gave her a sheepish look. “You haven’t exactly been subtle.”
“Well, just make sure they’re paying you right. No funny business.”
“Yeah, nah, they’re not like that. Pay’s choice.”
“Glad to hear they’re good for something.” She pointed past the gate. “Let me in? I’ve gotta talk to whoever takes care of the bills around here.”
“Quincy Blackman, the executive producer, does the money stuff. He’s in the production trailer.” He pointed to a sea of silver motorhomes. “Last one down the end. Sign’s on the door. I’ll call for an assistant to take you there.” He reached for the walkie talkie on his hip.
“No need.”
“Sis, you can’t just wander around a set. It’s against the rules.”
“Watch me.” She straightened. “I’ll be in and out before they know it.”
He frowned. “If it was anyone else…” Sid sighed and stepped back. “Hey, did you go to the hospital? What’s the verdict?”
“That’s filed under none of your business, little bro.” Sam smiled.
“No worries. I’ll just ask GNN.” He cackled.
“Course you will.” She rolled her eyes. “But Gina’s only a reliable source if I tell her anything.” Sam grinned, then strode off across the paddock toward the production trailer.
A pair of nuggety Maori stuntees crashed through a jumble of fake trees and bushes to her right, skidding and bouncing to a halt in front of her. She leaped away, only just avoiding them.
“Oh fuck, sorry, lady.” The first one dusted himself off, bounding to his feet. “Bloody stunt rehearsal got away from us.”
“Bro, that’s the local copper, right?” the second one said, clipping him lightly around the earhole. “Show some respect, eh?”
“Shit, didn’t recognize you without the uniform,” the first one said, shooting her a cheeky grin. “Sorry.”
They loped back to where they’d come from.
She peered after them, seeing rigging poles holding up lights, a crane with an unmanned camera on the end, gymnast mats, and several brawling figures practicing a scene with a leotard-wearing female in the middle.
“No!” a burly man shouted, his accent all LA, as he bellowed, “Do it again, and try not to dislocate Kiri’s shoulder this time.”
Behind them she could see the lithe forms of about six women learning moves that could be a dance or a fight. A male choreographer, all elegance and leonine grace, was demonstrating a rhythmic action that they were copying.
“Make way!” A man hauling a ladder intersected her view of the women. He wore a red Budweiser cap, a black T-shirt that said “Shezan Rulez,” and a worn baseball jacket with a Dodgers logo. “And you’re late.” He pointed at the rehearsing women. “Amazon training started half an hour ago. Better get changed. Can’t work out in that.” He shook his head. “Didn’t you pay attention in the briefing? Whatever. Move it!”
“I’m not a…”
He was gone before she could protest.
She left the buzzing action and continued toward the trailers, crossing paths with a familiar sight.
Kevin. Sid’s skinnier, younger, light-fingered brother blanched at the sight of her. He wore a red “Shezan Rulez” cap.
Jesus, he works here, too? Sid had left some things out.
“Got my eye on you, Kev,” she told him solemnly. Okay, so she wasn’t above a little tree shaking to see what fell out. Sometimes the best confessions came from a good bluff.
He swallowed, eyes bulging. “I’m working in the lighting department here. I swear I’m on the up and up. Sid got me the job. You can check with him.”
“Mmm. They must be giving lighting jobs to anyone then,” she teased, “since you never managed to turn the lights off once at home when we were kids.”
Kevin cackled at that, shoulders relaxing. “Yair.” He always stretched out the word “yeah” until it was something else entirely. “Pretty much.”
She smiled. The Mahutas were good people to grow up with. Even Kev, when he wasn’t nicking everything that wasn’t nailed down—although she really wished he’d stop doing that.
Alex rounded the corner, deep in discussion with a man wearing a battered tool belt.
Kev took that as his cue and scrammed.
“Because the platform has to be that wide,” Alex was saying, “or we can’t support the weight of the cameraman and gaffer. It’s simple physics. What’s there isn’t adequate.”
“But the ground’s so muddy with last night’s rain, the struts keep slipping,” the builder said. “Can’t we just move a few meters over to more solid ground? There are rocks that would be so easy to—”
“Absolutely not. The sight lines are perfect as is. The waterfall’s right over Shezan’s shoulder, the Kauri tree will frame it. And there’s all that weird moss growing there. Never seen anything like it.”
“Pahau-kakapo? Giant moss?” the builder suggested.
“Whatever it is, I want it in the shot, too, which won’t happen if you move the rig even three feet. So if the ground’s too unstable, why can’t you forget the struts and build a platform on the ground first? Put the rigging on that? Come on, didn’t you used to build houses? You didn’t move a house because of mud, did you?” She pinned him with a penetrating gaze.
Oh, nice argument. Sam almost felt sorry for the man.
“Um, no.”
“Right. Good…look into it. I have to…” She glanced up and spotted Sam. Surprise crossed her face. “…Go.” Alex left the builder and walked over. “Senior Constable Keegan. I didn’t expect to see you. What brings you to my world?” Her smile was tentative.
“Apparently I’m auditioning to be an Amazon,” Sam deadpanned.
“You’re a shoo-in.” Alex’s eyes crinkled.
“I don’t know.” Sam touched her abused ribs. “I’ve been benched by my doc.”
“We could prop you up against a tree.” Alex paused. “Are you any better?”
“My X-rays say I’m okay. More or less.”
“Thank God.” Alex’s expression became guarded. “Look, I’d like to talk to you about last night, but I can’t right now. I think…maybe things were said that…” She inhaled. “Weren’t said in the best way.”
Not an apology, but more a regret for her delivery? Before Sam could answer, a woman’s voice shouted from the distance: “Alex! Phone call from LA! Mr
. Howard’s on line two. Urgent!”
“Damn.” Alex took off at a jog, calling over her shoulder, “Sorry. Later! It’s madness around here.”
Sam watched her retreating form for a few moments, then made her way up the steps to the silver motorhome marked Production.
As she was about to knock, a man in his fifties came stomping out, a disgruntled look tugging at his hairy lips. His shirt read: You Dump, We Pump.
“Careful. Bloody viper pit in there, lady,” he grumbled. “They just canceled me contract. My brother-in-law’s gonna be so pissed at me.” He blinked. “Pissed? Ha. That’s funny.” He grinned.
If he says so. Sam stepped around him and knocked on the door.
“No, Frank, fired is fired,” came a masculine voice within. “You almost shook our people out of their beds. Bother someone else.”
She opened the door. “I’m not Frank.”
A balding man in a thick corduroy jacket, burgundy turtleneck, and black jeans snapped his head up from the paperwork. “No, you’re not.” He studied her. “Ah, yes, the police officer. I recognize you from last night’s little contretemps at the pub. Sit.” With a wary look, he pointed her to a plastic chair.
Contretemps? Who speaks like that? Sam ignored the chair and stood in front of him. “I’m Sam Keegan,” she said. “You’re Shezan’s producer? Quincy Blackman?”
“Executive Producer. What can I do for you? If this is about you apologizing to my director for your behavior last night, I’m more than happy to arrange it.” His gaze sharpened.
Apologize? The hell she would! “That was a private matter. So, no.”
“Sounded pretty public to me. You told the entire pub that we’re producing a B-grade, misogynistic pile of crap. Did I get the quote right?”
He had her there. She cleared her throat. “Did Alex…Ms. Levitin…mention anything about an incident involving her vehicle pulling into my path, stopping suddenly, almost impacting my motorcycle, causing it significant damage? I’ve brought the repair bill. She said the studio would pay, which I believe makes this yours.” She placed the quote on his desk.
He barely flicked a glance at it before raking her with a dissecting gaze. “Look, when my director first explained the incident to me, I made inquiries with our insurer. They won’t pay because Alex didn’t touch you or your bike. If you couldn’t slow down in time to avoid a parked vehicle, you were speeding. The fault is yours.”
“She reversed suddenly across my path. I had no time to slow down!”
“She didn’t hit you, though. Our insurer isn’t liable for a cent. And before you ask, no, the studio won’t be making any payout out of its own pocket, either.”
Sam folded her arms. “Come on, a company like yours could pay this out of petty cash.”
Quincy nudged the quote. “Some reason you won’t ask your own insurer to pay?”
Yes, she could put in an insurance claim. Problem was, given Tiger had been customized a lot, her insurance excess was almost six hundred dollars on any claim made. She didn’t have that sort of spare cash. Besides, why should she pay anything?
Squaring her shoulders, Sam said: “Out here we do things informally. Handshake agreements are rock solid. It means less paperwork, and no one gets their insurance premiums jacked up. That’s why I haven’t spoken to my insurer, because it wasn’t my fault and Ms. Levitin admitted liability and promised to pay.”
“Fault has not been proven. In fact, I think you’re just hoping the rich movie studio will foot the bill. No thanks. We’ll pass.”
Sam stared at him. “If I was trying to screw over the ‘rich studio,’ wouldn’t I be suing you for pain and suffering, too? Wouldn’t my lawyer be in here? Hell, I can still do all that.”
Quincy didn’t look the least bit perturbed. “Know what I love about small towns? You hear a lot of things around the local drinking establishment. And oh how they love talking about their aloof town cop.”
Hardly a news flash. Sam ground her jaw.
“I heard, for instance, Senior Constable Keegan, that you’re always doing reckless stuff. Dirt-bike riding. Stunt-jumping creeks. Waging a war on bikers. That all sounds mighty dangerous. Who knows how you really hurt yourself? On top of that, I now have a pub full of witnesses who saw an assailant injure you last night.”
“That just aggravated the existing injury from the incident involving your director.”
“According to you.” Quincy gave her a long look. “So in sum, the only thing we know for sure is that you hurt your motorbike. And you have somehow hurt yourself, probably more than once, including last night, which is unfortunate but not our fault. Now if you want to make a civil claim for damages, that’s your call. Just know that the studio has fancy lawyers and deep pockets to drag this case out for months if we thought we’d win. Which we would.”
Sam’s throat went dry. “And does your director agree with how you’re handling this?”
“Alex knows exactly how the film biz works. She left it to me. Join the dots.”
She knew? How could Alex joke with Sam just ten minutes ago, knowing Quincy was about to shaft her? Talk about two-faced.
“If you’d like to stop by Craft Services, they have raspberry muffins this morning. Freshly baked from that lovely local pub of yours. Help yourself on the way out.” He turned back to his desk.
Sam snatched up her paperwork and slammed the door on her way out.
Ten feet away she spotted Alex, talking to the builder again. Sam’s eyes narrowed, and she made a beeline.
The builder took one look at her, clutched his tool belt, and said, “I have to be…um, somewhere else.” He disappeared in a pounding of black boots.
Alex turned. “Sam? Are you okay? You look—”
“I just spoke to your boss.”
She paused. “Quincy? Is this about your bike? I’m glad he’s sorted it out.”
Sorted it out? “You approve of this?”
“Sure.” Alex’s expression was puzzled.
“So you’re just like your father, after all,” Sam said, voice low. “You really stuck to his playbook: Buy them drinks, befriend them, then play them for a sucker.”
The smile fell off Alex’s face. “Excuse me? You’re insulting my dad? How dare—”
“Forget it. I’m done.” She stalked away. Shezan and Alex Levitin could both go to hell.
Back home at last, Sam changed into her police uniform, trying to ignore the mounting fear that it was going to take forever to get her bike back. She slammed her front door, locked it, and headed next door to her station only to find it already open.
“Well, look who the pekapeka dragged in,” came a deep male voice.
“I think the saying’s cat, not bat,” Sam said. “And what are you doing here?”
“Why so surprised?” Sergeant Vaughan Peterson asked. “I am the officer in charge of your little armpit of a station.” He offered his best ‘just kidding’ expression, but she knew he meant it.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“It’s not every day I find out one of my most dedicated officers has been almost hit by a car and yet failed to file an incident report. Why is that?”
“I can’t file a report. Didn’t see who did it.” Of course, it’d be tempting as hell to sling Alex Levitin with dangerous and reckless driving charges. Hell, the karma would be a bitch. But Sam was neither dishonest nor vindictive. “It was so fast. They were gone before I knew what happened.”
“Not like you. You’re usually so good with details.” He gave her a sharp look. “So what happened?”
“Minor fender bender. Damage was all at my end.”
“Mmm.” He considered that. “So are you better now? Don’t say you are if you aren’t. I don’t need the paperwork if you cark it.”
Charming. “Hospital wants to see me again in a few wee
ks to make sure nothing’s worse, but for now I can do desk work.”
“Okay. Are the Boars are giving you any trouble lately?”
“Nothing new, beyond their little drug couriers being sighted all over town. I collared Don Mathers a few days ago, trying to solicit new buyers. That was in my daily report. He had no meth on him that time, but I got him on ‘possession of an instrument for the purpose of taking drugs.’ Meanwhile, I’m watching. Building a case against the Boars.”
“Watching is one thing, but tackling a gang direct without my approval or back-up could get you fired for recklessness. Understood?”
Christ, typical. Had her boss ever taken a risk a day in his life? Sam folded her arms. “Yeah. That everything?”
He cleared his throat.
Sam waited.
“So about Mr. Mathers…” He glanced away. “I’m dropping the charges.”
“What?” Sam blinked. “He’s trying to drum up meth customers.”
“A lot of speculation there. No evidence. Did he have any drugs on him?”
“Only an old bong with marijuana residue. But the witnesses I interviewed said he told them—”
“So no direct evidence he was dealing. Maybe he was just big-noting himself? Maybe he was doped up and didn’t know what he was promising them? Who knows? So I’ve determined I won’t be pursuing the matter at this time.”
“Why?”
He straightened. “Mathers is low-hanging fruit. I have operational matters ongoing elsewhere.”
“Such as?”
“Need-to-know basis.”
Oh for God’s… “Look, I know Mathers. There is nothing whirling around in that idiot’s head beyond getting cash for weed. He’s of no use as an informant. He has a memory like a sieve and the brains of a glow worm.”
“That’s your opinion. It was my duty to let you know I’m not proceeding. I’ve done that. So…consider yourself informed. Okay, Senior Constable?”
Why did she bother putting the squeeze on these little bastards, when they didn’t even get near court? “Yes. Sergeant.”