THUGLIT Issue Eight

by Patti Abbott

  Russell stooped to retrieve his license from where it lay on the ground. Drawing himself up with the license in hand, he caught only a glimpse of a dark shape rushing toward his face before the heavy stock of Roy's shotgun slammed into his chin. Lightning flashed inside his skull, and he experienced a split-second of overwhelming pain as his jawbone shattered, then nothing.

  "You got him pretty good," said Bob.

  "Not bad."

  "Still breathing though."

  "Yeah, well..."

  *****

  Time dragged by slowly until Tammy remembered she had some oxy stashed away, left over from the emergency room visit. One tab was all it took for her to fall asleep for a couple of hours in front of the TV.

  Now awake and feeling more relaxed, she allowed herself a look at the clock. Almost eleven. Russell had been gone for more than five hours now. Something must have happened, she thought, smiling faintly. It was pitch black outside, and she could hear the wind picking up, sort of a soft moaning in the big trees out back. Storm's getting close, she thought.

  She decided to call Luanne, ask her to come over and spend the night. Those guys might not wait until tomorrow to come looking for Rico. She could say Russell was gone and she wanted company, tell her the whole story later, tomorrow maybe.

  No answer. Not like Luanne to be asleep so early on a Friday night, Tammy thought, probably in the shower. She'd try again in a couple of minutes.

  Tammy heard a rattling sound coming from the backdoor, as though someone was wiggling the knob. It's Russell, she thought, her heart sinking. He must have stopped somewhere on the way back. But he's got a key, why doesn't he just use it? She put the phone down and hurried toward the back of the house, through the little kitchen. Approaching the backdoor, she called out, "Russell?"

  Before she could put her hand on the knob, she heard a key slip solidly into the lock. She was startled when the door swung open, almost hitting her. Frozen, she stared at the two men standing in the doorway. The one in front was holding a large hunting knife at his side.

  "And you'd be Tammy," said the man with the knife, his eyes hard and piercing.

  Turning to run, she glimpsed the butcher knife on the kitchen counter where she'd left it earlier. She lunged for it. Before she could grip it firmly, powerful fingers grabbed a handful of her hair and sharply yanked her head back. She felt a line of searing pain across the front of her neck, and knew in an instant that the scream forming deep inside her would never be heard by anyone. She fell hard, landing on her back. Her final gaze rested on the light fixture in the ceiling.

  "That was a mighty quick move, Roy."

  "Girl surprised me, going for her kitchen knife."

  "Must have figured she had nothing to lose."

  "Yeah, well, she got that right."

  Extras

  by Mark Pruett

  I give Eddie the weekend to sell himself on the idea. Monday I'm back at the bungalow.

  He tells his secretary to take an early lunch and she throws me a smile. Strictly for practice. She doesn't remember me from Thursday and won't know me tomorrow. No stickpin, and I don't eat in the commissary. Eddie stands looking out at William S. Hart Boulevard while she tick-tocks over the plank porch and down the steps, letting the screen door bang.

  Girls have to stay focused in this business. The pretty ones especially.

  Eddie tugs a Chesterfield from the pack on his desk and lights up. Takes his time. I lean back on the brown leather couch and look him over. The office is cool but he's got a sweat loop under each arm. I wait.

  He looks at me, shaking the match like you'd wave a tiny flag. Pretending he's in one of his own pictures. One with atmosphere and a star you'd actually heard of.

  "Okay," he says, his voice husky. He tosses the match at an ashtray and misses.

  "Okay?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, okay, you're hired."

  I smile. "I was hired a week ago."

  He looks stupid, then makes a face.

  "You're a smart guy now."

  I smile less. "And you're not. I'm only on the lot three more days. You're supposed to wrap in six."

  "So?"

  "So if you'd made up your mind sooner I could have had this thing done by now."

  He's standing behind the desk, forgetting to smoke.

  "I'll extend you two days."

  "No good. I've already singled myself out coming here. I can't risk it on the set. I'm an extra, Eddie. I finish with the other guys. Besides, I'm at Pyramid starting Monday."

  "On what?"

  "Marauders of the Sage. Fifteen chapters. I have to get myself to Chatsworth every day."

  Eddie's not listening. He turns back to the window but I see it anyway, the haunted look, the look that says he could lose everything.

  The clock over the big board shows 11:45. Plenty of time before the girl gets back.

  *****

  Studio brass used to laugh at the serials. No more. At Magnet they're the butter on the bread. Three years ago, in 1935, Tommy Bernard's chief accountant strolled into his office and told him that Radio Detectives in Danger, a goofy chapterplay, had earned back five times its investment, while The Jade Cauldron—their most expensive feature that year—was barely out of the red. That did it for Bernard. A whole slew of people had seen Jade Cauldron, but only once. Radio Detectives, a bottom feeder if ever there was one, had brought the kids and their dimes back week after week. It was like selling the same movie twelve times.

  Which is good for me. Extras work when the script calls for bodies on screen, and I can be on screen a lot in a serial. You need a crowd, or some innocent bystanders, or some Indians to charge the wagons, I'm there. No lines to memorize, no rehearsals to speak of. It's steady employment. Dusty, but legit. And I need legit.

  My other line of work—call it a shadow occupation—makes use of a different talent. I identify problems in people's lives and offer to eliminate them without making a fuss. The problems always have to do with other people.

  Eddie Ross had a problem. But until I showed up, he didn't know he had a solution.

  *****

  It was on a Magnet serial, Speed Demons, that I saw Eddie get reamed by Flint Maxwell, his co-director. Most of Magnet's serials were directed by two-man teams, and Ross and Maxwell were the best of the bunch. They rarely spent more days on a shoot than were allotted and they never went over budget. While one was off doing location work, the other was shooting interiors. Or one would shoot while the other finalized the next day's schedule. They didn't waste time.

  Trouble was, they didn't get along. At all. They kept separate offices that were about as far apart as it was possible to be on the Magnet lot. They kept two production schedules instead of one, two big boards where the daily camera setups were posted, and of course this led to mix-ups and misunderstandings and flared tempers. That they cranked out serial after serial on time was a miracle.

  They argued in production meetings. They argued on the sidewalk in front of the commissary, Maxwell digging at Eddie's tie with a puny finger. If one of them condescended to drive across the lot to pay a visit, he ended up storming out of the office with his hands in the air, trailing curse words that left the near-virginal secretary in a state.

  The day things came to a head, we were down at the fairgrounds in Anaheim. Eddie was directing the cliffhanger in Speed Demons where Wallace Raynes's racecar leaves the track and plows into the stands, apparently killing his fiancée, Mary Lawn. The first shot had everybody on edge. The stunt driver doubling for Raynes had to aim the old Duesenberg at the crowd of spectators (I was one of them), stomp on the gas, and skid to a halt right in front of the barrier. He did it, they got it in the can, and we all exhaled. Then, while the cameraman smoked a cigarette, they replaced us with dummy spectators, and the driver backed up and prepared to crash the stands in earnest.

  That's when Flint Maxwell showed up, his Packard sending a cloud of dust over the crew as he wheeled around behind the Duesenberg. Eddie wa
s over talking to the cameraman when he heard the commotion, and seconds later Maxwell was shaking a finger in his face and calling him a gold-plated jackass and worse. Seems Maxwell had been shooting close-ups of Wallace Raynes in a prop car back at the studio when he learned that Eddie's stunt driver was Lloyd Culver, a skinny chinless guy who didn't look anything like Raynes. He blew his stack. Walked off the soundstage leaving Raynes and the crew staring at each other and went straight to his car.

  It wasn't a big deal. Serials are one-take affairs, and the crew is so busy managing sixty setups a day that nobody worries if a couple of faces don't match.

  Except Maxwell. He was the artistic type. He would not let it go. Mary Lawn and the script girl found a shady spot near the stands where they could lounge and smoke and pretend they weren't listening. The cameraman dropped his cigarette and wandered down the track with his hands in his pockets. Lloyd Culver slumped in the Duesenberg. The crowd of extras just milled about, staring at their shoes and each other.

  But I watched Eddie. His face was like wax. He stood there while Maxwell rained abuse down on him and didn't say a word. He was used to taking it from Maxwell in script meetings but not in front of his own crew—professionals and friends he worked with every day. Nor in front of extras, loyal to nobody, who lived for inside dope they could peddle for laughs in the commissary.

  Eddie looked like he wanted to kill him.

  *****

  The phone's ringing. I hang off the bed to snag it.

  "Yeah, look, I've decided…well, I can't accept your proposition at this time. Thanks all the same."

  "Eddie. Wait. What are we doing here?"

  "I'm calling it off. It's the money. I just don't have the money."

  "Of course you do, Eddie. The divorce didn't break you."

  Everybody knew Eddie bunked in his office now, sending his shirts out and shaving in the rest room.

  "Thanks anyway. Really."

  "Eddie, let me—"

  But I'm talking to myself now, hunched over a pillow in the dark.

  *****

  The stubby guy heading my way on William S. Hart Boulevard steps off the sidewalk and crosses to the other side. I take a good look at him then. It's Roscoe Schiff, acting like he hasn't seen me. Western shirt and denim trousers, cowboy hat on his bald head. He skips behind the Hudson parked at the fire hydrant and hoofs it down Farnum Street in the shade of Soundstage Five. Doesn't look back.

  Men whose sideline is homicide tend to avoid each other.

  I see Eddie on the porch in shirtsleeves with a man who's pointing at something with a cane. I'm two pepper trees from the bungalow when Eddie sees me and turns away. He holds the screen door open for the old guy and keeps his eyes on him as he follows him in.

  I'm steamed. The damn bungalow is the last place I want to be, but here I am, chasing after Eddie to calm his nerves.

  The girl isn't smiling today. "I'm afraid he can't be disturbed. He's in conference."

  I stare at the office door, but it's hopeless. She's watching me now, alert to some change in the air. And I'm one mistake over my limit.

  I'm passing the Hudson on my way to Wardrobe when it hits me.

  Roscoe.

  Eddie's shopping.

  *****

  Roscoe Schiff has kicked around L.A. for years, but only showed up at Magnet six months ago. I'm an extra on Planet Saboteurs when I first spot him, a Venusian soldier like me and a dozen others. We traipse around Bronson Canyon in our winged helmets and leotards for a week before he nods at me, once, from the end of a lunch table. He's one of those guys who look soft all over, with a face like your aunt if your aunt made a habit of leaving knives in people.

  We don't talk, haven't talked in years. Nothing odd in this. You keep your distance because you never know if the law is dogging the other guy's steps. And Roscoe is cruder than most. He attracts attention with his knives and guns and gasoline. He never learned to work invisibly—to make a sudden death look like an accident. His jobs look like murder.

  I'm waiting outside the gate.

  "How's tricks, Roscoe?"

  The sun's low in the trees and Roscoe's making a beeline for the bus with the rest of the day workers. He throws a shocked glance over his shoulder, sees it's me and slows down, looking all around when he realizes this is a bad idea.

  "Busy this week?"

  "Hey there. I'm just heading out." He hasn't stopped moving, and he looks ahead at the mob around the bus. I reach out and touch him on the elbow and he jerks.

  "Take the next one."

  I'm beside him now, crowding him. He turns and looks up at me, his face hard.

  "I can't wait. Last one for an hour."

  "Then we'll make it quick. Butt out."

  His gaze is steady.

  "What's eating you?"

  "I saw you sniffing around Eddie Ross."

  "Yeah, so what? I saw you too."

  "So I was there first. I already have the contract."

  He goes blank for a second, then lifts his bump of a chin.

  "Maxwell?"

  "Uh-huh."

  The bus rattles at the curb.

  "Not a chance."

  "Yes. It's all arranged." Well, almost. "You're off this one, Roscoe. Bidding's over."

  Two girls hurry by.

  Roscoe takes a step back, his eyebrows raised.

  "Gotta go."

  "Roscoe."

  He's shaking his head. "Buyer's market, pal."

  The driver's watching us through the open door, cap pushed back, arm on the wheel. Everybody else is on the bus.

  "Competition's not always healthy, Roscoe."

  He pulls his bulk onto the first step and twists around.

  "I've heard that." He grins. "You be careful, now."

  *****

  The meeting with Eddie is quick. I don't raise my voice, and I don't let him talk.

  The light's bad here, but the moon is full. He's laid the script of Turnpike Pirates on top of the hood while he digs for his keys. Slipping out for a nightcap. I slide around the sedan on his left, come up behind him.

  At the sound of my voice he nearly goes through the window.

  "Don't turn around, Eddie. And don't say a word or they'll be picking lead out of your liver for a week."

  I can't believe I'm saying this.

  "We made a deal, Eddie. I've made certain guarantees, you've made certain guarantees. Understood? Just nod."

  He nods. And keeps nodding.

  "Okay. My guarantee? Maxwell has a fatal accident. An accident, Eddie. Nobody will ever think it was anything else, and nobody will ever connect it with you. For this, you guarantee me six thousand in cash, right? Right?"

  More nodding.

  "Not five thousand, or three thousand, or whatever that rube was willing to work for. Six thousand. In cash. And half up front, right?"

  "I don't—"

  "You're not supposed to talk, Eddie, remember?"

  He's trembling, and there's a whistling sound in his breathing. But he nods.

  "Half up front, that was the agreement. But guess what, Eddie? I'm not taking the half. I'm serious. See, I trust you, and I expect you to trust me. You don't pay me till the job's done. And Eddie, it will get done. That was the bargain."

  I reach over and drag the script off the hood.

  "I'll need this for a few days."

  Eddie seems to have stopped breathing. I lean close and whisper into his bald spot: "You double-cross me, you're a dead man."

  I move off between the cars, hefting the heavy book and wondering if that line is in it somewhere.

  *****

  Wednesday I get to Wardrobe early and stash my jacket, a flashlight and straight razor nestled in the pocket. I'm back at sundown, fooling with my shoelaces while lockers slam and everybody heads out for drinks and whatnot. When I'm finally alone, and I hear Sol switching off lights in the back, I duck down between the racks, roll under a long row of Civil War uniforms ranged against the wall and stay
put. Still as a tailor's dummy.

  Sol does a quick walk-through, talking to himself, leaving wisps of Prince Albert in his wake. He hits the last switch and the world fades to black. I hear the outer door slam and then it's just me and the silence and the stale dignity of four thousand costumes, marking time until midnight when I can slip through the transom and go to work. When Maxwell buys it on the highway tomorrow morning, I'll be home in bed.

  I brush a sleeve from my nose. In the dark I can't tell if it's the Blue or the Gray.

  *****

  Maxwell is scheduled to shoot a car chase on the steepest stretch of Route 99, up the north side of the Grapevine to Tejon Pass. The hero is chasing car thieves, and the script calls for his roadster to be right on the heels of an auto transport trailer, a massive double-decker job, loaded with stolen vehicles. But the hero and his roadster won't be required until noon. Maxwell wants to start the day filming the auto carrier from behind as it barrels up the grade, get some exciting shots of the weaving trailer with its looming cargo.

  It's a perfect setup.

  Magnet's Transportation Department has laughable security—three floodlights for the entire fleet. The transport trailer, leased that afternoon, sits apart from the other vehicles at the edge of the lot. It's already outfitted for the shoot and is laden with prop cars. I leave my flashlight off until I'm between the trailer and the fence, then climb aboard. The adjustments take less than five minutes. I let down a hand brake, slice a few tie-down ratchets and wheel straps, check my work, and I'm done.

  I switch off the flash and climb down the way I came. Dark as it is, the scene in my head is bright as day. The carrier will have made it about halfway up the grade tomorrow when the car on top, a nice '32 Ford Coupe, will roll backwards and come down fast on the camera truck, which—I know this for a certainty—will be right on the trailer's tail. It's Maxwell's vanity that makes him crouch on the Studebaker flatbed just a few feet in front of the camera. An unsafe vantage point in any circumstance, but by God, he's the director. He wants to see what the camera sees, and up close, whether it's a fire engine or a runaway stagecoach or a double-decker transport hauling cars.