The Bullet Catch

by John Gaspard

  And suddenly it was happening. The crowd was applauding Jake, who was making a flourish after finishing an illusion in the middle of the village street with the help of Noël. He spoke in a practiced Spanish monotone, explaining what his next trick would be. When he got to the Spanish phrase for The Bullet Catch (“La Bala Captura”), the crowd murmured in anticipation.

  Jake moved quickly through the crowd, the camera crew following in a tightly-choreographed series of movements. Jake first pulled Arnold, dressed as the village sheriff, from the crowd. Several words in Spanish were exchanged and, from my perspective, Arnold had morphed seamlessly into a cynical, small town sheriff with a chip on his shoulder toward this performing gringo.

  After a short exchange, the sheriff produced his gun from his holster. He opened the cylinder and poured all the bullets out into his hand. Jake pulled one from the open palm and the sheriff placed the remainders in his pocket. I looked at the bullets he was keeping and the bullet he was giving away and as Arnold handed the gun to Jake, I detected a humorless glint in his eye. But before I could look closer, things were in motion again.

  It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the gun, the selected bullet, the rejected bullets and the blur of hands as the exchanges were made. I was so caught up in the action I was actually surprised when Jake reached in and pulled me from the crowd. We locked eyes and for all the world, for that moment at least, I felt I was staring into the desperate eyes of Terry Alexander.

  He spoke quickly to me and to the crowd, gesturing to the gun and to the single bullet in his hand. Noël produced a marker and indicated I should sign my initials to the casing. As I did, Jake again spoke to the crowd. Most of the words went by too quickly for my mind to translate them, but I did hear the Spanish equivalent of marksman (“francotirador”), said in a questioning tone.

  On that cue, Stewart’s hand shot up and I could see the camera crew had expertly anticipated the action, putting him right in line with Jake. The camera spun from Stewart to Jake, holding on him for a long moment. For a second I thought the scene had gone south, but Jake shouted “Si!” and the crowd cheered while Jake gestured to Stewart to step into the street.

  Noël pulled me along and I joined the two men a moment later, putting the final touches on placing initials on the bullet casing. In honor of Harry, I had used the initials HM. I handed the bullet to Noël and she handed it to Jake. But did she? It was out of my sight for a millisecond, but I knew a millisecond was all it would take. But before I could react, the camera spun around the four of us in the middle of the street as Jake quickly recited what was about to happen, pointing to the bullet, to the gun, to Stewart, to a glass window which had been erected in the middle of the street, and finally to a point several yards on the other side of the piece of glass.

  The camera was moving so fast and Jake was speaking so quickly that, although I was standing still, I couldn’t help but feel a little dizzy due to all the action around me. I had tracked the bullet from the moment Jake had taken it from Arnold, and even though I had held it in my hands, for just a brief second I suddenly had doubts about it.

  But it was too late to stop. Noël handed the bullet to Stewart. Jake opened the cylinder on the gun and Stewart inserted the bullet, showing the audience he was filling only one of the cylinder’s chambers. Jake closed the cylinder, and the crowd was so quiet the click of the cylinder snapping into place sounded almost like a clap of thunder. Jake bowed low and dramatically as he presented the gun to Stewart. Then he turned and almost ran to the end of the street, tapping the glass in the suspended window as he passed it to demonstrate its veracity. All the while he yelled instructions to the crowd in Spanish.

  Once he’d hit his mark at the other end of the street, he waved to Noël and she started the countdown chant. The crowd immediately joined in.

  “Diez, nueve, ocho…”

  As rehearsed, I stepped behind Stewart. He raised the gun, taking aim at Jake on the other side of the suspended glass. I held my breath, not by conscious choice. I was too nervous to actually breathe.

  “Siete, seis, cinco…”

  The chanting of the crowd grew louder. I squinted to get a look at Jake, but his image was distorted by the distance and the piece of glass between us. The rhythm of the chant was matching the beating of my heart. My mind raced through all the steps, checking and re-checking, uncertainty beginning to cloud my vision.

  “Cuatro, tres, dos…”

  I heard Stewart cock the gun and from where I stood behind him I noticed his hand trembled slightly. He reached up with his other hand to steady his aim. My mind flashed on a headline in tomorrow’s Hollywood Reporter: “Actor Dies in Indie Incident.” I shook my head to clear the image just as Stewart pulled the trigger.

  “Uno!”

  The gun fired and in nearly the same instant the glass shattered. Seemingly at the same moment, Jake was propelled backward, slamming into the ground with great force. The crowd cheered as we all moved toward him, Noël running from one side, me from the other. Stewart stood frozen on the spot, unmoving as I passed him.

  Noël and I were the first to reach Jake. He was sprawled on his back, either unconscious or badly dazed. A small trickle of blood oozed out of one side of his mouth. But that was nothing compared to the mass of blood that covered the center of his chest. I could feel the crowd racing in behind me and the gasps as people saw Jake’s prone and bloody body crumpled on the ground.

  I looked over at Noël and, despite the horror of the situation, I had to admit it: She nailed both her scream and her scream face. Her preparation had clearly paid off.

  A moment later, everyone was screaming.

  Chapter 21

  “He’s dead,” Stewart yelled.

  The sudden use of English threw me for a moment. I turned to look at Stewart, who turned right back at me, pointing a trembling finger in my direction. “The magician screwed up and now he’s dead. He killed Jake. He’s dead!”

  Stewart turned to the crowd, which was moving in on us, as he continued to shout, near hysteria. “The magician screwed up. Jake has been shot. He’s dead.”

  He spotted Walter waddling toward us and the crowd parted to let him through. Stewart stumbled toward the director, grabbing onto his shirt.

  “Do you see what you did?” Stewart whined. “Did you see? You and your stupid ideas and your stupid changes and now a man is dead. You as good as killed him.”

  Walter stared at Stewart for a long moment and then looked down at the body.

  “There wasn’t supposed to be blood,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” I said.

  “And yet, there it is.”

  “That’s right, there it is!” Stewart said, grabbing Walter’s shoulder. Stewart trembled in front of him, panting and near tears. “He’s dead and it’s your fault,” he said.

  Walter slowly shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “Yes. It’s your fault,” Stewart hissed.

  “No, I mean, he’s not dead,” Walter said quietly. “He’s fine.” He gestured and Stewart turned to look.

  Jake was just getting up, wiping dirt off his arms. He looked up and smiled his million-dollar smile at Stewart.

  “Not a scratch on me,” he said as one of the Production Assistants handed him a Diet Coke.

  “But, but,” Stewart stuttered, lurching toward us. “What about the blood? What about all that blood?”

  “Yeah, what about the blood?” I asked. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Oh, that. That’s just the squib, under my shirt. You know, a blood pack.” Jake waved at an older man, seated in front of a small table off to the side. “Henry over there set it off remotely, at the same time the bullet was fired.” Henry tipped his hat to Jake and then began to reset his machinery. “I thought it would add a bit more verisimilitude,” Jake added, taking a deep sip from the pop can.


  “But you were shot,” Stewart continued, his eyes scanning wildly, clearly trying to put all the pieces together. “I switched the bullet. I switched the bullet and you were shot.”

  I approached him slowly. “Yes, you did switch the bullet. But it didn’t matter, because before you switched the bullet, I switched the method.”

  Stewart gave me a pained, puzzled look. “You did what?”

  “You see, when the audience thinks they have an idea of how you do a trick, a lot of times a magician will do the trick again, but using a different method. Gets them every time.”

  “But I shot him,” he said again, looking from me to Jake and then back to me. “I switched in a real bullet and I shot him.”

  “Do you need him to keep saying that?” I shouted

  “No, we got it the first time.” Homicide Detective Miles Wright stepped out from behind one of the ramshackle sheds on the edge of the street. “And you got it as well, right” He looked to the sound man, who’s recording equipment was still rolling.

  He pulled off his headphones. “Yeah, we got it, but there might have been a plane,” he said, looking up and scanning the empty sky. “Can we get another one for safety?”

  * * *

  “How did you know it was me?” Stewart’s voice had lost its whiny edge, but he was still out of breath from the recent dramatic events. Homicide Detective Miles Wright had just read him his rights and was in the process of putting the handcuffs on him.

  “I honestly didn’t know it would be you,” I admitted. “Although you were certainly acting suspicious.” This remark produced a snort and a headshake from Detective Wright.

  “I wasn’t really even certain that anyone was going to attempt anything,” I continued, following the two men as Wright pushed Stewart toward a waiting squad car. “Certainly there were people with motives, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were going to try something.”

  “You switched the method,” Stewart mumbled, shaking his head sadly. “When did you switch the method?”

  “Right after the last rehearsal. The only one who knew was Jake, because he had to handle half the sleight, while I handled the other half. I made it as foolproof as I could,” I added, “but that’s hard to do when you’re not quite sure which fool is going to try something.”

  “You can say that again,” Detective Wright said, skillfully guiding Stewart into the back of the squad car. He shut the door and turned to me. “Thanks for the tip on this one.”

  “Thanks for believing me,” I said.

  “Given the events of the last couple weeks,” Wright said, “A nice solid arrest like this one will make a certain Assistant DA I know very happy.”

  “And how often does that happen?”

  “You can answer that better than me,” he said with a grin.

  “Well, give her a hug for me next time you see her.”

  Wright just shook his head and shuddered, and then turned and headed toward his car.

  * * *

  “Champagne all around,” Arnold yelled to the small, assembled crowd.

  “That better be domestic champagne,” Donna said, making it clear by her tone this was a joke on her part but that there was truth behind it.

  “That’s a contradiction in terms, dear,” Arnold responded just as the cork popped on the first of what looked to be several bottles. “The only place one would find true domestic champagne would be in the Champagne province of France. And, regardless, we have much to celebrate. Fill your glasses, everyone, and then I’ll offer a toast.”

  More corks were popped. I looked around at the small group of actors and key technical people who had been invited by Arnold and Donna for a parting celebration before the group officially disbanded. We were all standing in what had been the video tent, but the monitors, cables and cords had already been removed and packed onto one of the grip trucks. Outside the tent, crewmembers were wrapping cables and packing lights into cases, getting ready to move onto the next show.

  Once everyone had a full glass of champagne in their hands, Arnold stepped to the center of the room and raised his glass.

  “When I first started in this business...” he said in his booming voice.

  “Oh, no, we’re in for the long toast,” Donna cut in.

  Arnold acknowledged the laughter and waited for it to subside before continuing. “As I was saying, when I first started in this business, I had a great mentor and teacher. You would know his name if I said it, but he was essentially a private man. He taught me three things about being a successful producer and, for that matter, a successful human being.”

  The mood in the tent became respectful and quiet. Arnold played the moment, waiting dramatically before continuing.

  “Number one,” he said, turning and looking at each of us, “be the first one on the set each morning and the last to leave each evening.”

  We all nodded in agreement at this. I heard Noël whisper to no one in particular, “Yes, he does that. He really does.”

  “Number two: surround yourself with people smarter than yourself.”

  He smiled at his self-deprecating remark and this produced a murmur in the group, as we each silently acknowledged we did in fact feel smarter than Arnold.

  “And three: never capitalize your equity on investments that include mutual funds, but always sell short on anything but oil and gas.” Before we could fully grasp this idea, Arnold plowed forward. “But the biggest lesson I think I learned on our production is one I will take with me for the rest of my life. I believe it was Margaret Mead who said—”

  “Oh, lord help us, he’s going to quote Margaret Mead,” Donna said. “Run, save yourselves!”

  We all laughed and Arnold joined in, but only grudgingly. Once we had composed ourselves, he scanned the room to make sure it was once again safe to speak.

  “As I was saying,” he said, “Margaret Mead said, and I’m paraphrasing here, ‘A small band of thoughtful people can change the world. In fact, it’s the only thing that ever has.’ Will we change the world with our little movie, our story of one man and his demons? Perhaps not. But will it make a difference? I think it might.”

  He raised his glass and we all followed suit. “To our small band of thoughtful people,” he toasted and we all said “cheers” and took a sip of the crisp, cold champagne.

  “And now a special moment of thanks to a visitor to our set and the man who made today’s final shot not only one for the record books, but one that will be the delight of the entire PR team behind this movie. Mr. Eli Marks!”

  He lifted his glass again and the entire group shouted “Hear, hear!”

  “And,” Arnold said loudly, still holding court, “one final word about the missing member of our little troupe, the troubled and misguided Stewart Claxton.”

  Everyone hushed and we became respectfully quiet. Arnold continued. “I don’t think any of us understand just how difficult it is to be a writer and part of this creative process. There is, I would argue, no one more impotent than a writer on a film set.”

  “And not just on a film set,” Noël again said to no one in particular. This produced a huge laugh from the group and then from Noël, who suddenly realized that she had said that out loud.

  “Well, while we’re thanking people and acknowledging everyone,” Jake said as he stepped forward, “I just want to take a moment to thank all of you for putting up with me on this shoot. I know I was a pain some of the times, but like our friend Stewart, I was dealing with my own demons. Not the least of which was the delusion that there was a secret plan afoot to actually kill me in the last scene of the movie and use the subsequent flood of publicity as a marketing platform.” He started to hold his glass up, but noticed the stares he was getting from the group.

  There was a long moment of cold silence, and then Donna turned and punched Arnold hard on the arm. “Idiot,�
�� she hissed at him. “That’s brilliant. Why didn’t you think of that?” A moment later, she broke out laughing and then Arnold joined her and soon we were all laughing at Jake’s silly idea.

  I looked across the room at Donna and Arnold and although they had started the laughter, they seemed to be exchanging a look of regret at an opportunity missed. Or it might have just been my imagination.

  It was late by the time I got home and I could see that the lights were off in the magic store as I parked out front. As I pulled out my keys to go inside, I noticed a large cardboard tube resting against the door. My name was scrawled on an envelope taped to the tube.

  Once inside, I turned on the light by the cash register and opened the envelope. Inside was a stiff, white card with embossed edges. In a spidery scrawl I saw the words, “For your consideration.” It was signed “H. Lime.”

  Setting the note aside, I uncapped the cardboard tube. At first it looked empty, but I repositioned the opening toward the light and saw something tightly rolled up, clinging to the inside of the cylinder. I was able to pry it loose and pull it out without tearing it and I unrolled it across the top of the display case.

  It was a poster for the movie “Laura,” and by the look and feel of the paper it appeared to be an original. Illustrations of Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews stared out at me, with smaller images of Clifton Webb and Vincent Price balancing out the frame.

  I looked at the poster for a long time, not sure why he had sent it and why he thought I would want it. Like everything else with Mr. Lime, it was a movie reference, but its purpose eluded me. I carefully rolled it back up and inserted it back in its cardboard tube, shut off the light over the register and made my way though the dark shop to the stairs.

  The lights were on in the stairway and I could see a figure seated on the steps, halfway between Harry’s apartment on the second floor and mine on the third.