‘You’ve still got a job,’ I told him, ‘but don’t try any heroics – like turning your back on Bart if he’s got a knife in his hands.’
‘Don’t worry, my mother done trained me never to accept no candy from strange men. An’ he’s about as strange as they come . . .’ Again, there was silence, punctuated only by breathing. Then: ‘Lou Ann, is she ...?’
‘They got her in time,’ I said. ‘Sam went up to the suite to check over a couple of points in the script. He called a doctor. They may have to write her out of the opening script, but she ought to be able to appear in the next one.’
‘I see ...’
Perhaps he did, but I hammered it home. ‘That’s why Bart has declared a truce over you. If the ranks get too decimated, the Public is likely to notice it.’
‘Or the Agency,’ he said, his voice crisp again.
‘It wouldn’t look too well for both you and Lou-Ann to be missing, so Bart is expecting you at the Studio at 2.00 p.m. They’re planning to work right through until the show is in the can – regardless of the overtime. The Agency can stand it.’
‘You gonna be there, too?’
‘We’ll all be there,’ I promised him. ‘The entire staff of Perkins & Tate, what’s left of the Troupe, plus assorted cameramen, lighting experts, technicians, et cetera. You’ll be surrounded by well-wishers and – more important – witnesses. It ought to be safe enough.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that,’ he said cryptically. ‘I’ll be talking to you there.’ He rang off.
At first, I thought they were joking. Because it hadn’t been part of the original plan to film in this country, Sam must have had to settle for whatever studio he could find. It looked like an overgrown gardening shed at the bottom of a suburban garden. But inside, picking our way through the cross-hatching of lighting cables along the floor, it was fitted out nearly as professionally as one might wish. In the old days – seven or eight years ago – almost every shed had harboured a Group, recording demonstration records, hoping to hit the Big Time. These days, every ambitious lad who could focus a camera was filming pilots or documentaries – still hoping for the Big Time.
Except that Black Bart and the Troupe had it made already. Their shows were sold, and filming was a formality. There were a few hungry-looking individuals sitting along the walls, eagerly watching the proceedings. Evidently the original inhabitants of the studio, who had subleased to Sam, retaining visiting privileges in the hope of learning something, or meeting someone. The usual bored technicians, tootling about their business, were the same all over the world.
‘Hot in here, isn’t it?’ Penny, festooned with her protective armour of flashbulbs, picked her way gingerly among the cables.
‘It’s all the lights. It will get hotter before filming is over for the day.’ I had no idea how prophetic I was being. I spotted Gerry over by No.1 camera, waved, and we began making our way over to him.
We didn’t get far. An arm descended around my shoulders with unpleasant familiarity. ‘Well, now,’ Black Bart said, ‘ain’t this great? And you brought the little gal along to run our errands, I see. That was real smart of you, boy.’ Penny writhed uncomfortably beneath his other arm.
I wasn’t cut out by nature to be a pimp. If I’d ever had any doubt of that, my revulsion now would have set me straight. Penny was here because Perkins & Tate might need her – besides which, she had pleaded to come because she had never seen a television show being filmed. It had seemed safe enough – I had assumed that the Client would be too busy to bother with her today. I had reckoned without the enormous arrogance of the man. The world was his oyster, and he was eternally poised with lemon juice and spearing fork.
Gerry spotted us and started towards us. Before he could reach us, the outer door opened and something happened behind us. Across the room, people looked our way, and beyond us. I saw the Cousins grin and nudge each other. Nothing good could have happened, I knew then, they were enjoying the situation too much.
The Client may not have been sensitive to some atmospheres, but he could tell when a storm was brewing. He removed his arm from my shoulders and, more slowly, the other arm from around Penny. He swung about slowly to face the door, and I turned with him.
Lou-Ann moved into the studio, Sam trailing proudly behind her. ‘She made it, after all, folks,’ he said. ‘So we can go back to the original script. She’s a real Trouper.’
Bart murmured his own opinion of what she was, under his breath. It was a syllable too short for ‘Trouper’.
‘I couldn’t let you down, Bart.’ Lou-Ann came up to him trustingly. ‘I’m sure awful sorry for what happened. I jest can’t understand it, but it was some kinda accident. Honest, it was. I never would do a thing like that to you.’
With everyone watching the scene, Bart slipped into his role. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about it, honey.’ His arm snaked around her shoulders with somewhat less enthusiasm than it had encircled Penny’s. ‘ ’Course I knowed it was an accident. You was overtired, an’ forgot you’d already had your pill. That’s how these things happen.’
‘No, Bart.’ Lou-Ann’s forehead creased. ‘I only took one pill. Honest, I did.’
‘You forgot, that’s all.’ He gave her a shake that wasn’t so gentle as it might have looked from the distance. ‘You forgot,’ he said again.
‘Maybe you’re right, Bart.’ She smiled shakily, eager for his approval. ‘Maybe I did forget.’
‘ ’Course you did.’ He beamed down at her fiercely. ‘It happens all the time. I’ll jest have to take better care of you from now on.’
‘You do that, Bart.’ Her smile was stronger now. She didn’t notice Sam’s expression, and I wished I hadn’t.
The outer door opened again, and Crystal came in with Uncle No’ccount. Bart shot them a nasty look. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘the gang’s all here.’
‘Howdy. Bart.’ Uncle No’ccount sidled past uncomfortably. Crystal walked by without speaking. The bruises were still visible beneath her make-up.
‘Don’t take some folks long to get high-and-mighty on a little bit of success.’ Bart looked after them darkly.
‘They better be pretty careful.’ He raised his voice to follow them. ‘They could be ridin’ for one damn’ big fall!’
While Bart’s attention was distracted, Penny had taken the opportunity to slip away with Gerry. They took up a position on the far side of the studio, and Gerry made motions towards loading his camera.
‘I’ll learn ’em.’ Bart turned back to me now, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe I’ll learn you something, too, boy,’ he said. ‘I don’t go for that lah-di-dah talking – and ain’t that jest the cutest little old striped tie.’ He flicked a finger under my tie and pulled it out of my waistcoat.
‘Easy, Bart.’ Sam stepped forward nervously. He needn’t have worried. I wasn’t going to let myself be edged into a fight. Every time Black Bart exhaled, the fumes of bourbon almost sent me reeling. He was nearly drunk, and nasty with it. We’d be lucky if he managed to finish the day’s filming successfully.
‘Bart.’ Lou-Ann put her hand on his arm. ‘Bart, I’m still kinda weak. Can’t you find me a chair, so’s I can sit down?’
He would rather find her a coffin. The unguarded look of pure hate that flashed across his face said so. But he was instantly in control of himself again, and the genial husband once more.
‘Why, sure, we’ll find you a chair, honey. Boy,’ he snarled to me, ‘get her a chair!’
Sam had already moved away and taken possession of one of the chairs along the wall. He brought it back and set it down behind Lou-Ann.
She sank into it gratefully and looked up, past Sam. ‘Thank you, Bart,’ she said.
The director called Bart on to the floor for a run-through of his first song. The Cousins were already out there, tuning up their instruments. After Bart took up his position, Uncle No’ccount ambled out to join them. Perhaps because it was just a rehearsal, or perhaps as an ac
t of defiance, he left his teeth in throughout the number. It didn’t escape Bart, he was frowning heavily as the number ended.
Lou-Ann applauded softly from behind the cameras, which seemed only to increase Bart’s bad mood. Sam leaned over her chair and murmured something to her. I was standing too far back to catch it. But then, I’d been taught at an early age that three could be a crowd – an elementary fact which Sam didn’t seem to have grasped yet.
The director held a brief conference with the lighting and camera men, then signalled for a take. Bart and the Cousins regrouped themselves, leaving Uncle No’ccount slightly to one side for better camera focus. As the Cousins took up the beat, Uncle No’ccount took the red bandana from his hip pocket, hiccoughed his teeth into it, replaced it in his pocket, and breathed achingly into his harmonica. There wasn’t going to be open rebellion just yet.
It was a perfect take. The director mimed satisfaction and instructed them to carry on. He was going to shoot all the numbers at one go, then splice in the dialogue and comedy bits later. It could be a lot cheaper, if it worked, than shooting in sequence. With Bart and the Troupe all warmed up and going well, there was no reason why it shouldn’t work.
During ‘Tribute to Maw’, Crystal crossed over to stand by Lou-Ann’s chair. She bent to say something to Lou-Ann, but Lou-Ann made an abrupt brushing-away motion with both hands, and Crystal straightened, frowning.
Bart was frowning, too. He had never approved of the alliance between his sister and his wife. Now that Crystal had defied him, he would loathe it more than ever.
Just in time, he remembered that the cameras were on him. He managed to make his expression look like part of the song and stepped back suddenly, in an unrehearsed move, jostling Uncle No’ccount roughly. It could have been an accident. It was going to look all right on film, for Bart turned quickly, grappling with Uncle No’ccount, turning it into an impromptu, affectionate-looking wrestling match for a moment.
Perhaps I was the only one to notice that, in the unrehearsed confusion, Bart managed to lift the bandana containing Uncle No-’ccount’s teeth from Uncle No-’ccount’s hip pocket and transfer it to his own pocket.
It was neatly – you might say, professionally – done. I had never inquired about Bart’s early career, always feeling that I would be happier if I never knew. Now, however, I felt that a lot had been explained. It was easy to visualize Bart mixing with a Fairground crowd, jostling the fat-looking suckers. A watch here; a wallet there; perhaps a ladies’ purse, for light relief. With his lazy, arrogant good looks, he would have been the perfect small-time pickpocket and confidence man. Until he found he could con more money out of the suckers’ pockets by singing to them.
There was nothing I could do while Bart and the Troupe were out in front of the cameras. Perhaps there was nothing I could do anyway, but I ought to try.
I edged my way over to where Sam was standing, and tapped him on the shoulder. He shrugged me off impatiently. I tapped again.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Immersed in his own private problems, Sam was in no mood for politeness.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just thought you might like to know the name of a good dentist.’
‘Dentist? Are you crazy?’ Sam turned and surveyed me suspiciously. ‘I haven’t even needed a filling for the past five years. What the hell would I want with a dentist?’
I nodded to the scene over his shoulder, and he whirled around just in time to get his answer.
The set of songs had ended. Just as No. 2 Camera shut off, Bart eased the bandana with the teeth out of his pocket and let it fall to the floor behind him. He wound up the song with a flourish and stamping of feet. Very carefully gauged, each stamp landed precisely on the red bandana. The noise of cracking, crunching plastic sounded through the studio in the sudden silence as the guitars ceased.
Bart made a final, vicious grinding motion with his heel before following the gaze of the others to his feet. He lifted his heel from the red bandana and shrugged. ‘I always told that no’ccount old fool he was too careless with them things,’ he said. ‘An accident like this was bound to happen one day.’
No one answered. He grew restive under the accusing stares.
‘Don’t make no difference, nohow,’ he said defensively. ‘He don’t need them for the rest of the shooting. Ain’t no scene where he ever wears them.’
‘You shouldn’t have done it, Bart,’ Uncle No’ccount said quietly.
‘I done nothing!’ Bart raged. ‘You –’ he pointed to one of the lighting technicians – ‘you see me do anything?’
Slightly less bored than usual, the man shook his head.
‘There!’ Triumphantly, he pointed to someone else. ‘You?’ Again a headshake. ‘You? ... You ...?
It made no difference. Bart might choose his witnesses, but the jury knew him too well. Before their implacable faces, he wavered to a halt, glaring in baffled indignation.
The technicians, sensing an imminent explosion and, quite rightly, wanting no part of it, hurled themselves into their own jobs – each job, by some strange coincidence, removing them from the danger area. We were left in an isolated circle, surrounded by unmanned camera equipment.
In the hiatus, Crystal crossed to Uncle No’ccount, kissed him full on the mouth, and swung to face Bart. ‘It makes me no never-mind,’ she said calmly. ‘All you’ve done, Bart, is make things a little awkward temporarily for Eugene. You ain’t changed nothing.’
‘You lousy, rotten little tramp! After all I done for you –’ Bart kicked the lumpy bandana towards them and strode off towards the oversized closet at the back that was doing duty as his dressing-room.
‘Bart!’ Struggling from her chair, Lou-Ann ran after him.
Sam tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Doug,’ he said humbly, ‘but what did you say that dentist’s name was?’
CHAPTER XVI
WHILE BART SULKED in his dressing-room, the show went on. Lou-Ann and the Cousins took the floor with the fill-in bits. All run together, it was worse than ever. The Cousins finished their part of the stint and bounded out of camera range thankfully.
Left alone, Lou-Ann hurled herself about even more wildly. She gagged, mugged, slipped, acted double-jointed, and hammered her punch lines with increasing desperation. But she was playing to the world’s toughest audience. More bored than ever, the technicians went about their business, not one of them cracking a smile.
‘She ought to take it easier.’ Sam frowned. ‘She was a pretty sick kid last night.’
I nodded. We had moved over by Bart’s dressing-room, so that Sam could keep an eye on him. Sam hovered back and forth between the half-open door and a corner from which he had a clear view of the proceedings on the floor. I leaned against the wall, with a clear view of neither, but able to see far more of both than I wished. Bart was sprawled in a chair, only his boots visible through the doorway, and had been steadily drinking from a bottle of bourbon he had taken from his make-up case. His numbers were filmed, however, and all that was left in the script was a scene or two with Lou-Ann. I wondered if he were deliberately trying to avoid those.
On the other side of the studio, the Cousins were beginning to clown around, blowing off steam in pantomimed horse-play. It was nice that some people felt their work was finished and could relax.
Sam flitted back to the doorway. ‘Somebody ought to get him some coffee,’ he said. ‘We’ll never get through the script today, if he can’t finish the last scenes.’
‘I’ll go.’ Penny had appeared behind us. ‘They have an electric kettle in the corner. It won’t take long.’
‘It better not,’ Sam grumbled. ‘Lou-Ann’s nearly done with her solo stuff. It’s time Bart got ready for his cue.’
I nodded to Penny and she hurried off. In a momentary lull on the floor, we could hear the homely gurgling of the bourbon being tilted again.
‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ I asked. ‘I mean, do you think he’s really in the mood to pl
ay any scenes with Lou-Ann?’
‘It’s in the script,’ Sam said, as though that made it Holy Writ. ‘If Lou-Ann can get out of a sickbed and come down here to go on with the show, the least Bart can do is pull himself together and go on with it, too.’
It hadn’t exactly been a sickbed, but I didn’t feel like arguing the point with Sam. He appeared to have an infinite capacity for ignoring the nuances of a situation. Perhaps it was a form of self-protection. He might not be able to live with himself if he admitted all he noticed.
Especially, feeling the way he did about Lou-Ann.
Lou-Ann was still in the spotlight, doing her best to give herself a relapse, seizure, or whatever might result from ignoring doctor’s orders too soon after being snatched back from the grave. (Had she deliberately taken extra pills, to attract Bart’s attention?) And still, no one had laughed.
Gerry, obviously with her morale at heart, was taking pictures. It cheered her visibly every time a flashbulb went off. I wondered what possible future Sam could envisage for himself, containing her. The Great Impresario? On the other hand, all things being equal, they made a well-matched pair. She was a dab hand at not seeing anything she didn’t want to see, too.
‘She’s trying too hard,’ Sam muttered in my ear.
‘Try convincing her of that.’ But of course, he already had. She wasn’t going to believe him. Not when Bart kept egging her on to ham it up. It never occurred to her that her darling Bart might have an ulterior motive for wanting her to fall flat on her face. Like hoping she might break her neck in the process.
But there was no evidence of that. How do you convince people without evidence? Answer: you don’t. You just get written off as a petty minded malicious mischief-maker. If you don’t actually get sued for libel and slander. By the time they find out you may have been right, it’s too late – for them. And perhaps for you, too. There isn’t likely to be much future in the Public Relations field for a PRO who has openly suggested that his Client is a murderer. It can make prospective clients very nervous. Everyone has his little quirks, and the business of a PRO is to put his client’s best foot forward, and try to hide the other three cloven hooves.
Cover-Up Story Page 14