The Actor's Guide To Adultery

by Rick Copp

  After a brief tussle over who was going to pay the whopping twenty-two-dollar bill, we piled back into the Roadtrek, and drove north toward the senior center where my parents square danced every afternoon at one o’clock sharp. My father pulled off Highway 111 and zipped along a narrow back road, the motor home taking up most of the pavement. I prayed we wouldn’t collide with a car coming from the opposite direction.

  Gripping the wheel, Dad glanced back at Mom and me as we sat at the tiny kitchen table booth in the back of the vehicle. “So, you want to know what I think?”

  “No,” Mom said emphatically. But Dad was years beyond listening to her.

  “I think Juan Carlos has somehow crossed this gangster Martinez, and Martinez sent this Teboe fella to the wedding to rub out Juan Carlos. But before he had the chance, Juan Carlos spiked his drink with a fast-acting poison. How does that sound?”

  My mother rolled her eyes, and jabbed a finger at Dad. “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  Dad grimaced, and then swiveled back around.

  “I swear he’s going to get us killed someday. If it’s not from poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, it’ll be from his driving,” she said.

  Dad sat quietly in the RV’s captain’s seat. He desperately wanted a response to his theory, but he didn’t want to ask me for fear of another tongue-lashing from his wife.

  “Sounds like a reasonable scenario, Dad. Except for the fact that the poison was something called monkshead. Very rare and not indigenous to California. Someone had to bring it to the wedding with the intent of using it. It was pretty clear Juan Carlos wasn’t expecting Austin Teboe to show up.”

  “Damn. I thought I had the case wrapped up.” He thought some more. “How about this? You said Juan Carlos is cheating on Laurette. What if she found out and was wild with fury, and decided to take him out at the wedding. But instead, she poisoned Teboe by accident—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Clyde. Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about! Laurette is not a murderer!” my mother screamed, whacking him on the back of his head with her crossword puzzle book.

  “They say it’s always the least likely suspect,” he said softly.

  “Well, then you might as well accuse Jarrod. Or what about me? I was down here in Florida with you. Thousands of miles away from the wedding. That makes me the least likely, wouldn’t you say?” She was mocking him now, and he hated it.

  I was about to intervene when I noticed a black Lincoln Town Car behind us. I left my mother at the table and walked up to sit next to Dad. I casually glanced out the side-view mirror for a better look. It was the two linebackers I had seen earlier scouting out the Sand Drift Motel. And they were closing in on us.

  Chapter 16

  “I don’t want anyone to panic,” I said quietly and evenly. “Don’t turn around.”

  “What?” my mother said, spinning her head around faster than Linda Blair in The Exorcist. “Is it the police? How fast are you going, Clyde?”

  “Jesus, Mom, what did I just say?”

  “What is it, son?” Dad asked, an excited lilt in his voice.

  “We’re being tailed.”

  My mother’s face fell.

  Dad’s eyes danced with glee as he tightened his grip on the wheel and broke out into a wide smile. “Want me to outrun ’em?”

  “For crying out loud, Clyde, we’re in an RV!” my mother wailed before grabbing my shirtsleeve in desperation. “Do they have guns, Jarrod? Are they going to shoot us?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea who they are.”

  “Then that settles it,” said Clyde Jarvis, former Navy captain and hero of the high seas. “They’re going to eat my dust!”

  And with that, Dad slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

  As the Roadtrek shot forward, the sudden jolt sent my mother and me flying to the back of the RV, and we both landed on the plush plaid comforter decorating the queen-size bed just off the narrow kitchen area. After untangling our limbs, I glanced out the back window to see the Town Car speeding to catch up with us.

  I studied the license number and committed it to memory as my mother grabbed the wood-trimmed dining table for support, and hoisted herself forward toward her husband.

  “For God’s sake, Clyde, slow down before you get us all killed!”

  Ignoring his wife’s pleas, my dad could barely suppress his euphoria over his first experience with a real-live car chase. “Those fuckers still on my ass, son?”

  I wasn’t used to hearing my dad swear. He was usually such a gentleman, but the adrenaline of the moment was turning him into his favorite macho movie star, Clint Eastwood. Dad was suddenly in his own Dirty Harry movie and loving every minute of it.

  “Still there, Dad,” I said.

  Dad jerked the wheel, and the Roadtrek screeched into a sharp turn off the paved road. My mother and I collided, and fell to the floor as dishes and glasses from the cupboards rained down on us, smashing and shattering all around us.

  “Clyde, my Fiestaware!”

  But Dad had tuned her out, and was intently steering the RV down a narrow dirt path through a wooded area. The vehicle shook and rattled as it plowed over the bumpy terrain and managed to drown out my mother’s own colorful language.

  I grabbed the steel handle on the utensil drawer and used it to regain my balance and climb to my feet. But Dad threw us into another sharp turn, and the drawer flew completely out of the cupboard. A hail of forks, knives, and spoons fell clattering to the floor, much to my mother’s horror.

  Dad checked on us through the rearview mirror to make sure we weren’t bleeding or unconscious. Then, with another gleeful smile breaking out on his face, he gripped the wheel of the RV tighter and barreled forward through the woods.

  “Dad, where are we going?”

  “Don’t worry, son. I know these roads like my own backyard. Those ass wipes won’t be able to keep up with us for long!”

  The Town Car had fallen a bit behind but we were still in its sights. How we were going to lose them was a big question mark in my mind.

  My mother was on her knees, carefully picking up the broken shards of her dinner plates and silently cursing my father.

  We broke through a thicket of trees, and hit a gravel road that stretched across an empty field. In the middle were some train tracks. And a red light in front flashed at us to stop. But we didn’t.

  “Dad, I think you better slow down.”

  “Clyde, a train’s coming,” my mother said, her voice trembling, knowing in her heart he had no intention of stopping. After thirty-five years of marriage, she had developed an instinct.

  A train approached from the east, clocking in at close to sixty miles an hour. The Town Car didn’t see it. Dad slammed down on the accelerator until his foot pressed against the floor. We hurtled onward, and careened over the tracks just as the black-and-white-striped guard pole came down fast within an inch of our taillight.

  I looked out the back window to see the two goons in the Town Car erupt in panic. As the driver hit the brakes, the car spun to the right, its passenger side door crashing into the metal guard pole. The mile-long Amtrak train zipped by, serving as a wall to separate us, and ensuring our escape.

  Dad let up on the accelerator and, with a big, broad grin on his face, turned around and said, “Everybody okay back there?”

  My mother was so filled with fury, she couldn’t even open her mouth to yell at him.

  I, on the other hand, was duly impressed. “Nice going, Dad. Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem, son.” He tried to stay cool, but he couldn’t stop beaming. The guy was proud of himself for making short work of the bad guys.

  My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Charlie. Finally. I hit the talk button, and sounding a bit too much like my mother for comfort, I said, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Charlie’s voice was calm. “Been working on a new case. I haven’t been home much.”

/>   “I’ve been trying to call you. You’re never home.”

  “I’ve been working a stakeout. It’s been brutal,” he said, and then after a long pause, added, “Isis has been nice enough to come over and walk Snickers while I’ve been at work.”

  Uh-oh. Isis was a talker and I knew what was coming next. “How come you didn’t tell me you saw Wendell Butterworth again at Costco?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t reach you.”

  “You could have called me at the precinct and left a message. I can’t protect you from that psycho if you keep things from me.”

  “Well, I’m thousands of miles away from him now, so it’s a moot point.”

  “I hate when you get like this. You don’t want to face the fact that this guy is stalking you again, so you slip into a state of denial.”

  He was looking for a fight. He was still angry with me. I had two choices. Engage or retreat. It was better to retreat. At least for now. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He wasn’t used to me backing down so quickly. But if we lapsed into a fight, then I wouldn’t have been able to sweet-talk him into securing me some information.

  “So I was wondering if you could run a license plate for me,” I said.

  “Why? What’s going on down there?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just a car I’ve spotted a couple of times while I’ve been out. I just want to make sure Wendell didn’t find out I’m in Florida and follow me here.”

  My mother’s ears perked up at the mention of Wendell. I had tried to keep Wendell’s recent parole under wraps for fear they would be sick with worry.

  “He’s out?” she said, her voice tense.

  I nodded, and then cupped the phone with the palm of my hand. “Yes, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

  I took my hand away and said into the phone, “Florida plate. CASA CON 6.”

  “Hold on,” Charlie said. “I’ll run it through the computer.”

  While I waited, my mother stopped picking up her broken Fiestaware and hovered over me with a worried look on her face.

  “When was he released?” she said.

  “A few weeks ago,” I said as nonchalantly as possible.

  “You see him skulking around any?” my Dad asked, glancing through the rearview mirror as we barreled back toward my parents’ house on the Sebastian River.

  “Oh no,” I lied. “He knows to keep his distance.”

  “I should hope so,” my mother said.

  “I’m just playing it safe,” I said.

  “I got a good look at those goons in the Town Car,” my dad said. “Neither one looked anything like that creep Butterworth.”

  I instantly clamped my hand back over the phone’s mouthpiece and prayed Charlie didn’t hear.

  “But you never know. He may have made some friends in prison,” Dad said.

  My mother shuddered at the suggestion.

  Dad was still in Clint Eastwood mode. “I’ll mow those fuckers down if they dare try anything.”

  “I’m probably just being paranoid,” I said.

  Charlie came back on the line. “Car’s registered to a building contracting company in Fort Lauderdale. Casa Construction. It’s one of twelve company cars.”

  “Why would somebody from a construction company chase us?”

  “Chase? I thought you said you just spotted it a couple of times?” Charlie said.

  All my little white lies inevitably came back to haunt me. “It followed us for a bit, but Dad lost them.”

  “I didn’t know you were visiting your parents,” Charlie said, his voice brightening. He was a big fan of Clyde and Priscilla.

  “Just for the day. I have to get back to Miami for shooting on Monday.”

  “Promise me you’ll call if anything weird happens,” Charlie said.

  “I will.”

  There was another long pause before I said hesitantly, “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Bye, babe.”

  Click. He was gone. And even in the company of my loving parents, without Charlie, I felt very alone.

  Chapter 17

  When I returned to the set on Monday, the cast and crew were abuzz over the reputed affair between Juan Carlos and his much older costar, Viveca. As Stella applied a pound of makeup to the slowly fading bruise on my right eye, she could barely contain herself.

  “I heard they spent all weekend locked in a room at the Delano. I’m sure she paid. He couldn’t afford a place like that on what he’s making on this movie,” she said.

  I could have clued her in to the fact that Juan Carlos was also screwing around with a handsome young lad two hours north of Coral Gables, but decided it was wiser to play my cards close to the vest.

  A mousy PA armed with a walkie-talkie poked her head into the messy makeup and hair trailer. “We’re ready for you on the set, Jarrod,” she said tentatively.

  “Okay, thanks, Lucy,” I said.

  Furrowing her own brow, Stella studied my face and shrugged. “About as good as it’s going to get, I’m afraid.”

  I yanked off the paper bib protecting my freshly pressed wardrobe, and stood up. “You sure know how to talk to actors,” I said.

  Stella guffawed, and slapped my behind as I headed out of the trailer.

  The outdoor campground set was bustling with activity as I made my way to my mark. A lighting technician gauged the shadows in the shot, and then repositioned a klieg light set up just outside of camera range.

  Larry was engrossed in conversation with his director of photography, while over at the craft services table, Viveca picked up a Payday candy bar, unwrapped it, and playfully stuffed it into Juan Carlos’s mouth. He let his hand slip down until it cupped her still firmly toned butt.

  Caitlin dragged her devil child Simon onto the set, and spoke to him in urgent hushed whispers. I assumed she was bribing him. If he completed the scene without a tantrum, she would indulge his sweet tooth with all sorts of goodies. It was a pointless effort. Even if he did cry and make demands, she’d still give the little bugger anything he wanted.

  “Good morning, Simon,” I said with as much cheer as I could muster.

  He snorted. No real words. Just a short, derisive snort. I hated him so much. It was going to take every last ounce of my acting ability to portray this little shit’s loving father.

  Larry bounded on the set. “Okay, this is a pretty straightforward scene,” he said, talking with his hands. He turned to Simon. “You’re pretty scared at this point. There have been rumors around the campground that four tourists have been found brutally slaughtered just half a mile away. You want to go home. But you know how much your dad’s been looking forward to this quality time with you, so at the last minute you decide to stick it out. Serial killer be damned!” Larry then turned to me. “Jarrod, this is basically Simon’s scene so just react accordingly.”

  Great. I was a glorified extra to this tiny terror. But I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. No one could ever accuse me of not being the utmost professional.

  Larry ran back behind the camera, leaned over the shoulder of his DP to check the shot, took his seat in the director’s chair with his name embroidered on the back, and yelled, “Action!”

  Simon launched into his monologue, and as much as I loathe admitting it, he was pretty good. The kid had talent. I stayed in the moment, playing the doting parent who took great pains to understand what his frightened son was trying to tell him. Just as Simon reached the climax of his speech, making the choice to stay in the woods and risk a run-in with a madman, someone’s cell phone rang.

  “Cut!” Larry screamed, hurling his baseball cap to the ground in frustration. “Who the hell forgot to turn off their phone?”

  Of course this time I knew it couldn’t be mine. Since that disastrous first day, I had always left my cell phone in my gym bag, which I kept stored in the wardrobe trailer. The ringing continued. It was very close by. Everyone looked around frantically, trying to locate the source of
the disturbance.

  “It’s coming out of his ass!” Simon screamed, pointing at the back pocket of my jeans. Oh God! I had taken it out to check my messages when I’d arrived on the set, and got so interested in watching Juan Carlos and Viveca paw each other at the craft services table that I had completely forgotten to put it back in my bag.

  “Larry, I’m so sorry,” I offered weakly.

  “Just answer the goddamned phone! It’s driving me nuts!” he said. “Everybody, take five!”

  Simon glared at me and then ran after Larry. “I can’t work like this, Mr. Levant! That was my best take on the whole picture and he ruined it!”

  I was mortified, and looked around at everybody with an apologetic smile, but they scattered to keep their distance as if I were a walking virus.

  I finally answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” said Charlie. “Can you talk?”

  Glancing around at the deserted set, I shrugged and said, “Sure. I’ve got five whole minutes.”

  “I did some digging on Casa Construction. Found out it’s a legitimate business owned by none other than Javier Martinez.”

  “The Miami mob boss?”

  “Yeah. I called my friend in South Beach and he said it’s probably a front for all sorts of illegal activities. The question is why has a guy like Martinez suddenly taken an interest in you?”

  I should have told Charlie that Martinez’s henchmen probably spotted me staking out Juan Carlos, who was busy hooking up with a young stud at a dilapidated motel, and decided to find out if I was somehow connected to whatever business it was that had soured Martinez on Juan Carlos. But instead, I simply said, “Beats me.”

  “I don’t like this one bit, Jarrod,” Charlie said. “Martinez has a history of making people disappear, and if you’re suddenly on his radar, that can’t be good.”

  “I agree. So don’t worry. I’ll be really careful.”

  “Maybe I should book a flight down there.”

  “Charlie, I’m around people all the time on the set. I’m completely safe.” Charlie wasn’t a fan of my amateur sleuthing, so I didn’t want to raise any hackles by confessing my recent Hardy Boy adventure.