His eyebrows went up. “Oh yeah. You want to be a good citizen.”
“Art, I’m not the bad guy here. Or let’s put it this way-I’m your bad guy. Now let’s move on to part two.”
“There’s a part two?”
“Aren’t you in the sequel business? For another twenty-five K, I will find out if it’s Licata who took out the contract. If so, I’ll take him out. Same deal if it’s someone else-either way, I’ll remove the threat.”
He scooched back to his former position, legs straight out, back against the headboard. “You would just…kill a mob boss?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“Art-mob bosses getting killed is not that unusual.”
A grunty thing came out of him that might have been a laugh. “How can you be so goddamn casual?”
“Why, does it matter? Since I will have to do some poking around, I would need an official capacity with your production. I was thinking of a PR role. That would give me access to just about anywhere and anybody.”
“You’d be on set?”
“Some of the time. This ‘accident’ may be rigged to happen on set. Must be lots of equipment there that could fall over on a guy.”
“…That would work. We don’t have a unit press manager. You could be a PR person I brought in. That would give you an excuse to interview people. I can even make Kaufmann buy into that.”
“Perfect.”
Stockwell was staring past me. “Am I dreaming this? Am I hallucinating?”
“Why, how much Percodan did you take?”
He shook his head. “You have no idea how hard I work, how many hours I put in…”
Actually, thanks to Jerry, I did.
“…how many decisions, small, medium and large, I make in a single long day on set. Right now I am tired beyond imagining and zoned on painkillers and I am talking to a stranger about things that are just…unbelievable. Unreal. Surreal.”
“You have other options.”
“Really?”
“I can leave. I would request you do me the courtesy of waiting till morning, but then you could call the police. You could say you have reason to believe that you are the target of a contract killer. They might be able to help.”
“In this jerkwater?”
“It’s a casino town. You already have a good relationship with the local law-you shot a scene at the sheriff’s office, right? You might get cooperation. You could go to Vegas and talk to the cops there. It’s all Clark County. You do have options.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m not the fucking devil. This is your decision. I don’t do high-pressure sales. It’s undignified.”
He sat there against the headboard, motionless, like a ventriloquist’s dummy that had been propped up. A long time went by. A full minute, maybe. Which is a longer time than you might imagine. Watch the second hand that long and see.
“Is it a trick?” he asked. He sounded like a kid. “If I say no, will you just kill me and go? To cover your tracks?”
“What tracks? You have a phony name on me. Look at me, Art-how distinctive are my looks, would you say?”
“Joe Average.”
“Right. You can say no. You might do okay with the cops.”
His frown was so wrinkly and deep it turned his leading man looks into a kind of monkey face. “What do you really think would happen if I went with the cops and not you?”
“You’ll be dead in forty-eight hours. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t sweat the storyboards.”
He began nodding. He did this for perhaps fifteen seconds (also a long time), then he said, “Do you need any money down?”
“No. But I will report to you what I’ve done, and it won’t be pleasant. You’ll need to know, because people, including the authorities, may throw it at you. You understand? This is harsh shit about to go down.”
He swallowed thickly. “Okay. You passed the audition, Jack. Keep me alive. And…the whole boat.”
“Whoever’s behind it, too?”
“Whoever’s behind it, too.”
He got up to walk me out, giving me some information along the way, including where they’d be shooting tomorrow. We were standing near the door going over that when it opened and a nearly naked beautiful woman entered.
“Oh, I’m interrupting,” she said.
It was the lovely vision in the bikini that I’d seen earlier, coming up from the pool, still in that skimpy bikini, a towel over her arm, her hair damp and ponytailed back. Close up, she looked even more like my ex-wife.
Because she was my ex-wife.
“J.J.,” he said to her, “this is Jack Reynolds. He’s coming on as our unit publicity manager.”
She didn’t miss a beat. She shook my hand and said something pleasant and polite-exactly what, I couldn’t tell you as I was in momentary cranial gridlock. But my eyes and a tiny head shake sent her a signal that said, Don’t say anything.
Joni smiled just a little and nodded and her eyes held mine, saying, All right. As if to say, I guess I owe you that much.
Then I shook hands with her husband and told him what my room number was, knowing that she’d heard it, too.
FIVE
Hard Wheels 2 was shooting at a location that at first gave me a start-it was outside Boot Heel, going south, which was the direction I’d taken Jerry. In several senses.
But the film company was only a few miles outside town, just enough to put desert everywhere the eye could see, except for the shabby little garage/truck stop they’d taken over for shooting purposes.
I got there about ten a.m., which was well into their work day. Under a fairly relentless sun, a group of maybe a dozen technicians (mostly guys but a few females) in baseball caps, sunglasses, casual shirts (mostly tees) and jeans were moving lights and stands and shiny reflective boards around while others were getting a big wheelmounted movie camera into place.
The vibe was blue-collar and the pace steady, neither laid-back nor frantic. It was all focusing around the gas pumps where two college student types seemed the center of attention. Stand-ins, I figured.
A few real employees were hanging around on the fringes, grease monkeys for the service station half of the place. Whether they were just gawking or were on tap as extras, I couldn’t tell. Nor did I give a shit.
All I cared about was whether I saw a familiar face, either among the crew or the onlookers.
There weren’t many of the latter, because the place was controlled, the evocatively named GAS & EATS closed to the public. When I arrived in my Nova, slowing down and signaling, a girl in a tank top and cut-off jeans stepped fearlessly out into the highway and waved my car into an area where a relative handful of vehicles were parked, maybe half a dozen cars, two vans, a semi-trailer truck and two motor homes, the latter three running off a chugging generator.
Near the vehicles, a few burly guys were seated here and there in deck chairs, doing nothing except snoozing or listening to boom-box music through headphones or reading men’s magazines, all but the snoozing accompanied by drinking beer from picnic coolers; I figured them for Teamsters.
About half a dozen biker types-middle-aged paunchy guys (Wild One had been a long fucking time ago)-were prowling the periphery in jeans and black leather jackets, despite the heat, trying to look ominous and important. Kind of sad, really.
I went over to the tank-top girl for a chat. Armed with a clipboard, she was a freckle-faced redhead who had one of those pulled-down sailor caps that Woody Allen wore and no make-up at all and looked about fifteen. Cute kid, though-tiny perky titties and a round little bottom well served by the cut-offs.
“Do you need to check me off your list?” I asked. “I’m Jack Reynolds. Handling PR for Mr. Stockwell.”
“Good morning, Mr. Reynolds, welcome to Hard Wheels 2 -Mr. Stockwell said to expect you.” She was all-around perky, actually. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Well, I’ve never done PR on a m
ovie set before. Anything I should know?”
“Pretty self-explanatory. You have full access, but stay out of the crew’s way when they’re on the move. And when we’re getting ready to shoot a scene, the assistant director will lock down the set.”
“What does that mean?”
“A lot of production assistants like me will run around screaming, ‘Lock it down!’ ”
“Which means shut up and don’t move.”
“Basically.”
I jerked a thumb toward the semi and the Winnebagos. “What are those for?”
“The bigger one is a honeywagon-bathrooms, small dressing rooms, make-up, wardrobe, special effects. The other two are for the stars-Tiffany and Eric. Even on a low-budget picture like this, the stars need a place to get away and run lines and relax.”
“Anything I should know about the stars? I’ll have to interview them both.”
“Eric’s really sweet. Tiffany’s, uh…interesting. Strong personality. But she’ll love you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to help publicize her.” She leaned in. “I didn’t say that.”
“Where can I find Mr. Stockwell?”
“Right now he’s in the diner. That’s where craft service and catering are, obviously. And it serves as a green room, too.”
“Speaking of green, that’s what I am. What’s craft service?”
“Snacks. You know what catering is.”
“Sure. You’re not just ordering food at the diner?”
“No, we’re using a catering company out of Vegas. They’ll bring the grub fully prepared, but’ll use the kitchen to serve it up. ‘Green room’ is just where actors can relax and hang out between set-ups.”
“Set-ups?”
“Camera set-ups. Shots.”
“You’re very helpful. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Ginger.” She grinned; it was pretty damn cute. “Please, no Mary Ann jokes.”
“Okay, little buddy.”
She liked that-if I’d had time, it might have been interesting to see how far I could get with Gilligan’s Island references.
“So, Ginger, what’s your job, besides helping hapless publicity agents?”
“I’m a P.A. Production assistant.”
“Yeah, I gathered that’s what you’re called. But what’s your job?”
She told me. As it happened, production assistant became about the only crew term I picked up around the set that I really understood. I did vaguely get to know that grips picked up and moved shit, and gaffers had something to do with lighting, and I had zero desire to learn what a best boy did.
Production assistants seemed to be all-purpose, mostly unpaid gofers-college students or recent film school grads (like Ginger) who were starting at the bottom. I wondered how many parents would be thrilled to know that all that college tuition had given their sons and daughters the skills necessary to deliver coffee and drive into town for extra duct tape.
Anyway, I thanked Ginger-who in fact looked more like a red-haired elfin Mary Ann-and let her return to guarding the highway while I headed in to the diner.
My hunch had been that on a low-budget independent production like Hard Wheels 2, I’d find a certain amount of underpaid and unpaid help. And, as Ginger had amply demonstrated, I was not wrong.
Which was why I figured I might spot a familiar face on set: Nick Varnos.
The nice thing was, I would not be a familiar face to Nick. Jerry had known me because we’d worked together, but Varnos? He and I had never met. He was just a face in the Broker’s files, but a face I had memorized like an actor prepping for his big scene.
Still, it did not seem to be a face anybody was wearing on the Hard Wheels 2 film set. Not outside, anyway.
The interior of the diner was as expected-central counter, short-order window, a dozen tables, a dozen booths, soda pop signs, jukebox, a big noisy air conditioner in a cut-out area above the door. Because this was Nevada, there were a couple slot machines spotted around.
But the place had been invaded in a way that jarred against expectation-half of the tables, over to my right coming in the door, had been shoved together to make one long table, offering an array of individually packaged snacks like potato chips and Fritos, plus plastic-wrapped cookies and brownies, and covered veggies. Coolers of pop and bottled water were beneath. Nobody was manning this impressive station, strictly self-serve.
In the booths, groups of what I took to be actors (since one of them was my ex-wife, who had a role on the film), sat smoking and either going over their lines together or just studying their own scripts. To my left, the tables had been taken by production people who-this group included Stockwell and Kaufmann-seemed to be higher up the food chain.
Stockwell, again in jeans and a t-shirt (this one a vintage KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ underground comix design) was deep in conversation with a muscular-looking, bald, bushybearded guy in a gray short-sleeve sweatshirt and faded jeans.
They were going over some of those storyboards from last night, and Stockwell was talking intently, pointing here and there, and occasionally holding up his hands, framing proposed shots. The bald bearded guy was mostly nodding, clearly on the instruction-taking end of things, though he would stop the director for clarifications or to make suggestions, when he felt it necessary.
The director was so intensely involved in this, he did not notice me enter (the bell over the door had its dinger duct-taped silent, I noticed). But Kaufmann, who had commandeered a table all to himself and his own paperwork, saw me right away and got up and came over.
Today his polo shirt was light blue, his slacks one shade darker blue, his sandals again sock-free. I had a polo shirt on myself, a tan one with lighter tan chinos and running shoes (with socks, thank you). But we were dressed similarly enough that I noticed it.
“Artie has asked me to cooperate with you any way I can,” he said. The eyes behind the aviators’ pink lenses were at half-mast again. His tone wasn’t exactly unfriendly but something grudging was there.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I probably need to talk to your two stars.”
“Yes. Interviews would be good. Are you going to be able to place those yourself? As a publicity agent, you surely have beaucoup media contacts.”
Was he suspicious, or just generally pissy?
“Actually, I stick to the writing,” I said. “I’ll prepare the materials and you’ll have to distribute them yourself, or hire a firm with those kind of connections.”
“Really? And how much are you charging for these limited services of yours?”
“I’m going to pass on answering that, Mr. Kaufmann. I’m dealing directly with Mr. Stockwell.”
The eyes behind the pink lenses flared with distrust. “How is it that ‘Mr. Stockwell’ is so comfortable with somebody he met only last night?”
“I come highly recommended. We have mutual acquaintances that go way back.” I was vamping a little; never a good idea, but I could tell the bones needed some flesh. “Anyway, my impression was he was paying for my services…out of his own pocket, not the production’s.”
Kaufmann’s eyebrows went up over the aviators. “Is that right? Frankly, Artie and I haven’t had the chance to discuss your financial terms yet. If he’s taking this on himself…well, it’s generous of him. And he must believe in you.”
“I think he does.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” He took me by the elbow-a familiarity I didn’t love. Maybe he sensed it, because his hand moved to my shoulder as he walked me to the counter, where he showed me to a stool.
“What are you drinking, Jack? We have Coke products.”
“Coke is fine.”
He came back with a can of Tab for himself and one of Coke for me. The metal was sweaty with cold.
“Cold drinks are important on a set like this,” he said, after a swig.
“Yeah?”
“When we’re shooting out there, that air conditioner goes off. Too noisy
for the camera. And it will be a goddamn sweatbox in here.”
“I would never have thought of that.”
He took another swig. “What mutual acquaintances?”
“Pardon?”
“What mutual acquaintances? I know most of Artie’s friends and business associates, going back almost ten years.”
“Well, this goes back a little farther than that.”
He tempered his wide smile with a shrewd gaze. “How far? Y’see, Artie and me, we go back to high school-in Atlanta?”
That explained Kaufmann’s Southern tinge. Stockwell had shed any such accent. But I had put my foot in it, improvising.
I did my best. “You guys go to college together, too?”
“Naw. Artie went off to film school at USC. Is that where he met your ‘mutual acquaintances,’ Jack?”
“They never said. Are you pumping me, Jim? Do we have a problem?”
He touched my arm again-no, he gripped it; there was surprising power in it. “We will have a problem, Jack, if you are scamming my partner. That guy sitting over there is the most talented man I ever met-but that’s not all. He picked me up off the ground when my business went tits up, and gave me a new start.”
“Well, I’m glad to know that. Human interest stories make good PR fodder.”
Disgust colored his expression, and the Southern tinge became a full-blown drawl. “You think that’s why I mention it? To give you ‘PR fodder,’ Jack? You best know that I am watching your ass, Bubba. You do something bad to my boy over there, I will fuck you up. Understand? Fuck you up.”
The voice was cold but the eyes in back of the pink lenses glittered with emotion.
He removed his hand from my arm. He was shaking. I wanted to slap him like an unruly child, but instead I just said, “I wonder if maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
That response blindsided him and he actually laughed a little.
“I have nothing in mind but the best for your friend, Mr. Kaufmann. I am here to help. Not to take advantage. Not to run a scam or anything else. Understood?”
He studied me. I kept my face calm, even smiled a little, not in a threatening way. Then he nodded.
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