Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery

by Jeffery Deaver

  Stace said, “Ready.”

  “Okay,” the unit director shouted. “Everybody in position.”

  Dehlia sprawled out of the open door of a muddy Packard.

  The Pinkerton agents piled into the armored truck and it backed down the road.

  The parishioners walked into the church.

  Ross’s soon-to-be-dead fellow gangsters checked the harnesses and cables that would jerk them backward as they were shot by the agents.

  The director of photography and the camera operator climbed into the Chapman crane’s twin seats and rose twenty feet into the air. Sloan released his own death grip on the boom and wandered over to the unit director.

  “Pep talk,” Stace wryly whispered to his assistants.

  Sloan lifted his megaphone. His voice crackled, “Could I have everybody’s attention please? Quiet please! I’d just like to say one thing. This next eight minutes is costing me a quarter of a million dollars. Don’t fuck up.”

  Pep talk . . .

  He returned to his place beside the crane.

  The unit director nodded to the senior gaffer. The lights clicked on, replacing the mute aura of overcast sunlight with a wash of light that seemed to bleach the colors out of the scene but that would translate into natural sunlight by the time Technicolor was through with the film. The temperature on the set immediately rose five degrees and kept going.

  “Cameras rolling.”

  Assistants stepped in front of each camera and snapped clappers.

  “Action!” the unit director shouted.

  The bulky gray armored truck eased along the dirt road, passing the church, then slowing as it neared the Packard. It stopped. Dehlia lifted her head, stained with the phony blood, and motioned for help. The driver and the front-seat guard hesitated. They mouthed words to themselves, they spoke into the back of the truck. The front doors slowly opened. The guards stepped out onto the road. Ross lit a smoke bomb and ran, crouching, toward the back of the truck.

  “Now!” the driver shouted, pulling a machine gun from the front seat.

  The back doors of the armored truck burst open.

  Parishioners stepped from the church, smiling and nodding. The two guards began firing at Ross and the other gangsters, who were approaching from a stand of trees. Tree branches snapped, dirt puffed up, signs were riddled, the side of the truck was dotted with bullet holes, bodies of gangsters flew backwards. Churchgoers littered the ground.

  “Go, go, go!” Tony Sloan was mouthing. “Beautiful.”

  Dehlia was trying to start the Packard. Ross was covering her and retreating. The other gangsters fell back. The preacher came out onto the steps. He was brandishing a Bible; a guard accidentally gunned him down . . .

  “Stone cold beautiful,” Sloan whispered.

  It was into the middle of this battle—directly between the warring factions—that two modern navyblue sedans and a white Ford Econoline van skidded to a halt. Men in suits climbed out leisurely, examining the set with some amusement.

  Sloan’s mouth opened in astonishment. Everyone began talking at once—many of them shouting because of their earplugs.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sloan shouted. No one had any trouble hearing this. “Who the hell are you?”

  The unit director was too shocked to order the cameras shut off. Finally the assistant director, holding her ponytail in a death grip, woke out of her stunned silence and shouted, “Cut. Cut! Save the lights.”

  The huge lamps clicked off.

  The assistant whose job it was to keep the road closed ran onto the set. Sloan pierced her with a glance of hatred. “They came right at me,” she sobbed. “They wouldn’t stop.”

  A tall, gray-haired man climbed from the first sedan, looking around. When he saw the director he stepped toward him.

  “What,” Sloan said, “in God’s name are you doing? Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” His face was crimson.

  An ID card appeared. “I’m Agent McIntyre. You in charge?”

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re agents with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Department of the Treasury. We’ve been informed by the U.S. Attorney in St. Louis that you’re in possession of unregistered automatic weapons and we’re here to confiscate them.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Clear the chambers on those weapons,” McIntyre shouted to the actors. “Put the safeties on and set them in the van here.”

  Sloan stormed up to McIntyre, who ignored him.

  Another man got out of the car, studying the smoke and destruction around him. Detective Bob Gianno looked at the director. “Are you Anthony Sloan?”

  “Damn right I am; do you know what you’ve just cost me? This scene—”

  “You’re under arrest for violation of the Missouri state laws governing possession of illegal weapons. Would you hold out your hands, please?”

  Chapter 17

  STACE STACEY SMOOTHED the tufts of graying hair above his ears and said with utter calm, “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

  He sat in the office of Ronald Peterson. Beside him was a fidgeting, furious Tony Sloan, who stared with particular contempt at the collection of windup toys littering Peterson’s desk.

  “Mistake?” Peterson asked Stace. “Oh, I don’t think so. . . . But first, I want to make perfectly clear that you are not being charged with any federal crime whatsoever. We have noticed an apparent violation of federal law but are withholding any decision to proceed. Under Missouri law possession of automatic weapons not registered by the BATF is a state violation. Our colleagues in Maddox have decided there’s probable cause for your arrest. They’re the ones who’ve acted on that. It was not a federal agency. The ATF merely took custody of the weapons temporarily.”

  “You’re a prick,” Sloan said.

  “You understand what I’m saying to you?” Peterson cocked an eyebrow enthusiastically.

  “I understand that we’ll never make a movie again in this state. That’s what I understand.”

  Peterson shrugged. “You’re not under arrest so you can speak to me without a lawyer present.”

  “I understand already!” Sloan barked.

  “Please continue, Mr. Stacey.”

  “I’m qualified as a class-three federal firearms dealer.” Stace set a small piece of paper on the desk, next to a tiny walking football. “That’s my license. I think you know perfectly well almost all property and arms masters in Hollywood are class-three dealers.”

  Peterson glanced at the license momentarily. “I don’t doubt you, sir. It’s the weapons I’m concerned about.”

  “Every one of those guns is registered, tax stamps have been duly bought and I have a right to transport them over state lines. The—”

  “Actually, that’s not quite accurate. BATF notice is required . . .”

  “No, sir, it is accurate.” Diminutive Stace Stacey clearly dominated the conversation despite his calm, unfazed voice. “The notice is generated by the firearms rental company. I rented those weapons from Culver City Arms and Props. They’re on the Motion Picture Association computer link to BATF’s Washington office. I’m surprised I have to be telling this to a U.S. Attorney.”

  Peterson took scrupulous notes. He looked up, frowning. “Unfortunately we can find no record of the notice.”

  “I’m a good friend of Steve Marring in the BATF district office on the Coast. I suggest you give him a call immediately.”

  “It wasn’t a BATF-initiated operation. Several FBI agents were on the set looking for one of your employees—”

  “Pellam,” Sloan spat out.

  Peterson hesitated and then said coquettishly, “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was Mr. Pellam. How did you know that?”

  Sloan, sloe-eyed with fatigue, rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he did not respond Peterson continued, “My agents noticed the machine guns and reported their presence to me. Naturally, we’re concerned about such weapons falling into irresponsible
hands—”

  Stace said pleasantly, “I heard not too long ago about a man in San Francisco selling fully automatic Uzis to high school students. I’d think you might be more concerned about situations like that.”

  “A tragedy, I’m sure. But my bailiwick is Missouri.”

  “I’ve had about enough of this,” Sloan shouted. “You’ve cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m calling my lawyer—”

  Peterson shook his head. “Mr. Sloan . . . Oh, by the way, I really enjoyed Helicop. I figure it cost me about two hundred bucks after buying the kids all those toys for Christmas. But I did enjoy that movie.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Are we reaching an understanding?” Peterson asked heartily.

  “Understanding?”

  “Have I explained to you how I learned about those weapons? I have, haven’t I?”

  Sloan had calmed down. There was a cryptic tone in the conversation reminiscent of what one heard in offices and restaurants throughout Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. It was very Zen—to speak while not speaking. “Pellam?”

  “Why don’t you talk to him, Mr. Sloan. Just talk to him. See if he can remember anything about what happened that night of the Gaudia murder.” He looked at Stace. “You talk about Uzis in San Francisco. Well, Mr. Pellam can help us put away a man who’s been doing a lot worse than that. But without his help that man’s going to go free and a lot more people are going to get hurt.”

  Sloan said, “I understand Pellam claims he didn’t see anything.”

  “ ‘Claims.’ Well, I know he claims he didn’t see anything.”

  “Why is he holding out?” the director wondered.

  “Maybe he’s afraid—although I’ve assured him we can protect him. Maybe he’s being paid . . . No, don’t protest too fast. You’d be surprised what people will do for money. He is, after all, an ex-convict.”

  “What?” Sloan whispered.

  “San Quentin. Served almost a year. I assumed you knew.”

  Stace folded his hands in his lap. He stared directly into Peterson’s eyes. “John Pellam is a good man. He had some trouble. We’ve all had trouble at times.”

  “You knew about it,” Sloan shouted to the arms master, “and you didn’t goddamn tell me?”

  Stace Stacey was not an employee of Missouri River Partnership and Tony Sloan was only one of nearly thirty directors who regularly hired him. Sloan was also, among these clients, the largest pain in the ass. He now easily won a staredown with the director and smiled sadly, as if embarrassed at the man’s childishness.

  “Manslaughter,” Peterson said, pleased that Sloan had lost yet another round at this meeting.

  Stace said, “He did his time. He got out. He was a good director then, he’s a good location scout now.”

  “Pellam directed? Why didn’t I know this?”

  “You were probably making running-shoe commercials in New York at the time,” Stace offered, without a hint of discernible irony.

  Peterson jotted a note. “I’ll check out what you’ve told me about your guns, Mr. Stacey, and if you’re correct you can pick them up first thing on Tuesday morning and the state charges will be dropped.”

  Stace said, “I am correct, sir, and I’d advise you to release them to me right now.”

  “Tuesday?” Sloan blurted. “I can’t wait three days. We’re already overbudget. We’re—”

  “But unfortunately,” Peterson explained, “it’s Saturday. There’s no one in the Washington office, of course. Tomorrow’s Sunday. And Monday—”

  “Columbus Day.” Sloan closed his eyes. “Christ. Why did you wait until this morning? You’ve known we had the guns for two, three days.”

  His eyes were on Sloan. “Do you think we’re reaching an understanding? Do you?”

  Sloan’s anger was diminishing. “Maybe. Possibly.”

  Stace began to speak. “What you seem to be suggesting is—”

  It was Sloan who silenced him with a wave of the hand.

  Peterson said, “Then if there’s nothing else, gentlemen . . . Oh, as a show of good faith, I’ll talk to those city detectives. I’ll recommend you’re released on your own recognizance.”

  “I appreciate that. You seem like a reasonable man.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Sloan.” Peterson slid a piece of paper toward the director. “Any chance of an autograph? You know, for the boys?”

  THE FBI AGAIN?

  The severe rapping on the camper door sounded just like that of federal agents. But Pellam was running up a long list of potentially hostile visitors, so who could tell? When he opened the door he held the Colt Peacemaker hidden beneath his black Comme des Garcons sports jacket.

  Tony Sloan nodded a greeting as he walked inside without waiting for an invitation. Pellam thought about making a wisecrack like “Waking the dead?” referring both to the pounding and to the deceased Ross and Dehlia. But Tony Sloan’s expression was far too grim for jokes and all Pellam said was “Come on in” after Sloan already was.

  Sloan walked directly to the counter, where sat a bottle of bourbon. He poured two glasses. “You were at the shoot?”

  “Got there late. But I heard. Some problem with the guns?”

  Sloan gave him a brief account of the events that culminated in his handcuffing.

  “My God,” Pellam whispered. “Stace is a very buttoned-up guy. I can’t imagine he made a mistake like that.” Sloan was strangely pensive. His eyes did not flit around the camper. They were sedate. They were almost sad.

  The director inhaled the whiskey fumes and drank down half the glass. “Okay, John, no bullshit. Just tell me. Did you see that guy?”

  Pellam thought he meant the cop who arrested him. “I told you, I got there late. I—”

  “The man in the Lincoln is what I’m talking about.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Pellam laughed. “You’ve been talking to . . . who? The detectives in Maddox.” No, of course not, he thought. “Peterson. You’ve been talking to Peterson.”

  “John, they can close down production for three days. If that happens the studio or Completion Bond’s going to take over. This movie might not get done.”

  “If I’d seen him I would’ve told somebody. I would’ve told everybody. Look, Tony, this’s extortion. On Tuesday Peterson’ll say, sorry, we made a mistake. Call the studio’s legal department. Call Hank.”

  “John, what’s this about the money?”

  “Money?”

  “I hear you’re trying to put something together with Marty Weller, you’re looking for some bucks.”

  “I am. That has nothing to do with you or anybody else here.”

  “Somebody paying you so you won’t testify, John?”

  Pellam lowered his head slightly and eased a long breath of whiskey-scented air into his lungs. “I think maybe you and I don’t have much more to talk about.”

  “No.” Sloan leaned forward, pointing a nubby finger at Pellam. “We got one thing more to talk about. You tell Peterson that it was this Peter Crimmins in the Lincoln. I don’t care whether you saw him or not. I know he was in the car and I don’t even know who the fuck he is!”

  “Sorry, Tony.”

  “How much is he paying you?”

  “I’ll ask you to leave now.”

  “You want to stay on this job and get your fee, you’ll tell Peterson what he wants to know.”

  “That’s money you owe me.”

  “If I can’t wrap this picture in three days there won’t be any money for anybody.”

  “That’s not my fault. I did my job. Sell one of your Ferraris and pay me.”

  Sloan set the glass down on the camper’s tiny counter. He seemed calm but the tendons in his neck were bulging and pronounced just beneath his dark beard. His teeth were set. “Oh, I got your number, Pellam,” he said viciously. “I asked around about you. You and your artsy films, you and your Cahier du Cinéma, you and your buddies sitting around and talking abo
ut Cannes and auteur theory. You make your jokes, you make the crew giggle. Bonnie and Clyde, The Wild Bunch. But just tell me, Pellam, how many of those crew people are you paying? How many of their kids are you putting through college? How many people came to see your films, and how many come to see mine?”

  Pellam’s last film as director, Central Standard Time, was never finished. It would have starred Tommy Bernstein, who died of a massive, cocaine-induced heart attack on the set during the second week of principal photography. The film Pellam had directed just prior to that had won a Palme d’Or at Cannes but was seen by North Americans only in New York, Montreal, Toronto, Los Angeles, and in those cities with video stores that indulged in cult films. What Tony Sloan was saying now was absolutely correct.

  Pellam said evenly, “I won’t tell Peterson I saw who was in the car.”

  “Then you’re fired. Clear out. Get the paperwork and any equipment of the company’s to Stile. He’s taking over as location manager.”

  “I’ll sue you, Tony. I don’t want to but I will.”

  “If this film doesn’t wrap, Pellam, I’m coming after you for my fee. That’s a million seven. And even if I lose you’ll piss away a half million in lawyers’ fees alone. You don’t respect who I am, Pellam, okay, but you got no right to cut my legs out from underneath me.”

  “DID YOU KNOW this?” Ralph Bales asked.

  Stevie Flom looked at the offered page of the Maddox Reporter and could not figure out what he was supposed to know. “I read the Post-Dispatch mostly.”

  “Okay, it was in the Post-Dispatch, too, I’ll bet. See, it’s the Associated Press. That means a lot of papers get it.”

  They were on the riverfront in St. Louis, the silvery arch towering over them and looking lofty and weird at the same time, like a huge toy. In front of them, unhealthy-looking water, bilish and milky, splashed at pilings. From the speakers of a candy red excursion boat, a paddle-wheeler, came brassy jazz. Ralph Bales had been reading when Stevie Flom walked up to him. Reading and leaning up against the scabby railing, really lost in the paper.