Quarry's ex q-9

by Max Allan Collins

  “She’s trying to put it in her past.” Kaufmann flashed a grin-first genuinely friendly one he’d offered me. “But you need to play it up.”

  “Will there be nude scenes?”

  “Frequently. She was not hired because she gets mistaken for Meryl Streep.”

  “Why was she hired?”

  “You said it yourself. She was the Playmate of the Year, and-”

  “Jim-okay I call you Jim?”

  “I’ve been calling you Jack.”

  “Jim, you and I know the number of Playmates of the Year who have gone on to star in films can be counted on one hand and maybe a dick. What makes Miss Goodwin special?”

  That sure didn’t get a grin out of him, friendly or otherwise. “What’s your point?”

  “Rumor has it Tiffany got cast because of her relationship with a certain mob figure.”

  “Did Artie tell you that? Jesus.” He jabbed a finger at me, damn near thumped me. “Let me tell you what your first job as publicist on this picture is, and I don’t care who pays you, Artie or me or Jesus Fucking Christ-you keep any mention of a certain organized crime figure out of any publicity. Any news hack brings it up, you deny it. You say it’s a scurrilous rumor and that we will fucking sue, if anybody dares print that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was getting at. I need to know what the negatives are, Jim, before I can highlight the positive.”

  He studied me with those half-lidded, behind-rosecolored- lenses blue eyes. Then he grinned. He slapped me on the shoulder. “You just stay on that track, Bubba. You just stay on that track.”

  “Do my best, Jim.”

  He slid off the stool, saying, “If you’ll excuse me, I have important producer shit that needs attending.”

  “Fires to put out?”

  “Oh yeah. You hang in there now.”

  So were we pals now? No, I didn’t think so, either.

  Kaufmann went back to the table that was his current office and I swung toward the counter behind which waitresses usually dwelled. Activity by white-uniformed caterers could be glimpsed through the short-order window. Then, as if summoned by my thoughts, a waitress appeared, not behind the counter, but coming over and sitting next to me.

  Joni.

  My ex-wife apparently played a diner waitress in the film, because she was wearing a light-green-trimmed white uniform suitable to the species.

  Her dark hair was pinned up, probably as part of her characterization, but she had no make-up on, so wasn’t shooting a scene in the immediate future. She was easily thirty-six years of age and yet her face had the smooth, unwrinkled quality of a child. Or sociopath.

  This was a feat because she was very well tanned, a habit not friendly to skin over the long haul. Maybe hers came out of a bottle, though the telltale orange tint wasn’t present.

  She really hadn’t changed all that much-the big brown eyes dominated her attractive features. There remained a Cher resemblance, even with the hair pinned up. She’d kept her slender figure, as her bikini water ballet last night had told me.

  She sipped the can of Tab she’d brought along. Everybody but me around here was watching their figure. Hers was still worth watching.

  Without looking at me, she said, “Long time no see.”

  I shrugged. “Last night.”

  Now her head swiveled toward me and the eyes were, well, not exactly cold…guarded. Unblinking.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. I didn’t remember her voice being that low or that sultry. Maybe it changed. Maybe I’d been filtering it through the wishful thinking of nostalgia.

  “Your husband hired me to handle publicity.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “As far as you’re concerned, that’s why.”

  She sipped her Tab, looked away. “Why did you come looking for me?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re saying this is a coincidence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe in coincidences, Jack?”

  “No.”

  She swiveled her gaze back to me. “Then what the fuck?”

  “What the fuck indeed. We need to talk.”

  “Really? I thought what we needed was for you to walk away.”

  I sipped my Coke. “I did not know you were here. Your husband doesn’t know about our past. Your past. He thinks I’m Jack Reynolds.”

  “Who are you, now? What are you?”

  “As far as you’re concerned, Jack Reynolds.”

  She looked away again. “You thought I would come to your room last night.”

  “Kind of.”

  “That’s why you mentioned your room number in front of me.”

  “You never were dumb. Why does he call you J.J.?”

  “That’s my name. Or my initials. Joanne Jennifer. Joni was just a nickname. Jesus, Jack, that’s the name on our marriage license.”

  “Oh. I forgot.” I really had.

  Something earnest came into her voice. “Jack, are you going to cause trouble for me?”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m doing a job for your husband. We can talk later. More freely. At the hotel, maybe.”

  “If you think I’m going to fuck you, you’re wrong.”

  “If that’s what you think is going on, you’re wrong. And fucking full of yourself. When did you become an actress, anyway?”

  “A long time ago. Didn’t you ever see me on TV?”

  “What show were you on?”

  “A lot of shows. Streets of San Francisco. The FBI. Cannon. Barnaby Jones. Hawaii Five-O.”

  “That explains it. I don’t watch cop shows.”

  “I’ve been in twelve movies.”

  “For your husband?”

  “Mostly.”

  “That also explains it-I don’t go to drive-ins. But I’ll check out your stuff at my local video store. I’ll bet you’re great.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You’ve always been a hell of an actress.”

  She slid off the stool. “We are going to talk, Jack. Later.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  She turned and started off.

  I said, “Hey.”

  She stopped. Looked back.

  I said, “If your husband asks, we were talking, just now, about me doing an interview with you. I’m the unit publicist on this picture. Got it?”

  She sighed, nodded crisply, and went back to a booth where she’d been going over her script, alone.

  I had just finished my Coke when Stockwell came up. He put a hand on my shoulder but did not take a stool next to me.

  “Look,” he said, “we’re getting ready to shoot this stunt. I can’t talk. But I’ve paved the way for you around here. You can circulate freely. I see you were chatting with J.J.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to interview her.”

  “How did you two get along?”

  “Fine.”

  “Yeah, she’s a great gal. You’ll love her.”

  I watched a little bit of the fight scene. The star, Eric Conrad, was smaller than I’d have imagined, but very muscular, well-toned looking and very bronzed. He wore a get-up that I guessed was his character’s usual costume-a denim vest, no shirt (so the ripple of abs could get proper exposure), tight jeans and moccasins.

  He was fighting two stuntmen who were playing the kind of nasty-ass bikers that the biker security boys pictured themselves as-all bulging biceps and scraggly beards and tattoos and leathers and motorcycle boots. The hardest thing for the stuntman was executing the fight with the challenge of the tight clothing. The biker stunt guys had some give in their leather pants, but the star’s tight jeans were a problem.

  Thankfully, Conrad only had to do the close-in stuff, throwing punches that didn’t land but seemed to because of the camera angles. And when he had to execute a Billy Jack-style karate kick, he in fact ripped the crotch a
nd leg out of the jeans (they had half a dozen replacement pairs ready).

  Most of the star’s action was handled by a stuntman who was a little taller than him but a good match for his build. Also, the stuntman’s jeans were looser.

  I was surprised by how slow it moved. It was pretty much one or two punches or kicks at a time. They had to shift the lighting and the reflectors around constantly because the sun had a nasty habit of moving on them. That bald bearded guy Hank was doing the directing, with an anxious Stockwell sitting forward in a director’s chair in back and to one side of the camera, all but biting his nails.

  For maybe an hour I watched this shit, then I decided to meet the other star of the picture, for my fake interview. I ran into Ginger, who pointed me to Miss Goodwin’s Winnebago, where I knocked.

  And knocked again.

  And again.

  A voice roared from within: “Fucking what?”

  They were between shots so I could yell back, “Miss Goodwin? Jack Reynolds!”

  I was on the ground, and the door to the Winnebago was a couple metal steps up, and when it flew open, it damn near slapped my upper torso. Ducking back, I took in the sight of the most popular Playmate of the 1970s in a yellow silk robe, carelessly waist-sashed so that about half of either generous breast was exposed. She hovered over me, pure fantasy fodder, only her face was a contorted mask, nostrils flaring, like a horse that just threw an annoying rider.

  “What the fuck! I am resting! Who the fuck are you?”

  She was barefoot and actually fairly short, maybe five three, but she seemed bigger than life. Anyway her tits did. Plus she was up in the doorway and I was down below.

  “Jack Reynolds,” I said. “I just came on board-I’m the unit publicist.”

  Her face softened and a smile appeared. Other than some very red lipstick, she-like Joni-wore no make-up, but as a natural beauty, and one of the least plastic of all Playmates, she didn’t really need it. Her eyes were large and green and wide-set in a lovely heart-shaped face, her enormous lion’s mane of hair, cut in various lengths for a naturally tousled look, was platinum, famously her real color, and under the lipstick her mouth was full, sensuous, pillowy.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said, as if I were a long-lost relative or maybe lover, “you’ll have to forgive me. I have a difficult scene coming up this afternoon, and I’m afraid I’m in full diva mode. Can you forgive me?”

  She was bending down and this exposed her bosom more fully. And she was famous for those babies-D cups courtesy of God and not medical science.

  “Sure,” I said. “Just wanted to schedule an interview. If you’re busy-”

  “I have time now. Come on in!”

  She backed up and I climbed the little stairs.

  The Winnebago was nothing fancy-I mean, it hadn’t been refitted as a star’s dressing room or anything. I found myself in a little sitting area behind the driver’s and rider’s seats-a dark green couch against the wall at left, a matching comfy chair opposite with a writing stand that folded out from the wall. Beyond that was a kitchenette with the expected oak cabinets, and a little hallway.

  The only special touch was a small end table between the couch and the kitchenette-its glass top had a mirror on it; traces of white were on the reflective surface. Here’s a hint what Tiffany was doing before I knocked-she wasn’t making powdered doughnuts.

  Right now she was standing gesturing toward the refrigerator. She had a breezy, brassy confidence that I kind of dug. “Can I get you something? I like these new wine coolers-come in so many flavors…melon, strawberry, mango.”

  “No thanks, Miss Goodwin. Just had some Coke.”

  That made her eyebrows lift. Because so had she.

  “Please call me Tiffany,” she said, and gestured to the comfy chair.

  I took it.

  She indicated the writing stand in case I needed it, then sat on the couch, crossing her legs. When she did, the silk robe fluttered open and I caught a glimpse of her famous platinum bush, which she kept nicely trimmed in a heart shape. Or anyway that’s how it had been in her photo layout. For the articles.

  “Are you going to take notes, Jack?”

  “Next time. Right now I’d just like to get to know you, and get a sense of what you think is the best way for me to tell your story.”

  She sat back on the plump sofa with either arm outstretched regally along its upper edge. Did I mention her nails were red? Finger and toe? Those money-color eyes were a little scary; they were big and beautiful, but with so little make-up on, that left her eyebrows almost invisible, natural platinum blonde that she was.

  “Well, I’m originally from Chicago,” she began. “Just a little girl from the South Side.”

  “Illinois,” I said with a smile and appreciative nod. “The heartland.”

  “Yes! Typical Midwestern girl.”

  From the South Side of Chicago. Her and Big Bad Leroy Brown.

  Tiffany leaned forward, hands folded in her lap. “I think people should understand my background isn’t glamorous. My father worked in a steel mill. My mother raised all six of us girls…and before you ask, there are more like me at home. Almost like me.”

  I just smiled at that. She was a cartoon. But I like cartoons.

  “I was in college and money was running short-I was studying nursing but I was going to have to drop out. That’s a human interest story, isn’t it? Something people can relate to?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “So I got my boyfriend to take some nude photos of me and send them to Playboy. The rest is history.”

  “You don’t live in Chicago now, do you?”

  She shook her head and platinum locks bounced; she was framed against closed cloth blinds through which sunlight gave her a halo effect.

  “I moved to California. I lived at the mansion for a year, but I was never one of Hef’s girls. Not in a major way.”

  “Is that where you met Louis Licata?”

  She froze. She frowned. Frowns on people with invisible eyebrows look weird no matter how beautiful they are. “Mr. Licata is just a friend.”

  I sat forward. “Miss Goodwin-Tiffany-I don’t have any intention of including that in any PR material. It’s the last thing any of us want. But I’ll get calls. People will ask me questions.”

  “ People magazine?”

  “Maybe. But I mean people in general. It would be helpful if I knew what the situation really was, so I knew what to avoid. To protect myself and you. Plus, I’d like to know what the party line is.”

  “What does partying have to do with it?”

  “Nothing. Just…what’s the situation with Mr. Licata, really? And what should I say-what should anybody with the production say-if asked about it?”

  She shrugged, vaguely nervous. Suddenly her voice was tiny, less confident: “We’re friends. He ‘s kind of my… mentor. I’m his protйgйe. He cou nsels me on career matters. He knows a lot about show business. Has interests in Las Vegas, you know. He’s a very important man. And sweet.”

  “What do I say if asked about him?”

  “That I never met him.”

  Okay.

  I pressed on: “Aren’t there pictures of you together? Outside restaurants and, uh, hotels?”

  She wasn’t angry or upset. She could tell by my tone that I was trying to be helpful.

  “He’s a fan,” s he said. “But don’t b rin g it up!”

  “Of course not.” I gave her a concerned look. “We also might have to deal with the rumors about you and your director, you know.”

  Her hands were on her knee s. She shook her head firmly, her confidence back. “We’re not an item. He’s married. To another actress in the company. But we have a good working relationship, Arthur and I. He respects me as an actress.”

  I scratched my head. “Listen…Tiffany? This is a little delicate, but…do you think Mr. Licata might be jealous of your director? Could that be a problem?”

  Big unblinking eyes. “A p roblem h
ow?”

  “Business, I guess. I understand Mr. Licata is backing this production.”

  She nodded. “He’s what you call an angel.”

  Not what I called an angel.

  She was studying me now, the way a junior high girl studies a frog she’s been assigned to dissect. Then she slid over to one side of the couch and patted the space next to her.

  “Come sit here,” she said.

  I did.

  She put an arm around me. Nothing nasty in her voice, pure velvet, she asked, “Why are you asking about this downer shit?”

  “I just need to know what I’m dealing with. Don’t worry, I’m going to make you look great.”

  “I already look great.”

  “I noticed.”

  She was looking right at me. Very close to me. I felt like I was sitting too close to a stove.

  “I took a lot of acting classes,” she said. “I studied with some famous people in New York, and also in California. I want you to emphasize that. I’ll give you their names and you can write about my training.”

  “Sure.”

  “You can mention Playboy a little. Say I was a Playmate of the Year, ’cause that’s a calling card. Tell about me sending my photos in, because that’s a success story, a whaddya call it, an Alger Hiss story. And people like that.”

  I could have told her she meant Horatio Alger, but I didn’t want to be rude. Anyway, she had her hand on my leg.

  “Are you a gay?” she asked.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Because I want you to be my friend, Jack. Don’t be ashamed or afraid to say you’re a gay. Gays like me. They dress up like me.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not the same.”

  “And you’re not gay.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll, let’s see.”

  She rose, and stood before me, and tugged at the shoulders of her robe and let it slide off her; it opened as it fell, like curtains parting. How can I do her justice? Let’s start with: she looked fucking great.

  Large full breasts sitting high on her ribcage, with halfinch erect nipples against pink crescents of aureole; a narrow waist, a supple stomach, flaring hips, full thighs, dimpled knees, flowing calves. And that nicely trimmed pubic heart was as advertised: just as starkly white as her lush head of carefully tousled hair.

  She raised a foot as if about to test the temperature of a bath and instead explored my lap with red-nailed toes.