Then, when I raised the hand with the nine millimeter in it, letting it point at them like a scolding finger, their expressions changed respectively to abject fear and cold hatred.
“Fellas,” I said, “disengage.”
They did so and the actor, as chagrined as he was frightened, scrambled back and got the covers over him with just his handsome head popping up. Licata, his chest black with hair, remained on his knees, as defiant as his erect member.
“Let’s get something straight,” I said, and immediately regretted putting it that way, “I don’t give a fuck what you boys do to each other. You are neither one of you in danger.”
Licata, despite having a gun on him, said, “You are.”
But his dick had started to wilt.
I said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Eric, you just stay here in the bedroom and relax. Don’t use that phone. Don’t call for security or anybody else-just think how embarrassing this could be. How damaging.”
Eric nodded. In fact, he nodded about half a dozen times.
“Lou,” I said to the proud little mobster, “I need a word with you in the other room. This gun is no threat to you as long as you cooperate. I’m only holding it on you for my protection, because I understand that you’re a powerful man. And, yes, I understand, too, that I’m potentially the one in danger here. On the other hand, I do have the gun.”
Licata growled, “What do you want from me?”
“First, relax. You don’t need to be defensive. Your secret is safe with me.”
Eric said to the mobster, “Jack’s gay, too.”
Licata snapped, “No he isn’t, you dumb cunt!.. What, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Put on your pants and join me in the other room.”
He took time to put on his boxers and his white slacks, but when I waved the nine mil, he understood that the rest of his wardrobe was to remain behind.
I let him out of the bedroom, and shut the door on Eric. Then I motioned the barefoot mobster to the red plush couch; when he’d perched himself on its edge, poised for just the right moment to take the gun away from me, I pulled up a matching red chair and sat across from him.
“Sit back,” I said.
He did. His hands were in his lap. His trigger finger was twitching.
“If you behave,” I said, “everything’s going to be peachy keen. If you make a try for me, then you just enjoyed your last cornhole… capeesh?”
He sighed heavily-contempt was in it. Understandably. But he nodded. His eyes were hooded and he was so very fucking pissed.
I asked him, “Do you have any reason to want Arthur Stockwell dead?”
His frown of confusion could not have been more complete. And I saw nothing fake in it. But there was real indignation.
He blurted, “What the fuck…? Artie’s directing the picture! Why would I want that?”
“Well, somebody wants him dead. And you were the prime candidate because, just before this production started, Stockwell had a fling with Tiffany. You remember her-your girlfriend? Main squeeze? Love of your life?”
“Why would I give a fuck about him fucking her?”
I was studying him. “That’s what I’m trying to figure. The only way it plays is if you are so intent to portray that bimbo as your mistress, you feel it necessary to prove the point by getting rid of somebody who really did fuck her.”
“Stupid,” he muttered.
“I mean, I caught on this afternoon-when we spoke, and when I saw how you and Tiff behaved on set-that she was your beard. Why else would you want your PR man to spread pictures of such a forbidden relationship? Unless you were in another relationship even more taboo. No whisper of your real sexual proclivities can be allowed, right, Lou? So you have a wife and kids, and a mistress, a Playboy playmate that the goombah crowd can envy you over with their mouths wide open and watering.”
“Like Don Rickles says,” Licata said nastily, “you win a cookie. But no fucking way would I want Artie dead. He’s too useful to me.”
“Sure. If his movies make money, well, hell, that’s money. If they lose money, then you have the perfect laundry. But there’s another possibility.”
The mustache emphasized his sneer. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”
“My understanding is that Art is insured. That if he went down, something called a ‘completion bond’ would kick in. An insurance company would write you a big fat check to cover production costs of a film that never got finished.”
He folded his arms. “Why would that be a good idea? The money would come in, and everybody would get paid off. So what? How do I stand to benefit?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that.”
“Well, don’t sprain yourself. Anyway, if I needed to shut the production down, I’d get rid of somebody above the line who’s more easy to replace, like that kiss-ass producer or…” His next words were sotto voce. “…one of the stars.”
I leaned forward, still pointing the gun at him, but not as threateningly. “Lou, somebody took a contract out on Art.”
“Says who?”
“Says the two assholes I iced since I got here. One today, one day before yesterday.”
“The fuck.”
“The fuck, Lou. The first guy was doing back-up, the second was arranging an accidental death for Art. I saw the doctored pills he was planning to switch with Art’s Percodan. That guy, the second guy? He had an accident this morning at the Spur in his own bathroom. Probably won’t be found for a while, since he has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ on his door.”
“…Who are you?”
“I used to work for the Broker out of the Quad Cities.”
“…Shit you say. Somebody killed him.”
“He was in a dangerous business.”
“What’s your business, Reynolds? What’s a guy who hits people doing hitting other guys who hit people?”
“Like you said, Lou-it’s my business. I’m working for Art, making sure he survives this film shoot. Call me a bodyguard or a troubleshooter, but however you put it, I’ve taken the immediate threat away…but do I have to tell you, Lou, that if somebody has marked Art for murder, another team won’t be far behind?”
He huffed a laugh. “So you think I’m the guy who wants him dead? Well, you’re fuckin’ nuts!..So what now, kill me and that innocent kid in the other room? You are one sick fuck.”
I sat looking at him. The nine millimeter, unsilenced, might bring attention. There was a pillow on the couch I could grab and use. And maybe just stuffing the snout in his gut would muffle the sound enough to get by. All that hair on him might help.
But then his honeybunch would come running in or maybe just start screaming, and then what? Collateral Damage starring Eric Conrad. Playing a hunch, doing things on the fly, it had its drawbacks.
“I don’t think you’re the guy who wants Art dead, Lou.”
“Good. ’Cause I’m not.”
“Not interfering with me, and my work, would benefit you. In fact, any theories you might have about who stands to gain from Art’s death, I’d like to hear.”
He shrugged. “Probably that wife of his. Art has money. Nice house in the Hills. She’d get it all. And he fucks around on her with other women, like you said. Kill her ass, why don’t you? And leave me the fuck alone.”
“Do I need to kill you, Lou?”
“What?”
“Convince me I don’t need to kill you. Maybe we can be allies.”
“I already helped you, didn’t I? With my theory?”
“If you really don’t want your director dead-and to have your movie hit a real bad speed bump-just forget we had this conversation, and we’ll go our separate ways. You forget I barged in on you waving a gun, and I’ll forget you were playing slap and tickle with Billy Jack.”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “I can do that.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“…Are you the one they call Quarry?”
“I might be.”
> “I won’t lie to you.”
I stood. “Good. I can’t hang around forever, because even in a casino town, suspicious deaths attract attention.”
“What did you do with the surveillance bozo?”
“I smacked him with a hunk of rubber.”
“Why would that kill him?”
“It was on a car at the time.”
I put the nine mil in my waistband. I buttoned the sport coat over it. I stared at the seated mobster for a while, my expression telling him he was free to make a try for me. It was no Wild West stunt. The guy was unarmed and smaller than me. He didn’t make a move.
But if I said I wasn’t shaking a little when I shut the door on the Presidential Suite and headed for the elevators, I’d be lying.
TEN
Just off the lobby of the Spur was a little bar, where I sat in a back booth with the director of Hard Wheels 2.
I’d run into Stockwell in the hotel parking lot, a little surprised we were getting back around the same time, the day’s shoot having wrapped well before I’d gone up to the Presidential Suite for my threesome with Conrad and Licata.
I told the director we needed to talk, and now we sat across from each other in the bar’s underlit little world, our conversation granted a certain privacy by the blaring, thudding disco music (“I Will Survive!”). I was allowing myself a rum and Coke and my friend Art was drinking rye and ginger ale.
Not surprisingly, he again looked beat, his eyes droopy, his face puffy, though he was handsome enough a guy to carry it well. His black t-shirt said, HARD WHEELS-Where the Rubber Meets the Road, with a butch-looking Eric Conrad astride a Harley. An artifact from the first movie, I assumed.
I asked, “Why are you just getting back?”
“Just having an end-of-day confab with Jimmy,” he said.
“Where is Kaufmann? You two are usually joined at the hip.”
“On his way to Vegas to pick up the rushes from the film lab. That’s the stuff we shot yesterday, or anyway the takes I marked for processing.”
“You look at the footage as you go along?”
“Sure.” He savored a sip of his drink. “That way we know before we’re too far down the road whether we have some technical problem or a scratch on the film or some shit, and need a re-shoot.”
“You do this every day?”
“Every night. There’s kind of a frustrating lag, because we don’t get the dailies from that Vegas lab in time to look at them in the morning before we start the next day’s work. Like, tonight we’re looking at the footage of the gas station fight yesterday. We’ve already struck that set…moved on, I mean…and if we find a fuck-up, it will be a giant hassle re-doing it.”
That explained the late nights for Stockwell and his producer-after each day’s shoot, they had to watch the dailies.
“The weekend’s a real pain in the ass,” the director said. “The local cinema complex can’t spare a theater for us until after their nine o’clock show. So we can’t screen the shit till sometime after eleven.”
Poor bastard. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, or anyway the weight of this production, but maybe that was a good thing. With so much on his mind, he didn’t have time to sweat the small stuff-like who wanted his ass dead.
“You may be relieved to know,” I said, “that I’ve eliminated Licata.”
His dark eyes flared. “What? Jesus, Jack, what the hell have you-”
“No, no. Not that kind of eliminate. Lou’s alive and well.”
Stockwell heaved a relieved sigh.
“What I mean is,” I continued, “I’ve determined to my satisfaction that your mob angel is not the party responsible for your problem.”
The eyes in the pouches burned bright. “So Licata doesn’t know about Tiff and me?”
“He does, but he doesn’t give a shit.”
Stockwell frowned in confusion. “How is that possible?”
“Art, there are some things it’s better you not know. Safer that way. Leave it that Lou likes being seen as a guy who’s banging a Playmate of the Year. Good for his image.”
“But he has no…no emotional investment in Tiffany?”
“None.” I squinted at him, and it wasn’t just the smoky bar. “Do you really think anybody but Tiffany could ever have an emotional investment in Tiffany?”
A big-hair brunette waitress in a fringe vest, denim miniskirt and a little less make-up than a circus clown came over and asked if we wanted refills. Stockwell said yes to a refill, but I was still working on my first one.
“The problem is,” I said, when the waitress had gone, “I was fairly confident Licata was our guy. With him ruled out, I’m not sure where to turn.”
Stockwell leaned forward. Despite the disco (“Le Freak!”), his whisper was not hard to hear: “But I’m still on the spot. I’m still marked for…what? An accident?”
“For something,” I said with a little shrug. “I need to know who benefits from you not being around. How about your wife?”
“Please. We’ve been down that road. J.J. and me, we love each other. Love each other in our way, but love each other. She has half of everything even if she walks out on me. Why would be she want me…” He whispered again. “…gone?”
“For both halves of everything?”
He shook his head firmly. “No. Not J.J. Never J.J. She’s just not that kind of person.”
My experience indicated otherwise, but I didn’t think now was the time to fill the director in on-what was the movie term? Backstory? The backstory of his wife and my ex-wife and how they were the same chick.
So I just said, “There’s only a limited amount of time here where I can be helpful. I have disposed of two pieces of shit for you…” I had to be euphemistic, because even with the loud disco (“Knock On Wood”), we were after all in a public place. “…and that could mean ramifications.”
His eyes narrowed. Again, not just the smoky bar. “Authorities getting interested?”
I nodded. “I frankly think it’s a long shot, but I didn’t make it past thirty by taking needless risks. I can give you maybe two more days.”
“Christ-then what?”
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “I would advise taking on security, and I don’t mean more Hell’s Angels retreads. I’d go to the baddest-ass P.I. agency in Vegas, hire some bodyguards through them, and tell their boss that you have reason to believe a contract has been taken out on you.”
“He’ll want to know why, won’t he?”
“Not if you give him enough money. You can point out that one of your film backers is Louis Licata, and he’ll understand the kind of waters you’re swimming in. Steer him away from Licata, though.”
“Christ on a fucking crutch. That’s my best option?”
“There’s Licata himself. He’s the money man behind your picture, and I don’t think he wants you dead. He has the resources to help.”
“Should I go to him now?”
I shook my head. My response was only partly based on my desire for a second twenty-five grand. “Our pal Lou, uh…he probably needs a day or two to cool off. He may not be thinking with a clear head just yet. Had to rattle his cage pretty hard, before I could figure out what was up.”
Specifically, his dick up Eric’s ass.
Stockwell rubbed his forehead. “How soon will another…team be brought in?”
“That’s the only advantage we have. Whoever hired this done probably doesn’t know yet that the first team has been permanently benched. There is usually a buffer involved. Professionals in my business are protected by layers.”
“I don’t follow…”
“Whoever hired this did not deal directly with the team. Probably he or she talked to someone in Licata’s world-not Licata’s family, just some organized crime contact-and this thing was put in motion.”
He was swirling what was left of his second drink in its glass, looking in at the liquid like it might have better answers than mine for him.
“But eventually somebody’s going to figure out that something went wrong, Jack, since I’m still around.”
“No argument. We might have forty-eight hours. Let me ask you something-this completion bond thing. How does it work?”
He shrugged. “It pays off the production. Pays the salaries. Pays the bills.”
“If something happened today, to shut this production down-how easy would it be to complete the movie?”
“Not easy. We aren’t nearly halfway. It’s vaguely feasible another director could be brought in, but one director picking up immediately for another…very tough. And if you shut the production down even for a week or two, to allow the second guy to do even a little prep, you can lose cast and crew to other commitments.”
“What if this were, say, two weeks from now?”
“More feasible. Bulk of the film would be in the can. Some of the actors would be shot out, including Tiffany, though not Eric, who is run-of-the-picture.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you often shoot your name talent out. By that I mean, you shoot all of their scenes. We don’t shoot this shit in order, you know. So let’s say I have a name player-at the Four Jacks this afternoon, you must have recognized the guy playing our villain, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I only have him for four days. Only way we could afford him. Today was his first day with the company. Once all his scenes are shot, he’s gone. Back to Hollywood.” The director gave me a frowny smile. “Why do you want know this technical stuff, Jack?”
“I don’t give two shits about the technical side, Art. It’s just that…if this completion bond money is the motive behind taking you out, then that means any accident you have needs to happen soon.”
“Is that bad for us? Or good?”
“Neither. It just is. It does give me a glimmer of who might be responsible.”
“Who are you thinking?”
I told him, and he just laughed. He waved that off, saying, “You’re crazy. That’s impossible. You can’t be serious. Don’t waste any time going there.”
“All right,” I lied. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
Quarry's ex q-9 Page 13