Shoot the Dog

by Brad Smith

  The doors opened into a foyer on the top floor. A receptionist sat behind a large mahogany-topped desk, typing something into a laptop. She looked up when they stepped off the elevator. Smiling widely, revealing perfect white teeth, she got to her feet.

  “Hello, Marvin,” she said before turning her focus to Sam. “He’s expecting you.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Marvin explained. “Ronnie likes one-on-one.”

  Sam was surprised; she had assumed they’d be going in together. But she wasn’t fazed. After all, this was her thing and as a rule she preferred to go it alone. Marvin sat down in a chair along the wall and began to flip through some magazines there. The receptionist walked over to open a large oaken door and moved aside.

  Sam stepped inside and the door closed behind her, the latch clicking crisply. The office was as cold as a meat locker and roughly half the size of a tennis court, with shining maple floors and walls of some beige fabric, like muslin, covered for the most part with Native artwork. There were sculptures everywhere: some sitting on coffee tables, a few on tall glass plinths, others rising from the floor. One—of a polar bear on its hind legs—was more than eight feet tall. There was a large brown leather couch and several matching armchairs at the far end of the room, the furniture arranged in a manner that suggested a separate room or sitting area. There was a well-stocked wet bar along the wall.

  A heavyset man of about forty-five, with thick red hair pulled back in a ponytail, sat behind a large desk opposite the door where Sam had entered, a phone cradled to his ear. His feet were up on the desk; he wore baggy black shorts and a tank top and red sneakers. The man half turned when Sam entered and held up a forefinger, as if to say he’d be just a minute. He was clean-shaven, his complexion not good at all, his face and shoulders covered with freckles.

  Sam gave the room another quick once-over. She’d been expecting to find Ronnie Red Hawk here. The man on the phone turned away from her, spoke while looking out the large plate-glass windows to the forested hills in the distance.

  “You can tell Trump to go piss up a rope,” the man was saying. “I’ll build it without him. I’m the one guy he doesn’t boss.”

  Sam waited a moment longer, then turned and walked back into the foyer. Marvin looked up, frowned when he saw her.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Where’s Red Hawk?” she asked.

  “He’s not in there?”

  “No,” Sam said. “Just some white guy talking on the phone. A big dude with red hair.”

  Marvin laughed and the receptionist joined him. “That’s Ronnie,” he said.

  “That’s him?” Sam asked. “Ronnie Red Hawk’s not Native?”

  “He’s Native enough,” Marvin said. “Long story, but he’s Native. And right this minute he’s probably wondering where you went.”

  Sam turned and went back through the door. The red-haired, freckle-faced man who was Ronnie Red Hawk hung up the phone. As he got to his feet, he picked up a book from the desk. Sam saw it was a copy of Frontier Woman, the trade paperback, looking brand-new. He stepped around the desk, extending his hand. He was tall, maybe six three or four.

  “You’re Sam Sawchuk,” he said. “I’m Ronnie.”

  “Very nice to meet you,” Sam said.

  “Let’s sit over here,” Ronnie said, indicating the couch.

  The couch was probably forty feet away. Crossing the room, Sam removed her hat and pushed back her hair. Ronnie towered over her and as they walked Sam could feel his eyes on her breasts, swinging freely in the blouse. In the cool of the office, she could feel her nipples against the thin fabric of the top. When Ronnie indicated the couch to her, she sat and placed the hat beside her. The leather was real and soft as butter.

  “Cool hat,” Ronnie said. “You want something to drink? Soda or water? Hey—you want a shot of tequila? I got some great tequila.”

  Sam smiled. “I’m good.”

  Ronnie shrugged and sat down in a chair opposite the couch. He was still holding the book loosely in his left hand.

  “So you’ve read the book,” Sam said.

  “Not all of it,” Ronnie said. “Well, just the first page actually. I had my secretary go out and buy it an hour ago. But I read the thing on the back, you know, where they tell what it’s about. I like it.”

  How’s that for a snap review, Sam thought. The man reads the back cover and decides the book is a winner.

  “Who’s playing the woman?” Ronnie asked.

  “Olivia Burns.”

  “Yeah?” Ronnie said. “Do you know Kari Karson?”

  “I don’t know her,” Sam said. “Not personally.”

  “She’s incredible,” Ronnie said. “You should put her in your movie.”

  “Well,” Sam said slowly, “there’s not a role for her right now. She’s too old to play the daughter and too young for the preacher’s wife. She’s pretty busy in the tabloids anyway.”

  “Those assholes,” Ronnie said. “They should leave her alone.”

  “I agree,” Sam said. She wanted to move off the starlet. “So Marvin tells me you’re a big movie fan.”

  “I love movies,” Ronnie said. “I got maybe two thousand DVDs. Blu-ray.”

  “What do you like?”

  “I like everything,” Ronnie said. “I don’t know . . . Scarface. Braveheart. Goodfellas. Rocky . . . the first one anyway. I like comedies, like Superbad or Pineapple Express. Westerns. I love westerns.”

  “Frontier Woman is sort of like a western,” Sam said, spotting an opening. “It’s actually set in the 1840s. Call it an early western.”

  “I thought that, reading the thing on the back. Who’s playing the Indian . . . what’s his name?”

  “Gregory Stone.”

  “He’s okay,” Ronnie said. “He was good as Sitting Bull in the HBO thing. You see it?”

  “Yeah. He’s great.”

  “You should make a movie with him and Kari Karson.”

  Kari Karson again, Sam thought. “Hey—find me a script and we’ll talk about it,” she joked. “Sounds like you should be in the film business, Ronnie.”

  “I’d be good at it,” he replied. “I’m good at everything I do. I’m an incredible businessman. Incredible. You know why? Because I know what’s good and what sucks.”

  “Intuition,” Sam said. “It’s huge in this business. And you can’t teach it.” She hesitated, cautioning herself to go slow. “You know, I’ve got a partner on this project, he doesn’t know shit about movies. He’s got money but his instincts suck. I don’t have to tell you that it’s tough to work with somebody like that.”

  “So why do it?”

  “Because I need the equity. I’d dump him in a New York minute if somebody else stepped up with the cash.” She paused for half a beat, like a poker player pondering whether to call or raise. She decided to go all in. “And yeah—I’m talking about somebody like you, Ronnie. There are a lot of people out there who like movies, but true instinct is tough to find.”

  “What’s his name—this other guy?”

  “His name doesn’t matter. Just a guy who likes to play producer.”

  Ronnie leaned back in the chair and gazed at the ceiling for a long moment, as if taking time to imagine himself in a certain position in the film business. “And I would be a producer?” he asked, his eyes still cast upward.

  “Absolutely.”

  Now he looked at her. “So, like, if the movie won an Oscar, I’d be one of the people onstage?”

  “Of course.”

  Ronnie turned in his chair and had a long and quite deliberate look at himself in the large mirror on the opposite wall. He didn’t seem embarrassed in the least that he was admiring his own reflection. “I might like to get into acting at some point too,” he said after a moment. “My ex-girlfriend told me I look like Liam Neeson.”

  “I can see that,” Sam said. If she’d been drinking something she’d have spit it up. The man sitting across from her looked as much like Lia
m Neeson as Sam looked like Jabba the Hutt.

  He looked at her now. “How much you need?”

  “I’d have to check the paperwork,” Sam said, and she paused once more; she could feel her pulse rate elevating. “Ballpark, six million.”

  Ronnie Red Hawk never blinked. “Let’s do it.”

  Sam, stretching like a cat, locked her hands behind her neck. “I like the way you handle yourself, Mr. Red Hawk. You know what—I think I would like a shot of tequila after all.”

  Ronnie openly ogled her breasts, straining against the blouse, as he heaved his bulky frame out of the chair. “You’ll love this stuff. I get it sent up special from Mexico. It’s incredible.”

  SEVEN

  Fairfield Village was a somewhat faithfully reconstructed pioneer settlement located on a two-lane blacktop a few miles off Route 17, about halfway between Woodstock and Oneonta. Virgil, driving his old pickup and hauling Mary Nelson’s double horse trailer behind, found the place easily enough, arriving at a quarter to seven Monday morning. There were signs with FRONTIER WOMAN and BIG DEAL PRODUCTIONS everywhere, advertising the film shoot and advising cast and crew where to park.

  Virgil pulled the Ford into a gravel lot at one end of the re-created village and turned the ignition off. The settlement was much larger than he’d expected, covering maybe fifty acres in all. The main street was composed of dirt, and featured—among other buildings—a general store, millinery, post office, courthouse, and smithy. There were fields, just beyond the town proper, planted with rye and corn and bordered with rail fences. And while the quaintness of the village felt artificial on a certain level, the fields were real, as were the crops.

  A few people in period costume wandered the streets, carrying take-out coffees, the early hour and their somewhat sluggish pace suggesting they were heading for work. Whether they were involved with the film or everyday employees of the pioneer village, Virgil had no idea. In fact, he had no notion at all of what to expect now that he was there. He’d been told it was the first day of shooting and to be at the village at seven in the morning. Nothing else.

  He’d brought along a thermos of coffee and some lunch, and now he poured himself a cup and leaned against the fender of the truck, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. Alongside the parking lot, off the end of the village, in what must have been a fallow field, a couple dozen large trailers were parked, all part and parcel of the film crew, he assumed. There were a lot of people hustling here and there, some carrying totes, others with clipboards or binders in hand. Some wore lightweight headsets.

  After a time Virgil spotted the two men who’d approached him in his hayfield several days ago stepping out of one of the trailers. The taller one, the director with horseshit on his shoes, spotted him and pointed him out to the other, the longhaired one. Virgil couldn’t recall either of their names.

  Pretty soon the longhair corralled a third man and the pair of them headed over. The longhair wore cotton pants and a tight T-shirt, the better to show off his arms. The other man, carrying a clipboard, was lean and rangy, with gray hair that reached past his collar, and he wore faded jeans and a green work shirt. He was probably in his sixties, with creases around his eyes, his faced lined and weathered from too many hours in the sun. He had a relaxed way about him that the longhair didn’t, the way he walked, his body language. When they were twenty feet away, Virgil remembered the longhair’s name. Levi.

  “You made it,” Levi said as they approached, his tone suggesting that he had little confidence in Virgil showing up. “This is Tommy Alamosa, first assistant director.” He jerked his chin toward Virgil. “This guy works for the guy who owns the horses.”

  Tommy Alamosa extended his hand. “I bet this guy has a name.”

  Virgil shook the hand. “Virgil.”

  “Glad to meet you, Virgil.”

  Levi never offered a handshake and Virgil was far from disappointed with that. He’d already decided the man was a poser. The older guy seemed okay, though. So far.

  Tommy turned and gestured to the settlement. “We’re basically taking over the village for the week,” he said. “There’s a paddock over there for the horses. There’s feed and water and some straw for bedding, if you need it. You can leave them here or trailer them back and forth every day. Up to you.”

  Virgil looked at the paddock, and the barn behind. Two long-eared goats were enclosed in the paddock, and Virgil could hear the sound of chickens somewhere, possibly from the barn. There were no other horses in sight.

  “You’d better check with your boss on that, cowboy,” Levi said. “What’s his name—Cain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  Virgil shrugged. “I call him Mr. Cain.”

  “Who said there was no respect left in the world?” Tommy asked. “You want to unload the horses? We’re going to put them to work this morning. I’d like to have a look at them anyway.”

  “In the paddock?” Virgil asked.

  “That’s good,” Tommy said. “They’ll be pulling a buckboard, a scene where the family comes to town for supplies. They can pull a buckboard?”

  “They can pull a wagon.” Virgil shrugged. “Not much of a stretch. Somebody trained them well.”

  “Not you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll send somebody over to show you where to go,” Tommy said. “You need a hand hooking the team to the buckboard?”

  “Mr. Cain told me to deliver the horses,” Virgil said. “He didn’t say anything about hitching them to anything.”

  “What the fuck did you think we were going to do with them?” Levi demanded.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Virgil said. “I’m not in the movie business.”

  Tommy turned to Levi. “We got a wrangler on set?”

  Levi indicated Virgil. “I figured this guy—”

  “You figured what—he was going to work for nothing? We need to get this straightened out.” He turned to Virgil. “You interested in working for us?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s not union,” Levi said.

  “Neither are the horses. Put him on a personal services contract. Sorry about this, Virgil, but we’ll get it right. I have to get moving. You two can figure out the money.”

  He walked away. Levi waited until he’d disappeared into one of the trailers, then turned and looked unhappily at Virgil.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Remind me—what are you paying for the horses?” Virgil asked.

  “Five hundred a day.”

  “If it’s good enough for Bob and Nelly, it’s good enough for me.”

  • • •

  Two hours later Virgil had the team harnessed to a buckboard that apparently was the property of the little settlement. FAIRFIELD VILLAGE was stenciled onto the sideboards, and someone had artfully arranged a worn canvas tarp over the lettering to conceal the name from the cameras. The cinematographer and crew had been setting and re-setting lights in front of the general store for a while, and as he waited, Virgil had driven the buckboard around the perimeter of the town several times, getting the horses used to it. It wasn’t much different than pulling a hay wagon, Virgil guessed, other than the fact that there were a few dozen people around. And, of course, the lights. But the team fell into pace, and even broke into a trot a couple of times when Virgil encouraged them.

  The scene, as it was described to him, would be of the frontier family—the husband, wife, and daughter—driving into town, traveling along the main street a hundred yards and then stopping in front of the store, where the man would jump down and tie the horses to the hitching post. It seemed pretty simple to Virgil but it was taking a long time to set everything up.

  The director, Robb-something, Virgil finally remembered, was doing a lot of walking around, hands thrust deep in his pockets, occasionally stopping to look up and down the dirt street as if waiting for something or somebody to arrive. Inspiration maybe. Tommy Alamosa someti
mes walked with him, and he seemed to be encouraging him to get on with things.

  Finally, they were ready to try one, as Tommy called it. A diminutive woman wearing a long blue dress and bonnet came out of one of the trailers and approached the blacksmith shop at the end of the village, where Virgil was standing by the front wheel of the buckboard, holding the team. The woman was accompanied by another woman, this one carrying a cell phone and a couple bottles of water. It took Virgil a moment to realize that the woman in the dress was the actress Olivia Burns. She smiled and said hello to Virgil.

  “I’m Olivia,” she said.

  “Virgil.”

  “Your horses are beautiful,” she said.

  Virgil just nodded, not wanting to get into the whole ownership thing again. Someday he might have to decide just who in the hell did own the horses.

  A minute later a girl of about ten, also in a gingham dress, appeared. When she saw Bob and Nelly, she ignored everybody else and went directly to the horses, cautiously holding out her hand.

  “Feel how soft their noses are,” she said in wonderment.

  Virgil had some carrots in his pocket and he broke one in half and gave the pieces to the girl. “You ever do this before?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m from Brooklyn.”