by Parnell Hall
“No. And therefore in the game. Sidney Garfellow’s a civilian. Richard Rosenberg’s a player.”
“You really think of it as a game?”
Sergeant Clark grimaced. “I was speaking metaphorically. Surely you know what I mean. The public will only cooperate so far, and there’s no use getting angry when they stop. An attorney-at-law is an officer of the court. I expect him to play by the rules.”
“I recall you having opinions about me as well.”
“You’re a private detective,” Clark said. “Isn’t that obvious? Another kind of player. But tell me. Why does this bother you so much?”
“Bother me? It doesn’t bother me.” I frowned. “Well, yes, I guess it does. You know what, it’s like you letting Jason Clairemont go home the other day. Now Sidney Garfellow blabs to the media and you don’t say boo. It’s like you’re kowtowing to the movie folk.”
“I assure you that’s not the case,” Clark said. “I take a pragmatic approach. I mean, what’s really happened here? Sidney Garfellow’s hired a bodyguard for Jason Clairemont. Which isn’t that bad an idea. In fact, I might have even suggested it. So why should I be upset?”
“Because it isn’t true,” I said. “That’s the whole thing. Sidney Garfellow isn’t concerned with Jason Clairemont’s safety. You think he seriously believes anyone’s trying to kill the kid? He just says he does for the publicity it generates. He says, my god, here’s a chance to get on TV and publicize my movie before it’s even shot. He didn’t hire his bodyguard for protection. He hired him as a publicity stunt.”
“Of course he did,” Clark said. “But what’s the difference why he hired him? It’s still a good idea.”
I opened my mouth to retort. Couldn’t think of one. Closed it again.
“Not that we need him much today,” Clark said. “We’re kind of isolated up here.”
“Oh?” I said. “You don’t think it’s one of the crew?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what difference does being isolated make, since they’re all on board?”
“So are we,” Clark said. “I don’t expect anything to happen right under our noses.”
“It did at the construction site,” I said. “You weren’t there, but we were.”
Then I saw the look MacAullif was giving me. He didn’t need me reminding Sergeant Clark that had happened right under his nose.
“That was a slightly different situation,” Clark said. “At the time, you suspected nothing. You weren’t looking for it. Now we’re forewarned. And that was a booby trap. A wooden rail was sawed in half. We’re on a ship. The rail’s made of steel. How are you going to booby-trap that?”
“Obviously you can’t,” I said. “But why does it have to be the rail? Maybe the killer booby-trapped something else.”
“Such as what?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I was standing next to some sort of single-engined fighter plane. I put my hand on the gun turret. “How about this? The ship’s got all these weapons on display. What if someone figured out how to load one?”
I’d said it as a joke. But when I saw the look on Sergeant Clark’s face, and then the one on MacAullif’s, I suddenly felt sick.
“Oh, my god,” I said.
There came the sound of a gunshot.
29.
NO, IT WASN’T THE NERDY TWERP superstar falling dead at the hand of a cowardly assassin firing a museum piece affixed to the wing of a biplane aboard the deck of the USS Intrepid.
No, the gunshot turned out to be our prop man firing a blank gun for the purpose of a level check for the benefit of sound man Murky Doyle.
Which I probably could have figured out if I’d had my wits about me. After all, I’d written the damn scene. I knew there were gunshots in it. It just didn’t occur to me at the time.
It hadn’t occurred to Sergeant Clark or Sergeant MacAullif either, but once they got the idea they were none too pleased.
The scene had lots of gunshots in it. The scene called for lots of bad guys firing lots of blank cartridges from lots of guns. Those guns and cartridges now all had to be checked out, which was time-consuming and a pain in the ass. Moreover, the prop man, whom I hadn’t really paid any attention to before but who turned out to be a sour individual who could put Murky Doyle to shame, was less than thrilled by the investigation, which he appeared to take personally.
Which was too bad for Sergeant Clark and Sergeant MacAullif. As for me, I kept out of it. It was none of my business. Not that I’d want you to think me hardhearted. I was merely following the advice of my attorney—I wasn’t involved, and I was enjoying my movie.
Which wasn’t that hard to do this morning. We were filming an action sequence and there weren’t any lines for Jason Clairemont to rewrite. And the action sequence wasn’t half bad, particularly since anytime it called for Jason to do anything the least bit strenuous, he’d step aside and let the stunt double do it. The double, who was just a bigger, stronger, handsomer, more talented and athletic version of Jason Clairemont, was absolutely fine. He was a pro, and executed each bit of business with the same precision with which he had executed the spin kick.
At the construction site.
Just before the boom man fell. Shit.
As I stood there on the deck of the USS Intrepid, watching the stunt double crouch on the wing of a fighter plane preparing to leap on the back of a bad guy as he passed by, it occurred to me to wonder, if Jason Clairemont had fallen from the construction site, would the stunt double have been elevated to his part?
Maybe not.
But he might have thought he would.
I saw Sergeant Clark standing on the other side of the deck, watching the action. I considered going over and suggesting the idea to him. I immediately talked myself out of it. Butt out, schmuck. You’re an amateur. Clark and MacAullif are pros. Let them handle it.
Which they did. All morning long. Through a hail of gunshots.
Because when we got down to it, it turned out this was my Rambo scene. Or my reverse Rambo scene. The hero never fires a shot. He’s unarmed, does it all with his bare hands. But the bad guys sure do. Through take after take after take, the bad guys fired shot after shot after shot. And each time the guns were reloaded, they had to be checked out by MacAullif and Clark.
I can’t tell you what that did for the demeanor of the prop man. Not to mention slowing filming down to a dead crawl.
On the bright side, with the action confined to the ship, if someone should shoot Jason Clairemont—not that I was rooting for that to happen, you understand, but if it did—-at least we could narrow our search down to the people actually aboard.
By lunchtime we had shot enough takes for MacAullif and Clark to have come to the conclusion it probably wasn’t going to happen, and to realize their inspection of the prop guns and blank cartridges was probably a waste of time. In fact, I had that opinion from Sergeant MacAullif himself. He sidled up to me at one point after checking the guns and muttered out of the side of his mouth that the whole thing was a major pain in the ass, and an easier way to tell if the guns were loaded with blanks would be to shoot Jason Clairemont’s bodyguard and see if he died.
Anyway, we got through the morning shooting without incident and broke for lunch.
Which was a brand-new ball game.
Naturally, there was no way to drive a catering truck up on the ship. The caterers had set out the hot trays and tables on the shore next to the gangplank. Which was a rude surprise for Sergeant Clark, who’d been up on deck and hadn’t seen them setting up. But when the AD called lunch break, there were the caterers at the top of the gangplank, ready to usher everyone off the ship.
Which created a small jurisdictional dispute. Clark, for security’s sake, wanted the caterers to bring the food and tables up on deck. Sidney wouldn’t hear of it. If he didn’t feed the crew now he risked going into meal penalty, which would cost him a fortune, and how would Sergeant Clark like to be responsible for the resultant tab?
<
br /> A compromise was quickly reached—the crew would eat on shore, Jason Clairemont would eat on deck.
That pleased the TV crews that had stuck around about as much as one would expect.
It wasn’t the way Sidney Garfellow would have liked it either, but he made the most of the situation.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the media,” he declared, striking a pose at the foot of the gangplank and making sure to wait until the cameras were rolling. “I know you’re waiting to see Jason Clairemont. I regret to inform you he will not be coming down. Because of the threat to his life, Jason Clairemont is lunching on deck.”
The announcement was met by a chorus of boos.
Sidney held up his hands. “I know you’re disappointed, but this is not my decision. I am following the orders of the New York Police Department.”
With that, Sidney turned and strode back up the gangplank.
I was standing next to MacAullif. “Clever son of a bitch,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
Sergeant Clark came over. “That man turns everything to his own use, doesn’t he?”
“You’re not eating on deck?” I said.
“No.”
“Who is?”
“Jason, Sidney, the bodyguard, and the assistant director.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” I said. I shouldn’t have.
“Why?” Clark said.
“The dynamics. She was messing around with Sidney, then she went out with Jason Clairemont.”
Clark gave me a look. “Are you conducting your own investigation?”
“Not at all,” I said. “She volunteered the information. Yesterday, she came up to me, wanted to know why you were hassling her about going out with Jason Clairemont.”
“You say she brought this up?”
“Yes. But not like she had anything to hide. More like, why did people care about her personal life?”
“Thank you for that insightful assessment,” Clark said. “For the moment, if I could ask a small favor.”
That surprised me. “What?”
“If you gentlemen could keep your eyes open. I’m not at all happy about the crew eating down here.”
“Why?” I said. “Jason Clairemont’s eating up there.”
“Yes, of course,” Sergeant Clark said. “But we’ve only Sidney Garfellow’s word for it that Jason Clairemont’s the one the murderer is after. Just because you’re working on a movie is no reason to get taken in by the hype.”
With that. Clark moved off to inspect the perimeter.
There was indeed a perimeter. We were eating within a circle formed by police sawhorses and a rope. The rope extended from one side of the back to the catering truck and ran around a huge circle encompassing all the tables, ending at the other side of the back of the catering truck. The sanctity of the circle was being maintained by the two policemen from the mayor’s office who, all things considered, weren’t doing a bad job.
I took Sergeant Clark’s hint, looked around for potential saboteurs. Saw none.
“I don’t see anybody looks like they want to kill anybody,” I said to MacAullif. “Whaddya say we eat?”
“Yeah. Right.”
“We grabbed trays and hopped on the buffet line. Which was slower than usual. Mamma and the girl were waiting on the party on deck, which left Papa serving alone. It occurred to me to wonder whether a slow lunch line could trigger meal penalty.
Finally, MacAullif and I got our food. We took our trays and sat down at a table with Clarity Gray.
“How you doing?” I said as we sat down. “You recover yet?”
“Recover?”
“From the questioning. I remember you weren’t too happy about it.”
“Oh,” she said. “No, that was all right. I just get flustered. Can’t remember things.”
“I can’t imagine that,” MacAullif said.
“Oh, yes,” Clarity said. “I’m a regular scatterbrain.”
“You’re kidding,” MacAullif said. “With a job like that?”
“Well, not on the job,” Clarity said. “That’s something else. If it’s job-related, I know.” She frowned, shook her head. “In fact, that’s part of the problem. If it’s not job-related, I don’t have to remember it, so I don’t. See what I mean?”
“Was there anything Sergeant Clark wanted you to remember that you couldn’t?”
“Remember? No. There were things he wished I’d seen that I hadn’t. But nothing I couldn’t remember.” She smiled, shrugged. “Unless I’d forgotten it completely.”
MacAullif and I both laughed, and I was relieved. It had bothered me that she’d been nervous about being questioned. It was nice to think that was just a normal apprehension about cops and didn’t mean anything.
I smiled, felt good for the first time in some time.
And who should come walking up to our table but Murky Doyle.
Damn. I hated him for breaking the mood. Whatever the pain in the ass had to say, I didn’t want to hear it.
“We’re collecting for Charlie’s wife and kids,” Murky said. “Anything you’d care to donate would be appreciated.”
Damn. The ultimate bring-down. Just when I want to resent the guy, he’s doing something good. That’s for starters. But what he’s doing is killing the mood with widowed wives and orphaned children. Thanks, Murky. Thanks a lot.
I put in twenty dollars, not rich enough to afford more but feeling like it wasn’t enough. I felt somewhat vindicated when MacAullif and Clarity kicked in twenties too.
When Murky moved off, none of us felt like talking. I attacked my food and looked around the dining area. Murky had moved on to another table and was making his spiel. I didn’t have to watch that again. I looked some more.
Another table seemed to be composed of the department heads. Along with Jake Decker were the art director, the gaffer, the DP, and the cranky prop man.
At another table were the second assistant director with a bunch of actors, including Jason Clairemont’s stunt double.
At a far table was a young man I recognized but for a moment couldn’t place. A tall, gawky young man. Of course. Jason Clairemont’s personal gofer. Now that Jason had a bodyguard, he was odd man out.
As I watched, he was joined at the table by the original gofer, Dan. My one triumph in this investigation. The kid I’d caught red-handed in the petty theft of a blondie.
I was aware of someone setting a tray down next to me and turned to look. It was Sergeant Clark.
“Well,” he said. “Everything seems secure for the moment. I guess I can eat.”
There came the sound of an explosion, like a loud gunshot.
It wasn’t.
It was thunder.
And it began to pour.
30.
AS ROBIN WILLIAMS WOULD SAY, it was déjà vu all over again.
There we were, back at the warehouse, dripping wet, about to shoot a cover set. Just like day one.
Only we didn’t have Hot Babe Number One, she was wrapped. And we didn’t have Hot Babe Number Four, she was just exteriors on the boat. But we did have Hot Babe Number Two, called in expressly for the purpose of shooting some cover-set scenes that were to include—ta da da da!—partial nudity. So despite the change in the weather, I was actually feeling pretty good.
Sergeant Clark, probably unaware of that wrinkle in the shooting schedule, was not.
“Check your equipment,” Clark said.
Sound mixer Murky Doyle gave him a look. Murky, like everyone else on the crew, was crowded around the catering truck, trying to get a cup of coffee to warm up from the rain.
“What was that?” Murky said. It was almost a sneer.
“I want you to check your equipment. Make sure it didn’t get wet.”
“It didn’t get wet,” Murky said.
“I want you to check it.”
“Hey,” Murky said. “It’s my equipment. You think I’m not going to check it out?”
“I’m sure you are. I
just want you to check it particularly.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t this how your first boom man got hurt? Isn’t this how Charles Masterson got a shock?”
“No. Someone messed with the wires.”
“So you say. But weren’t the circumstances the same? They’re filming outdoors, it rained, they came indoors, and on the first take this happened?”
“Yeah, because someone crossed the wires.”
Murky was now one spot away from the coffee urn, and not to be deflected, no matter how persuasive Sergeant Clark’s arguments were. Perhaps sensing this, Clark waited until he got his coffee before trying again.
“Fine, Murky,” he said. “I accept the idea someone crossed the wires. Aside from that, isn’t this exactly the situation you had before? The equipment was outside, got wet when it rained.”
“Absolutely not,” Murky said. “How many times do I have to tell you? The equipment wasn’t outside. Sound wasn’t called for the street scenes. I was home in bed. I rushed over here, set up the equipment, and it happened.”
“You may not have been there, but the equipment was. On the camera truck. If they unloaded it to get at something else, wouldn’t the equipment have gotten wet?”
“Sure. But nothing would have happened if someone hadn’t crossed the wires.”
“There’s no chance of the same thing happening today?”
“Not at all. I’ve been using the equipment all morning and it’s fine.”
“And it wouldn’t make any difference if it got wet?”
“If it got wet, I’ll dry it off. Big deal. It’s not gonna hurt anyone. Not unless someone was screwing with the machine. And they didn’t. I was using it all morning. It’s fine.”
“What about lunch?”
“Huh?”
“What about lunchtime? You were down on the dock. Eating lunch. Taking up a collection, as I recall. Where was your equipment then?”
“On board the ship.”
“Who was watching it?”
“Huh?”
“During lunch. Who was watching your equipment then?”
“I dunno.”
“So. Anyone could have tampered with the equipment then.”