“I see,” he said, trying his best to appear receptive to the idea.
“Then she coughs uncontrollably,” Tami said, “she grabs hold of my hand, her eyes flutter, and she … dies.” Tami took another dramatic pause, sat up as if cradling the dead child, and added with emotion in her tone, “I turn to the building, grief stricken. The fire’s light illuminates my tears.” She took a brief moment to collect herself before adding, matter-of-factly, “Needless to say all this is intercut with the opera we never made it to, already in progress. Puccini’s Tosca. Have you ever seen it?”
“No.”
“It’s the opera that’s on now.”
As if on cue, the passionate soprano belted out tortured Italian verse.
“Wow,” he said, not knowing what to say. “You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you?”
“Yes. It’s very important to me. What do you think?”
Melodramatic as hell, incredibly over-the-top, there’s no way we’re going to include this scene in the next two weeks. He briefly considered the possibility of searching for stock footage of a turn-of-the-century carriage at night, maybe from a long-forgotten costume drama, Masterpiece Theatre or something like that. Then maybe he could pick up the rest of the coverage in close ups and … fuck, there’s no way!
“Well …” he said stroking his chin, “that would be a great scene …” but what he really pondered was opera house? A dying kid? Eddie felt a major headache coming on.
“I feel it’s critical,” and she added with emphasis, “Vital.”
“Have you mentioned this to Sam?”
“I’ve brought it up a number of times, but he puts me off. I figured with your endorsement …”
Eddie knew Sam would never agree to put up the extra money, but said, “I’ll talk to him.”
“I think it best if we talk to him together,” she suggested.
“Whatever you think.”
She smiled. “We’re going to make a great movie, you and I.”
“I know we are,” he said with forced confidence, hoping it was true.
Chapter
FIFTEEN
“It’s a bowhunter’s arrowhead, different than the recreational brass rounded-tip arrow the Dillard brothers have,” Deputy Martinez explained to Detective Chong.
They were standing beside the gray fabric-covered cubicles inside the Sheriff’s office substation. She handed Chong a color Xerox photo of the arrow retrieved from the camera truck and continued, “This broadhead is designed for big-game kill, razor sharp. In bowhunting it’s all about bleeding out the game,” she said, details she’d learned from speaking with the game warden. “The blades are designed to cut through blood vessels, arteries and vital organs resulting in both internal and external bleeding. The more damage done from the arrow traveling through the body, the quicker oxygen is deprived to the brain. And bowhunters prefer to not have to chase game very far, so this modern design is all about a quick kill.” She pointed out the stainless steel tip in the photo. “This is a mechanical broadhead which means it has moving parts, additional blades that pop out upon entering the body to cause maximum damage slicing through flesh.”
“Sort of like a hollow-point bullet,” Detective Chong said.
“That’s right, goes in and expands. And this arrow is the same make and model from the roadside murder.” She produced photos of those arrows, the broadhead and shaft tinted reddish-brown from the victim’s dried blood. “Different than the arrows we collected out at the Dillard place.”
“And this arrow was retrieved where?” he asked.
“Shot at one of the trucks up at the Crescent Movie Ranch this afternoon. There’s a crew up there making a movie. Nobody was hurt, thankfully. The truck was parked when it was struck.”
“And what type of arrows killed that alpaca?” he asked.
“Those arrows were never collected as evidence.”
“Why not?”
Deputy Martinez knew he’d ask so she’d already prepared her response, “It’s not department policy to retrieve evidence when animals are killed.”
He gave her a nod, said, “So you’re saying the Dillard brothers may have had nothing to do with the roadside killing?”
“I know I led everyone to their place, but—”
“Don’t regret it,” he said.
“Have you found Nick Dillard?”
“Not yet.”
“And Jerry? Has he said anything?”
“Didn’t make it out of Intensive Care,” he said.
A pang of guilt struck Martinez but she tried her best to hide it. Sure, Jerry was manufacturing drugs, and stupid enough to shoot at them, but did he deserve to die? Had Jerry received medical attention sooner maybe he would have lived, but Martinez was aware of the unspoken rule: once a bad guy engages in battle with officers, they’ve crossed the line. Immediate medical attention becomes less of a priority unless an officer is also injured, and then it becomes top priority. She realized in Jerry’s case, the area was not secure for a while and the medics weren’t allowed onto the property until the sheriff’s deputies determined his brother Nick was not there nor posed a threat.
She thought of the moment when she engaged Jerry to question him for his brother’s whereabouts. She could tell he recognized her and she saw the pure hatred in his eyes, as if she’d betrayed him.
Deputy Martinez said to Detective Chong, “My gut tells me the Dillard brothers had nothing to do with the roadside murder and the killer is still out there.”
“Keep an eye on this movie crew. Don’t hesitate to request additional resources if need be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work, Martinez.”
It had been a long day. Deputy Martinez changed out of her uniform at her locker. She went to the market for groceries and then drove to the apartment complex she called home. She parked her Hyundai under the carport and went to retrieve her son.
The kids of other working parents rarely stayed with Mrs. Gomez past six or seven in the evening, but with her schedule there were many nights when Cesar slept there until she got home. Martinez knocked and the old woman opened the door. Martinez could see her son sitting on the floor watching TV.
“How was he today?” she asked.
“Siempre es un buen chico,” she said, meaning he was always a good boy. Mrs. Gomez always said that, Martinez came to realize, so it meant nothing.
Cesar got up and ran to her. He clung onto his mother’s leg without saying a word. She could feel the warmth of her young son’s arms around her thigh and said, “Mommy’s home, little one.”
Martinez handed her cash, the arrangement they had since Mrs. Gomez was afraid to open a checking account, like many immigrants in her situation, scared that the paper trail could lead to deportation.
Thinking about the arrow incident, she said, “I may be home late tomorrow too,” her son still clinging to her leg.
“Is not a problem,” Mrs. Gomez said with a smile.
“No, Mommy. Stay home,” Cesar said.
“I wish I could,” she said, and thanked the woman before leading her boy off to their one-bedroom apartment.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
When Eddie got back to the Gold Strike, it seemed like everybody wanted a piece of him. Stuart needed to finalize the child actors with speaking parts, still not cast yet. Wardrobe had questions regarding how to dress tomorrow’s extras. The art department wanted to run photos of props by him before they went through the expense of renting from the prop house. He promised everyone he’d be right back and went to his room, but not before getting ice. He poured a pair of airline-sized Ketel Ones—vodka would be least noticeable on his breath when he returned to meet with everyone.
He sat in the padded armchair in his room and sipped, thinking of Sheila. He had not seen her in the lobby.
Maybe she was in the bar. He wondered if the connection he’d felt between them had all been in his imagination. That was plausible. Of course, she’d smile and talk to him, he was the director. And wasn’t Sheila a budding cinematographer? She was probably angling to one day shoot one of his movies. Am I a hopeless romantic? Eddie thought. Probably.
But he couldn’t deny there was something there. He sensed she felt it too.
Maybe she had that boyfriend back then. A few months ago, he’d seen her out with some guy walking Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade. On one hand, Eddie wanted to kick the guy’s ass, but on the other he realized he and Sheila only spent one night together followed up by just a few dates. It’s not like they were a couple, so maybe she was with this guy while working on the last movie and then she felt guilty because she’d strayed. She wouldn’t admit she’d been unfaithful. She’d come up with an excuse to break it off, like she did. That must be it.
But that didn’t stop Eddie from learning the guy’s name later that week when he saw him working out in the gym and asked the trainer who he was. Roland. What kind of name is that?
From the brief encounters he’d had with Sheila over the last couple of days, it was clear she wasn’t interested in him and likely dating this Roland dude. He appeared to be everything Eddie was not, tall and handsome.
So be it. He decided it best to play it cool. If he and Sheila were meant to be with each other then it would happen. If not …
All he knew was he needed to find some kind of love in his life. He was aware the loneliness and depression fueled his drinking. It had become a crutch. He got up and poured the rest of the glass of vodka down the bathroom sink then rinsed the glass.
While brushing his teeth, the incident with the arrow came to mind. He wondered if it was the result of locals not wanting them to film in their backyard. Was someone trying to scare them off? He’d read newspaper articles about hidden marijuana fields up in the mountains protected by armed men. Maybe the movie ranch was close to one of those. He’d ask Stuart if they’d learned anything more.
Eddie went downstairs and after brief meetings with the others, he sat at Stuart’s laptop to finalize the child actors, all scheduled for the next weekend. Eddie asked, “That arrow in the camera truck, you learn anything more?”
“No,” Stuart said. “I’m thinking maybe someone was hunting deer. That ranger said those arrows fly four hundred feet per second so the thing could have come from far away.”
“Possibly,” Eddie said. “But maybe we consider hiring security.”
“We have security.”
“Where?”
“Staying on set overnight.”
Eddie remembered seeing a slovenly, obese rent-a-cop that afternoon, a bottom-of-the-barrel type of guy, the caliber of security guard minimum wage buys. He must be the security Stuart was referring to, the one who’d stay overnight in one of the trailers up on set to keep an eye on things while everyone else slept in the hotel. He didn’t think this guy would be enough. “I saw that guy, but he won’t be on shift while the rest of us are working. We may need more.”
“I have that sheriff’s card,” Stuart said. “If anything weird happens I’ll call her.”
“Okay. But I’m thinking maybe it’s worth bringing on a few more guys.”
“You want to ask Sam for that?” he snapped back. “Maybe shave a day from the schedule to pay for it?”
“I’m just saying—”
“It’s not in the budget.”
After a pause, Eddie asked, “Then can we dress the guy in wardrobe and work him in as an extra?”
“You know we can’t,” Stuart said, angered. “And you’re well aware of the limited resources we’re dealing with.” He opened his binder and said, “I accommodated your request by hiring two more extras for tomorrow. I’m working with you, here, okay, but you can’t get blood from a stone.”
Eddie let it rest. “Okay Stu, no problem. Thanks.”
Hushed so the others would not hear, Stuart said, “I don’t tell you how to do your job, so please don’t tell me how to do mine.”
Eddie could see he’d angered him and figured it wasn’t worth pursuing. “I’m sorry. We just need to get shooting this damn thing and everything will take care of itself.”
“I wish I could be so optimistic.”
“Try to relax. Have fun.”
“I’ll relax when I call wrap on the last day, when I see the taillights of our trucks heading back to LA,” Stuart said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Together they made the last of his choices for the child actors and Stuart sent the email to Susan Pike Casting. Stuart closed his laptop and went up to his room, so Eddie drifted into the bar. Sheila was sitting at a table with Giovanni and Luther. The first karaoke song has just begun.
Eddie hated karaoke. He preferred to drink in relative peace with relaxed conversation as opposed to shouting over someone’s amateur performance. He felt it would be awkward to join them so instead retreated to his room.
After a nightcap he crawled into bed, Sheila still on his mind.
Chapter
SEVENTEEN
Sheila got up early, before the crack of dawn, and called Luther to meet her in the lobby. The night before, they’d made plans to be on the first shuttle up the hill. It was a good hour before call time so only a few others were in the van: Stuart, the grip and electric team of John and Paul, and Seth, the hippie production designer she’d barely seen. Sheila always made it a point to get to set early, especially on the first day, even though she was up late singing duets of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” and Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” Sheila was wide awake, but Luther was gloomy and despondent, probably a little hungover, she figured. There was a morning chill, so Don cranked the heater while they headed up the hill.
About halfway up the road, they came across Diane waiting at the turnout to Tami’s cabin. She wore a puffy down vest and was stomping the ground in her Ugg boots while blowing into her hands for warmth. Don slowed to pick her up. Diane thanked him as she boarded and said to all, “It’s really cold out there,” before she took a seat across the aisle from Sheila. “I saw a baby deer,” she shared, glowing, pointing out to the trees.
All business as usual, Stuart said to Diane, “I need Tami camera-ready by ten a.m. latest. Can you make that happen?”
Diane replied, “You’ve got to talk to Connie and Bonnie, bub. That’s their department. I’m just getting the trailer ready.”
Sheila thought it funny she so casually called Stuart “bub.”
He asked, “I forgot, and you are?”
“Diane.”
“That’s right, and your responsibility is …?”
“Tami’s stylist.”
He nodded with a “right” and consulted the call sheet clipped to his binder.
Sheila suspected Diane was more than a stylist—more like Tami’s handler. As mad as she was about all the crazy resources that went into Tami’s special treatment, she had to admit she was impressed by Diane when she saw her wrestling the barber chair into the trailer. She was obviously strong and not afraid to get her hands dirty. The only other woman on the shuttle, Sheila introduced herself and they made small talk. She was curious and asked, “So, how long have you worked with Tami?”
“Not long. We’ve done a lot of social media, but this is our first movie together.”
That made sense, a twentysomething handling the older actress’ social media channels. Someone Tami’s age wouldn’t know the current trends. Sheila had a few friends back in LA who were relatively young and didn’t have any professional experience but had landed lucrative salaried positions in marketing departments because they were up to speed in digital trends.
She and Diane found a common interest in yoga and chatte
d about what studios they attended. Sheila liked Diane immediately. She had style, and she was cool and cheerful until the shuttle arrived at base camp and Don put an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Diane’s mood suddenly changed and she glared at him. As they stood to get off, Diane asked, “You’re not going to light that are you?”
“What?” Don said, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
“You’re not going to light that cig after we all get off, are you? Isn’t this van nonsmoking? And aren’t we in a fire zone?”
Don said nothing, grabbed the pack and gently slid the cigarette back inside.
Diane looked to Stuart for support and asked, “Isn’t smoking outside designated areas grounds for dismissal? Didn’t you say that back in LA?”
“Don,” Stuart said. “Do me a favor, will ya? Don’t light up unless you’re in the Gold Strike gravel parking lot, like it says on the call sheet.”
“Where’s the smoking area up here?” he asked, pointing out the window to the cluster of trucks and trailers.
“We haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Haven’t thought of it, have you?” he accused.
“No. Not yet.”
“We’re going to be up here all day. Will you let me know?”
“Sure,” Stuart said. “We’ll find a place and put out an ashtray.”
“Thanks,” Don said, eyeing Diane in the mirror.
They all got off and dispersed. Sheila and Luther were at the camera truck dropping the liftgate when Diane approached. She said, “Did you see that?”
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