The Money Shot

by Stuart Woods

  Particularly when he was up on the beam, all alone, totally exposed. It was a city block with tall buildings on both sides of the street, a zillion places a gunman could be hiding.

  Of course, he would have to know the shooting schedule, the location, the shot, and the script. They would have to know what actor was in which position at what time. True, Mason Kimble and Gerard Cardigan were movie people and would be familiar with location filming, but they would need to have someone on the inside feeding them the specifics.

  Teddy realized he was being paranoid, but these guys had sent a hit man after him and burned down his house.

  Teddy parked on the street, where production assistants were manning the four blocks with NO PARKING signs that the police had posted in accordance with their permit. He got a coffee and a scone from the catering truck, and took them to the actors’ trailer.

  Tessa and Brad had their own trailers on location, but Teddy shared his with the other actors. Today that was only George, the stuntman who’d be playing Brad on the high beam. George was sitting at the makeup table with a paper cup of coffee.

  Teddy slid in next to him. “Hey, George, how’s it going?”

  George grinned. “Ah, the man I get to shoot.”

  “Assuming your aim’s good.”

  “It should be. We’ve rehearsed the scene enough.”

  The scene was simple. George, trapped on top of the construction site, runs out on a girder to escape. Teddy follows, stops, and shoots. The bullet whistles by George’s head. George spins and shoots Teddy in the chest, knocking him off the girder.

  Peter had built a mock-up of the girder in the studio to work out the moves for the gunfight. Teddy and George had run it enough times to be as confident on the twelve-inch-wide beam as any Olympic gymnast.

  “We’ve rehearsed it three feet off the ground,” Teddy said. “This is a little different.”

  “No kidding. Have you ever done stunt work on a high bar?”

  “No, but a job’s a job.”

  “I still don’t get why you’re doing your own stunts. You have a featured part, you don’t have to do this shit.”

  “This shit is what I do. The acting’s the stretch.”

  Peter stuck his head in the door. “Hey, guys. Ready to get your feet wet?”

  Teddy grinned. “Ready when you are, C.B.,” he said, paraphrasing the famous response of a cameraman to Cecil B. DeMille when asked if he had gotten the million-dollar action sequence that had just taken place on film.

  “Okay,” Peter said. “The landing balloon is all filled. Let’s go jump.”

  “You realize I don’t fall off the beam,” George said.

  “Not in the scene,” Peter said. “But if you slip and fall, I’d rather you weren’t killed.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “If you’re thinking about the height, it will inhibit you. And then you could fall, because you’re afraid you will. All we’re doing is taking away the fear, showing you that if you do fall, it’s all right.”

  “All right with you,” George said.

  Teddy and Peter laughed.

  74

  Kenny, the key grip, took them up in the elevator. The grips were responsible for any equipment on the set that had to be moved, and the construction elevator counted because it was in the shot.

  Kenny ran them up to the top. “Fifth floor. Everybody out,” he said, and opened the door.

  Teddy, Peter, and George stepped onto the platform. The floor area around the elevator was not extensive. For the most part, it was just bare girders.

  Peter nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect, just like we laid it out in rehearsal. Mark traps George up here, George goes out on the beam to escape. It’s this one here to the right, with a clear shot down to the safety balloon. How does it look, Mark?”

  “Fine.”

  “George, how does it look to you?”

  “High. That balloon looks pretty small from up here,” George said.

  Peter smiled. “It’s fifty feet wide. Mark, do you want to do the honors?”

  “My pleasure,” Teddy said.

  He walked out on the girder, turned and waved, and hopped off.

  The landing balloon was thick. Teddy never came close to touching the ground. He landed on his back, bounced, and settled. He crawled to the side, grabbed the thick rope around the perimeter of the balloon, and shimmied to the ground.

  He stood up and waved. “Come on down!”

  “Well, here goes nothing,” George said.

  He walked out on the beam and jumped. Seconds later he was scrambling to the side and lowering himself down next to Teddy.

  “Well, how was that?” Teddy said.

  George grinned. “Can we do it again?”

  75

  Slythe watched the practice jumps from his vantage point next to the catering cart. It was nice to see where the shot would be filmed, though he had no intention of going up there.

  It was also nice to see where his quarry was going to fall.

  Slythe didn’t recognize either of the actors. He knew one was Billy Barnett, but he couldn’t tell which.

  Fortunately, it didn’t matter.

  One of the assistant directors, who had been waiting on the ground for the actors to make the jump, came walking up for a jelly doughnut.

  “Will they be doing that again?” Slythe said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the jump.

  “No, they’re done,” the AD said. “I took them to wardrobe and makeup.”

  “Anybody else going to jump?”

  “Why, do you want to?”

  “No way. But is anyone else?”

  “Not likely. You know the type of insurance risk it would be for someone in the crew goofing around?”

  “So that’s it till the shot?”

  “Should be.”

  Slythe finished his coffee. He crumpled his cardboard cup, tossed it in the garbage, and wandered off in the direction of the Porta-Potties. He detoured around them and strolled casually in the direction of the landing balloon.

  Up close it was enormous. Slythe couldn’t even see over the top.

  Slythe glanced around. Back in the street, the crew was still unloading the trucks. Cameras, lights, and reflectors were being set up. Huge lights on tripods were being braced with sandbags.

  No one was paying any attention to him. Still, he was within sight lines. He strolled around toward the far side of the landing balloon.

  A policeman was standing there.

  Slythe managed a smile. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Okay. You with the crew?”

  “Props. You guarding the set?”

  “I’m on traffic control, but there’s nothing to stop until they begin filming. You know when they might start?”

  “Not for a while. They’re still setting up. You know, there’s coffee over there—doughnuts, cheese Danish—if you wanna grab something.”

  “Not a bad idea,” the cop said.

  Slythe watched him go. He reached in his pocket, slid out his straight razor, and flipped it open.

  He stepped up to the balloon.

  “Tim!”

  Slythe froze. His hand with the razor dropped to his side. He turned calmly, a seasoned pro, ready to size up the situation and react.

  It was only Jackson. And he didn’t look alarmed.

  “What’s up?” Slythe said.

  “The director wants to see you.”

  76

  Peter Barrington sized Slythe up. “You’re filling in for Russell?”

  “That’s right. I’m sorry if I’m not up to speed, but I just got the call. As I understand it, you’re filming a gunfight on an I-beam.”

  “That’s right. We’re shooting the stunt up there, then close-ups later on a low beam. I’m partic
ularly concerned with the shot up there. It’s the first shot of the day. We’ll have four cameras rolling. The villain shoots three times before the hero spins around and blasts him, and he falls. I’d like to get it in one take because it’s a huge setup and I don’t want the actor to have to do the fall twice. I need you to check the guns carefully just before the shot to make sure everything is in order.”

  Slythe pointed. “Up there?”

  Peter frowned. “You have a fear of heights?”

  “I don’t like them. Do I have to be up there?”

  Peter considered. “Well, Jackson has to be up there to set off the squib. But the guns . . .”

  “Can’t I just give them to the actors before they go up?”

  “They have their guns in their shoulder holsters for the wardrobe check. Tell you what. How about you check them just before they get into the construction elevator?”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Slythe smiled.

  Perfect.

  77

  Teddy nearly fell asleep in his makeup chair. He’d been on the go so much lately and the movie trailer was a safe space, a place where he could zone out and relax.

  Teddy snapped awake when they came back to check his squib. Something was different, and he was attuned to notice anything out of the ordinary. He knew what it was immediately: the prop man. The guy checking his squib wasn’t Russell.

  “You’re new,” Teddy said.

  The prop man nodded. “Tim Dale. Russell phoned in sick. Help me out here. If you’re the guy with the squib, you must get this.” He held out the snub-nosed revolver.

  “Right you are,” Teddy said. He took the gun, flipped it open, and spun the cylinder. He flipped it shut and stuck it in his shoulder holster. “I’m Mark. That’s George. He gets the other one.”

  “Here you go.”

  George took the Sig Sauer and slipped it into his shoulder holster.

  The prop man went out.

  Teddy relaxed, relieved that the thing that had him on guard was something as simple as that.

  Even so.

  “Hey, George,” Teddy said.

  “Huh?”

  “Let me see your gun.”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious. After all, you’re going to shoot me with it.”

  George handed over the gun.

  Teddy popped the magazine and checked the blanks. He ejected the shell in the chamber. It was a blank, too.

  Teddy stuck the magazine back in the gun, chambered the round, and handed the gun back to George.

  Teddy felt foolish, but only a little. You didn’t need doubts in your mind when you were five stories up on a twelve-inch-wide girder, about to fall off.

  78

  Slythe came out of the trailer feeling good. He’d carried off his masquerade as a prop man well enough to fool the director and both actors, including the one who was presumably Billy Barnett. Slythe wondered if he really was. He didn’t look much like the man he’d seen emerge from the burning house, but that man had been a fright. This man was in costume and makeup.

  But it had to be him. According to the bar girl, Mark Weldon was Billy Barnett, and she had been trying to impress him with her insider knowledge, and too drunk to lie.

  Slythe glanced around. No one was paying any attention to him, nor was there any reason why they should. He’d done his job. No one would need him again until they were ready for the shot. He was on his own.

  Slythe walked over to the landing balloon. The cop was back, but some of his buddies had arrived, and they were out in the street, probably planning traffic flow. No one seemed the least bit interested in a prop man hanging out between tasks.

  Slythe slipped his razor out of his pocket and cut a twelve-inch horizontal slit in the side of the landing balloon. He stepped back to inspect the damage. Air was hissing out slowly. The balloon was deflating, not so fast that it would be noticeable too soon, but not so slowly that it wouldn’t do its job.

  Slythe walked all around the balloon, adding a cut here and there, before heading back to the catering cart for a coffee.

  79

  Places, please!”

  The assistant directors hurried around importantly, banging on doors and summoning everyone to the set. Or rather to the base of the construction site. The actual set was on the fifth floor, but no one was up there yet.

  The people going up were gathered by the construction elevator. There weren’t many—just the two stuntmen, the director, the cameraman, and Jackson on squibs.

  Slythe was there, too, but he wasn’t going up.

  “Okay, guys, let’s check those guns,” Slythe said.

  The stuntman who was presumably Billy Barnett handed over his snub-nosed revolver. Slythe popped the cylinder and checked the blanks, though he couldn’t have cared less about them.

  “Fine,” he said. He snapped the gun closed and handed it back.

  “And yours.”

  George handed over the gun. Slythe popped the magazine. It was full, except for the shell in the chamber. He ejected the shell. It was the blank he’d loaded a half hour before. He palmed it and substituted one of the live rounds he’d stolen from the hardware store. He shoved it into the magazine. He popped the magazine into the gun and chambered the live round.

  He smiled and handed the gun back to George.

  “All set,” he said.

  80

  Kenny took them up in the elevator. He’d taught George how to run the elevator for the shot, but union rules said the key grip had to bring up the crew. Otherwise there was no reason George couldn’t have done it. The mechanism was simple: a handle stuck out the top of a semicircular casing and you pulled it to the right to go up; you pushed it to the left to go down.

  This time everyone got off on the fourth floor. It was a little more finished than the fifth, but mostly just steel girders.

  “Okay,” Peter said. “This is where we all start. Dennis is on the camera. Jackson, you’ll be right beside the camera with me. It’s open air, no obstruction, you can set off the squib from there. Kenny, you’re kind of trapped up here. Stay next to Jackson.

  “Starting positions for the actors are George in the elevator, and Mark clinging to the side. But don’t take them until we’re set. George, do you want to take the elevator up and down a couple of times before we go?”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Do it anyway. I don’t want to have four cameras rolling and have the elevator go down when it should go up.”

  “Okay.”

  George took the elevator up and down and announced that he was comfortable.

  “Great,” Peter said. “Let’s try one.”

  Peter had a walkie-talkie. “Okay,” he said to the first assistant director, who was on the ground. “Lock it up.”

  “Lock it up,” the first AD yelled. “Lock it up!”

  The sound mixer rang a bell as loud as a fire alarm. That was the signal for everyone to stop what they were doing and be quiet for the shot. It was also a signal for the policemen to stop traffic and keep the crowd back.

  “Are we ready?” Peter said. “Okay, places, please. George into the elevator, Mark onto the side. All right, this is a take, we are going for picture. Roll it!” he said to his cameraman and into the walkie-talkie.

  On the ground the first AD said, “Roll it!” to the other cameramen.

  The sound mixer said, “Speed,” meaning his tape was rolling. The sound man was down below. The only microphone topside was a directional mike attached to the camera.

  The cameraman clacked the slate in front of the lens. “Two-twenty-three double Papa, take one.”

  “And, action!” Peter cried.

  George took a deep breath and blew it out. He pulled the lever to the right and the construction elevator rose to the top. He slowed it sli
ghtly, and stopped it level with the floor as Kenny had showed him.

  George pulled the door open and stepped out.

  A breeze was blowing. He hadn’t noticed it before. He wondered if it had been there.

  George moved out on the platform.

  Teddy jumped down from the elevator.

  George heard the sound and turned. He saw Teddy. Glanced around. There was no place to go.

  George ran to the girder on the right. He stepped out on it and kept going.

  Teddy followed. It was slightly windy, but he had no problem keeping his balance. He hoped George was all right. He hit his mark at ten feet. He stopped, looked down, and decided he wasn’t going any farther. He raised his gun at George’s back and fired.

  The sound of the blank was loud.

  The bullet presumably whistled past George’s head.

  George kept going.

  Teddy fired again.

  And missed.

  He fired again.

  George ducked into the 180-degree spin move. It was perfect. He aimed the Sig Sauer straight at Teddy and fired.

  The bullet glanced off Teddy’s ribs and knocked him backward off the beam, blood streaming from the blood bag and the wound. He fell in an awkward, helter-skelter heap.

  Teddy knew he’d been shot. The thought raced through his mind, What a great take this is going to be for Peter.

  Then everything went black.

  81

  Teddy came to in a hospital bed. He was vaguely aware of where he was. He blinked and tried to focus. There were a zillion tubes attached to him dripping fluids in and out. They restricted his movement, not that he was going anywhere. He hurt all over, a muted, dull pain. He figured one of the drips must be morphine. His pain was localized in his left leg, his head, and his chest. Just as he’d envisioned, the sniper had blown him off the beam. He should have trusted his instinct. Well, next time.