He shook off the self-pity. He wasn’t in the habit of biting the hand that fed him and Larry Unger was definitely feeding him. Titanic Productions might be a D-list movie company but it paid the bills and paid better than the police. McNulty had once joked that it was Hollywood light, like low-fat yogurt, but even straight-to-video movies made money. TV movies made more but came with added restrictions. Larry liked dancing at the edge of good taste. A little adult content went a long way to getting your money back.
Money. That was the root of the problem that Larry wanted McNulty to deal with. Money in the shape of film stock and the theft thereof. That would come under the umbrella of on-set security, which he had highlighted in his query letter. He didn’t know much about the technical side of moviemaking, but he did know that Larry bought the cheapest film negative and used every last frame of it. Offcuts and part reels were stored and loaded for short scenes and insert shots. Sometimes Larry even adapted the screenplay to shorten the scenes according to film stock. And now somebody was stealing what little stock he had.
“Can I get you anything else?”
The waitress stood beside the table. She leaned in close to clear McNulty’s plates. She was young and pretty but only smiled with her mouth closed. When she spoke, the words revealed a mouthful of gleaming metal braces that didn’t stop her from pouting with full red lips. McNulty pointed at his cup.
“Could I have another tea, please?”
She nodded and leaned further over the table. McNulty wasn’t sure if it was the English accent or the fact that he worked for the film company. Probably a bit of both. He wondered if they could tell he had a Yorkshire accent or if maybe he’d smoothed it out since living in America. She cleaned the table even though McNulty hadn’t dirtied it.
“Yes, of course.”
She was about to leave but then turned back.
“Do you know Daniel Craig?”
Okay, so it wasn’t just the accent. McNulty nodded.
“Short fella. Blue eyes. Not as tall as Sean Connery. Grew up near me.”
That last part was an exaggeration, although Craig did come from up north. The waitress didn’t seem to mind. She was in seventh heaven. She held her order pad to her chest.
“I love it when he says his name.”
“The Bond bit?”
“Love it.”
She seemed embarrassed but pressed on.
“Would you say it, please? With your accent.”
The accent was part of it then. McNulty nodded then lowered his voice.
“Bond. James Bond.”
The waitress giggled. McNulty pointed to the cup she was clearing away.
“And that’s a tea. Stirred, not shaken.”
She trotted off with a wiggle that would drive the boys mad, her figure already a woman’s before she’d grown into it. McNulty let out a sigh as he remembered someplace else that employed young girls. The Northern X Massage Parlors back in England. He tried not to think of his part in its downfall. More especially, his part as a customer who helped make it successful.
Weak afternoon sunshine reflected off a car windshield as it drove past. The shard of light made him squint and brought him back to earth. He watched the wheels turn and thought about film canisters and Larry Unger’s problem.
McNulty stirred milk and sugar into his tea and watched the spiral within a circle. Everything reminded him of film spools today. The question was, who was stealing them and how could he stop them? The stopping them part was easy; he’d simply ask them, like he had asked the makeup bully. Catching the thief was the hard part. McNulty broke down the list of suspects into two categories: Those with legitimate access and those who could break in if they wanted to.
The first list was fairly short. The director of photography was at the top of the list but under him there were several people with access to the location storage. On a big movie the camera operator worked the camera but on a Titanic production, the DOP doubled as operator. The first assistant camera was the focus puller and always worked alongside the cameraman. The second assistant camera was the clapper loader, the one who worked the clapperboard at the beginning and end of each scene and kept a record of when film stock was received and processed. On a Larry Unger shoot, the second AC also loaded the film magazines from the manufacturer’s light-tight film cans. Unger didn’t employ a digital imaging technician or a Steadicam operator. So, the list consisted of the DOP, first AC and second AC. The person with the most access to film storage was the second AC.
The second list was endless. On a location shoot every member of the crew could wander the set, the production offices, and the storage facilities without being asked too many questions. That meant everybody from the director through second assistant director to the continuity lady could have sneaked in and taken the film negative. None of that made McNulty’s job any easier. Without narrowing the list of suspects, he couldn’t front anybody up and ask them to cease and desist. Maybe he should hold a sign up that said, “I KNOW YOU DID IT,” and see who avoided his eyes.
He smiled at his own joke and didn’t notice that one of his suspects had come into the diner.
“You happy to see me, or choking on a crumb?”
Amy Moore slipped into the booth and sat facing McNulty.
“Should I give you the Heimlich maneuver?”
THREE
The waitress seemed less enthusiastic about serving the makeup lady than she’d been exchanging tea recipes with the Yorkshireman. It took a little longer. There was a good deal less pouting. Amy ordered a milky coffee, weak, two sugars.
“The sugar’s on the table honey.”
The waitress turned on her heels and left to fulfill the order. Amy watched her go then looked at McNulty. She formed a claw with one hand and made a cat noise.
“Meow.”
McNulty shrugged.
“She wants to serve James Bond.”
Amy smiled.
“I bet she does.”
McNulty looked Amy in the eye.
“And you want to do the Heimlich.”
It was Amy’s turn to shrug.
“Only if you’re choking.”
McNulty took a sip of his tea.
“Did you know that in first-aid manuals they’re not allowed to call it the Heimlich maneuver anymore? Copyright. They’d have to pay his estate a fortune.”
Amy didn’t have anything to sip yet.
“I doubt you’d complain if you were choking on a fish bone.”
“Doesn’t work on fish bones.”
“A peanut then.”
McNulty put his cup down.
“Nobody ever complains when somebody saves them.”
Amy rested her hands on the table.
“Do they ever thank you?”
The cup rattled as McNulty toyed with it.
“Got a box of chocolates from an old lady once. Had to smash her front door with my truncheon when she’d collapsed.”
“Truncheon?”
“Side-handled batons now. Used to be a wooden billy club back then. You might call it a nightstick.”
“But you saved her?”
McNulty stopped playing with the cup.
“Hence the chocolates.”
Amy fixed him with a steady gaze.
“Well, I don’t have any chocolates.”
There was an awkward silence as neither of them spoke. McNulty knew where this was going and felt embarrassed. He always found it easier to handle criticism than praise. Amy’s coffee still didn’t come. She leaned forward.
“But thank you. For earlier.”
McNulty let out a sigh. Until then he hadn’t noticed he was holding his breath.
“You’re welcome.”
He was trying to hold onto the here and now but felt it slipping. Amy wasn’t making it easy.
“Some men get in that chair and can’t help turning into a bully.”
The slide was
getting faster.
“Bullies are my specialty.”
And just like that he was back at Crag View in the United Kingdom.
The slap sounded like a gunshot in the quiet office. A gunshot followed by a heart-breaking whimper. The man in charge of Crag View Orphanage stood back and leaned against his desk, sunlight from the window glinting off his glasses. The headmaster. Mr. Cruckshank. Just the two of them alone in his office at the bottom of the stairs. But not quite alone. The girl Cruckshank had slapped was hidden behind his bulk.
The gunshot echoed in young Vincent McNulty’s ears. Anger filled him like hot oil. Nobody saw Vincent McNulty leave childhood behind and become a man. A man with a very short temper. Mr. Cruckshank pushed off from the desk.
“Go back to your room.”
Vincent picked the biggest book he could find from the bookshelf and hefted it in both hands like a baseball player preparing to swing.
“Go to hell.”
The whisper carried more weight than a thousand raised voices. Cruckshank blinked. Vincent stepped forward and swung the book. The leather-bound Bible crashed into the headmaster’s face and broke his nose. One lens from his glasses popped out of the frame and shattered on the floor.
Amy brought him back to the present with a gentle hand laid across his. He pulled his hand away and sat up straight. Amy’s coffee had come, and she withdrew to the safety of holding the mug as if warming her hands.
“You were miles away there.”
McNulty picked up his cup but didn’t drink.
“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
Amy stirred two sugars into her coffee.
“Maybe I should have brought chocolates.”
McNulty shook his head.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Amy softened her eyes and hoped McNulty would notice.
“Maybe not owe you. But I do like you.”
McNulty took a swig of tea to avoid answering. Amy stopped stirring.
“And I think you like me, too.”
McNulty smiled and shrugged. Noncommittal. This wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. There was too much baggage. Too many things he still had to deal with before moving forward. Amy pressed on.
“So, how come you’ve never asked me out?”
How do you answer that one without offending the person you’re answering? Noncommittal wasn’t going to cut it this time. McNulty toyed with his cup again while formulating a response. He was still fiddling when he spoke, eyes down, looking at the table.
“You don’t want me asking you out.”
Amy puffed her chest out in feigned indignation.
“Huh? And you know that, how?”
McNulty looked up from the table and met Amy’s gaze. The confident ex-cop who’d taught Alfonse Bayard how to walk had disappeared. In his place was a damaged orphan from Crag View Orphanage.
“You don’t want it getting around. That you’re hanging out with me.”
Amy laughed.
“You think it hasn’t got around already?”
She waved a hand to encompass everything around her.
“This is the circus. Word gets around about everything.”
McNulty hesitated, struggling to find the right words.
“They should know this then. You’re too good for me.”
Amy tilted her head to one side.
“You think I’m good?”
McNulty raised his eyebrows. “Too nice.”
Amy reached out and stopped him fiddling with his cup. “So are you.”
McNulty took her hand in both of his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Not as nice as you think.”
Amy looked at the tattoo on the side of McNulty’s neck. The gothic house tattoo with long dead branches of a tree spreading across it was partly hidden by his shirt collar. “We’ve all got baggage. You don’t get to our age without a past.”
McNulty patted her hand then pushed back from the table. “My past isn’t somewhere you’d want to go.”
Amy was left holding her own hands.
“Look to the future instead then.”
McNulty thought about the search he was engaged in. The person he was still trying to find. The past that wouldn’t let go of him. He liked Amy but wasn’t ready to open up yet. He wasn’t used to conversations like this.
“The future’s defined by the past. Mine’s a bit… Murky.”
Amy didn’t answer. She simply stared at McNulty, forcing him to continue.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”
She put added tenderness into her voice. “Like what?”
He was about to fudge his way around the answer when the door opened, and he was spared the effort. McNulty slid out of the booth and patted Amy on the shoulder. “Sorry, duty calls.”
He stood up and watched the door bang shut as the second AC, AKA the clapper loader, came in, found a table near the door and waved the waitress over. McNulty waited until he’d placed his order then slipped into the booth opposite the man responsible for the film stock.
FOUR
“Good work this morning. Keep this up and Larry’ll be going anamorphic.”
Brad Semenoff watched McNulty settle into the booth. The intrusion caught him by surprise. The technical adviser didn’t normally have much contact with the camera crew; he mainly liaised with the producer, the director and the actors. The film crew knew that McNulty wasn’t your standard technical adviser though. The ex-cop was more like security and heavy mob. That made Brad nervous. Like a driver being followed by a cop car, feeling guilty even though he wasn’t doing anything wrong.
“I doubt he’ll go Cinemascope. Places that show his films don’t have that big a screen.”
McNulty smiled. “Actually, it was a play on words. You know, like, stratospheric.”
Semenoff regained his confidence. “I don’t see Titanic Productions going stratospheric either.”
The young man and the ex-cop shared a knowing look, Hollywood light, then McNulty leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Unless it hit an iceberg. That’d be pretty catastrophic.”
Brad wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he edged his bets. “Is that another play on words?”
McNulty softened his tone. “Kind of. But hitting an iceberg would be a hell of a stumbling block.” He sat back in his seat. “Like running out of film.”
McNulty watched the second AC for signs of a reaction. The 25-year-old already looked guilty, but McNulty knew that some people just didn’t like talking to the police. No matter how hard he tried to distance himself from being a cop he still came over like a cop whenever he talked to people. He reckoned it was the eye contact. Most people slip in and out of making eye contact when they’re talking. Cops always look you in the eye, partly to appear interested but mostly to look for tell-tale signs. Brad Semenoff had tell-tale signs coming off him like steam.
McNulty spoke softly. “You know, I heard there was this film once.” He wiggled his fingers, as if trying to remember the title. “The Brothers McMullen. Anyway, Edward Burns made this film entirely on short ends and offcuts to keep the cost down. Bought all this shitty film stock wherever he could. On sixteen-millimeter yet.” McNulty let out a sigh. “Until I met Larry, I thought the story was apocryphal.”
Semenoff found his voice. “Are you playing with words again?”
McNulty shook his head. “It means a story of doubtful authenticity.” He looked away just for effect, then eyeballed Semenoff again. “I always thought end of reels and unexposed film ended up on the cutting-room floor. But Larry uses every last inch of it. He could be the Edward Burns of modern cinema.”
The waitress brought Semenoff a steaming mug of hot chocolate and set it on the table. Same waitress, different drink. She raised her eyebrows at McNulty, but he said no to ordering anything else. She pouted and stalked off. He watched her disappear behind the counter then turned back to Semenoff. T
he second AC was hidden behind a cloud of steam that disguised his guilt.
“You need to watch out for that,” McNulty said. “Worse than getting into hot water.”
Semenoff tried to appear confident. “You think I’m in hot water?”
McNulty’s eyes never left Semenoff’s face. “I think you’re gonna burn your throat.”
Semenoff blew on his drink. The clouds of steam dissipated. “I’d better let things cool off a bit then.”
McNulty smiled. “Good idea.” He slid to the edge of the booth. “Reason I came over. Since it went so well this morning, Larry’s scripting a couple extra scenes. Wanted me to make sure you’ve got enough film. Might have to go all Edward Burns.”
Semenoff nodded. “I’ll check the stock.”
McNulty stood up. “Enjoy your sludge.” He went out the door. If Amy was right and everyone knew everything the minute it was out of somebody’s mouth, then even if Semenoff wasn’t involved, news of the offcut situation would spread quickly. Whoever was taking the film stock would need to replace it. For McNulty, that meant staking out the storage locker before filming started tomorrow. He’d not be asking Amy Moore out tonight.
FIVE
Stakeout at Blacks Creek Motel. It sounded like a Titanic Productions straight-to-video movie. For McNulty it felt like being a cop again. He pushed that thought aside. The last time he’d felt like that it hadn’t worked out so well. Instead, he concentrated on the layout from his position across the parking lot.
Blacks Creek Motel was a two-story roadside hotel on Quincy Shore Drive just north of town. The trees of Caddy Memorial Park stood out on the hillside behind the low, wide structure that was laid out in traditional motel style. Ground-floor rooms were accessed from the parking lot. Upstairs rooms were accessed from the balcony that ran along the front aspect, overlooking the parked cars. The reception office was at the far end to the left where the motel entrance swept in from Quincy Shore Drive. A wire-fenced compound took up most of the right side of the parking lot, butting up against the motel, farthest from the office. A long way from the only motel staff member. Not ideal for security. Perfect for McNulty.
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