by Joan Hess
“Who does she think she is?” Hal Desmond barked from behind his desk. “Get me the last contract, Carlotta. She took three points last time. Why in God’s name does she think she deserves six now? What’s she done—grown another breast?”
Carlotta did not leap to her feet and dash into the front room of the office to find the contract under discussion. She was much too enured to these petty and petulent tirades, and less than impressed with them. Hal was red-faced, but what else was new? He was trembling so hard that his curly brown toupee was liable to slip off his head, but who cared? She, along with other distaff members of the production company, had seen him without the toupee or anything else, and none of them had found the result worthy of discussion.
Crossing her legs, she settled back in the chair and said, “Gwenneth’s heard rumors that actors actually get paid salaries, as in scale minimum and more. I told you to keep her locked in the basement between pictures. You’re the one who insisted on escorting her to the hot new places and displaying her at parties. An extra three points seems to be the price of having cleavage hanging on your arm, Hal.”
Hal lit a cigarette and regained control of himself, which wasn’t all that hard, since his tantrums were perfunctory. He was a producer and a director. He had an artistic temperament. He was the one who made it happen. He had a full head of expensive hair, a keen grasp of the industry, a Jaguar, a house on the beach, and a herd of lackies to jump when he snapped his fingers. Except for Carlotta, he amended with a grunt. If she weren’t so damn efficient, she’d have been cinematic history a long time ago.
He blew a plume of smoke in her direction. “I took Gwenneth to Marty—what’s his last name? Anyway, I took her to Marty’s to stir up some interest in the flick. I’ve got to go through Marty to get to the distributor, and I’ve got to get to the distributor if we want Prickly Passion to be shown in the passion pits of America.”
“Did Gwenneth make it with Marty?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. He would have run his fingers through his hair had it been possible. “I told her to, and I threw him a few stories about her undeniable prowess. Gave him the tape with the outtakes of her and Frederick when they were, shall we say, ad-libbing to excess? If she’ll ad-lib like that with Marty, he’ll persuade Cinerotica to pick up the film in a big way, and we might see some money for our effort.”
“You’re a pimp.”
“Yeah.” He jabbed out his cigarette and gestured at her. After a moment of thought about her schedule for the evening, she took a cassette of Prickly Passion from a shelf, loaded and activated the VCR, and went behind the desk to massage his fleshy neck. As she did so, she realized her fingers could not reach around it. A shame.
Outside, headlights streamed down the boulevard like lemmings heading for the sea.
“Why would anyone want to make a movie in Maggody?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I passed the box of greasy popcorn to Sergeant John Plover of the Arkansas State Police. “Why would anyone forget to clean the windshield before inviting someone to accompany him to the drive-in movie?”
“There’re a lot of bugs between Maggody and here. How was I to know they were suicidal? But tell me more about this movie business, Arly.”
I glanced at the totality of my social life. He was good-looking in a sneaky way, with shaggy blond hair, a crooked nose, a quirky smile, and a dimple that appeared when he was trying not to laugh. The dimple was on display at the moment. I retrieved the popcorn and said, “Some little company from California. Ruby Bee told me its name, but I didn’t recognize it. It’s not MGM or Disney. The cast and crew are slated to reside in the Flamingo Motel.”
“That many, huh?”
I checked the screen to see if the giant carnivorous cricket had leveled Tokyo yet. “And they didn’t demand cots and rollaways, so they can’t be more than ten of them. I suppose they chose Arkansas because it’s cheap and they can get away with nonunion labor.”
“Choosing Arkansas is not inexplicable, but choosing Maggody is,” Plover said amiably. It was his most irritating trait—this good-humored, easygoing amiability of ol’ Sergeant Complaisancy. It carried us along from week to week, but I was increasingly aware that I knew very little about his inner convolutions. Maybe he didn’t have any. A soul of silk, perhaps.
I was about to agree with his remark when my beeper went off. “I’d better call in,” I muttered. “Ruby Bee’s likely to have developed a hangnail or some such tragedy. Let me know if Cricko eats anybody.”
I used the pay telephone outside the concession stand, and came back to the car with a scowl. Slamming the door hard enough to cause heads to pop up in backseats all around us, I said, “There’s another fire between Maggody and Hasty. Harve wants me to meet him there.”
“Does this mean we’ll have to miss Tanya Makes the Team? Damn it, you know how much I enjoy sports stories.” He was already putting the speaker on the stand and starting the engine, however, alleviating me of the necessity of making a comment about his sordid taste. After all, I was the one who savored the antics of nature’s finest mutants. That in itself might have merited some introspection, but I was more concerned about the recent spate of fires.
“What do you know about firebugs?” I asked as we pulled onto the highway.
“Not much. You ought to talk to Merganser about it. He’s done a couple of special courses with the FBI and knows more than anyone else at the barracks.”
“He came out to investigate the last fire, but the shack was so dry that it burned to the ground before the fire department arrived. We both agreed it was arson, though. You can’t blame faulty wiring when the place had no electricity.”
“Maybe some derelict was holed up there and made a fire to cook,” suggested Plover.
“Four times in the last month? You’d think he’d learn something about campfire safety along the way.” I stuffed my mouth with popcorn and thoughtfully chomped my way through it. “These fires are being set deliberately. Our nut case, as Harve so politely calls him, could be a derelict. He could also be a kid or a drunk from the pool hall or a real, live psycho. What frightens me is that he seems to be heating up rapidly. Eventually someone’s going to get hurt, or the fire’s going to spread and do serious damage.”
All Plover could do was repeat his suggestion to talk to Merganser. We turned on the county road that led to Hasty, and had no difficulty finding the scene, in that roiling smoke deposited ashes on the windshield long before we caught sight of an orange glow above the treetops. Sheriff’s department vehicles blocked the road, thwarting the growing line of trucks and cars filled with spectators.
We parked and joined the parade of pedestrians, some of whom had the foresight to bring coolers and folding aluminum chairs.
“What’s burning?” Plover asked me.
“A barn,” I said, trying to picture something I’d driven past a million times. “There used to be a house, but it was torn down years ago. The roof of the barn collapsed, and it wasn’t much more than a pile of gray lumber and a home for mice and snakes.”
“Evenin,’ Arly,” said a voice from behind us.
I looked back at one of the Maggody magpies. “Hi, Eula. What are you doing out here?”
“Lottie called me when she heard about the fire, and I thought I’d come take a look at it. Oh, there’s Elsie and her daughter walking with Larry Joe and Joyce. I don’t think it’s good for Joyce to be exposed to smoke when she’s”—Eula noticed Plover and lowered her voice—“in a family way.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I said. “He’s my gynecologist. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s seen. Tell her about the contortionist who—”
Eula fled. We wound through the crowd, went past the police line, and found Harve glumly watching the volunteer firemen hosing the fire, which by now consisted only of isolated sputters of flames.
“Any evidence?” I asked.
Harve plucked a cigar butt from his shirt pocket. O
nce he’d gotten it going, he said, “Not a damn thing. Some kid spotted the fire about an hour ago, but it took him another ten minutes to find a telephone. By the time the boys got here, all they could do was contain the damn thing.”
Wade Elkins, the fire chief, joined us. His face was streaked with soot and his curly dark hair dotted with ashes, but he was still attractive, and he moved quickly for someone who’d roused his troops, driven ten miles, and battled the fire for most of an hour. “How many more bonfires are y’all planning to have this month, Arly? I’d like to see the end of a baseball game just once.”
“Sorry, Wade,” I said, not sure why I was apologizing. “I know you and the guys are getting tired of our fires. Maybe we can arrange for the arsonist to set a few over in Emmet so you won’t have to drive so far.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to be your hero of the hour.” He winked at me. “I’m beginning to look forward to our little romantic, firelit trysts. Just you and me and—oh, yeah—everybody this side of the Missouri line.”
Harrumphing under his breath, Plover tapped Harve on the shoulder. “Where’s the kid who reported the fire?”
“You think he might have seen something?” I said.
Harve shrugged. “Said he didn’t, but you’re welcome to ask him again. He’s the one in the plaid shirt.”
I recognized Billy Dick MacNamara in the huddle of high-school boys and pointed him out to Plover. “He’s a Maggody boy, lives with his mother out past the high school. I questioned him once about some tools missing from the shop room, but it turned out he wasn’t involved.”
“He was kinda stuttery when he called,” Wade said. “Took me a while to figure out what he was talking about and where the fire was. There wasn’t anything left when we got here, so it didn’t make a rat’s ass of difference.”
I called to Billy Dick, who came over with a leery expression on his plump, round face. He was a bleachy kid, with hair so light it was invisible, and eyes that were pale to the point of being almost colorless. He moved clumsily, as though the ground were covered with a sheen of ice. “This is Sergeant Plover,” I said to him. “He’s assisting the sheriff and me.”
Billy Dick blinked at us, one at a time. In a high, uncertain voice he said, “It’s s-scary, ain’t it? My ma’s all worried that someone’ll b-burn our house down while we’re sleeping.” Every now and then he tangled with an initial consonant, but he was not difficult to understand.
“What time did you see the fire?” Plover asked.
“I—uh, I left my house at nine, so it was probably ten minutes after that. I drove real fast to the nearest house to report the fire.”
Wade nodded. “I got the call at nine-twenty. Took us half an hour to organize and get here.”
“This is a pretty lonely road,” I said, “and it was late. Think, Billy Dick: Did you pass any cars when you drove out this way?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention. I’ve been keeping company with a girl what lives in Hasty. I was thinking about her all the time I was driving—right up until I noticed the fire, anyway.”
Plover’s dimple appeared as he said, “Nine-thirty’s late for a date, isn’t it?”
Billy Dick scuffled his foot in the dirt. “Her p-parents had to go into Farberville on account of her great-aunt taking a fall in the bathtub. She was afraid to stay home alone.”
“Oh,” Plover said knowingly.
I ignored this display of macho bonding. “Try to remember if you saw any cars going in either direction, Billy Dick. Were you momentarily blinded by headlights?”
He closed his eyes and sucked noisily on his lower lip until his chin glistened in the last of the firelight. I was about to repeat my question when he said, “Yeah, twice. Just past the low-water bridge there was a p-pickup coming toward me. I didn’t see what color it was or anything. And right before I spotted the fire, there was a taillight going over the top of a hill. The other one must have been broke.”
“Well, then,” Harve said, working the cigar butt from one corner of his mouth to the other in record-breaking time, presuming there was a record. “We got a truck that was headed for Maggody and a taillight headed for Hasty. It ain’t much, but at least it’s something.”
Plover shook his head. “Unless the perp set the fire so that it would take a while to blaze up, and was back home watching the baseball game by nine o’clock. Or unless he was parked off the road and watched Billy Dick here drive by, then sedately went on his way.”
“Dammit, Plover,” Harve said without anger, “it’s my party and we’re going to play by my theories, mostly ’cause that’s all we’ve got. Arly, see what you can turn up about a truck coming your way. I’ll put one of my boys on the Hasty end. A vehicle with a broken taillight might not be too hard to find.”
I nodded. “And I’ll cruise the road tomorrow and look for a place where the perp could have pulled off far enough not to be seen.”
Wade yelled a few orders to his men, then grinned at me. “Maybe you ought to take me up on that offer to open a branch in Maggody. I’d be real pleased to stay at your place with you until we catch this guy. On your couch … or elsewhere.”
“So kind of you,” I said, taking a wicked pleasure in Plover’s faint snort. “If a fireman can’t heat up the situation, who can?”
On that incredibly witty note, we disbanded.
Chapter 3
8 EXT. WOODED PATH—NIGHT—MED. SHOT
Loretta is sitting on a log. Cooter paces in front of her, his face tight with anger and his hands curled into fists.
COOTER
So you and that white trash went for a walk the other night, did you?
LORETTA
(miserably)
Yes, sir, but that’s all we did.
CAMERA MOVES behind Cooter as he steps in front of Loretta.
COOTER
So you’re still a sweet little virgin, huh? Never seen one of these before, huh? Wouldn’t know what to do with it, huh?
LORETTA
(brokenly)
Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir. Billy Joe and I didn’t … He wanted to, but I told him I had to wait until I was married.
COOTER
I’ll find out if you’re lying when the time comes. If you are, I’ll find ways to make you miserable for the rest of your life.
(beat)
How old are you?
LORETTA
Fifteen, sir. My birthday’s coming up real fast.
COOTER
I don’t care about any fool birthday. Fifteen’s old enough to be learned a few things. I aim to start the lesson right now.
LORETTA
Yes, sir. My pa said I had to do whatever you told me to.
9 CLOSE SHOT—BILLY JOE
Billy Joe is hiding behind some trees, his expression tormented.
10 RETURN TO SCENE
Loretta and Cooter should be able to AD-LIB through this, CAMERA MOVES between them.
Note: See script of Prickly Passion, scenes 1, 6, 11, 17, 29.
CUT TO:
“Needless to say, I had no intention of cooperating with those Hollywood types,” Mrs. Jim Bob informed Perkins’s eldest, who was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. “But I was under the misconception that they would simply take over the house and I would have no say in what they did.”
She waited for Perkins’s eldest to respond, but when nothing was forthcoming, she decided to call Lottie for a nice chat. She fixed a cup of tea, tucked a few lemon cookies on the edge of the saucer, settled down on the sofa in the living room, and dialed the number. To her chagrin, she was treated to a busy signal.
“Lottie Estes is the worst gossip in town,” Mrs. Jim Bob said loudly so that Perkins’s eldest could benefit from the opinion. “I merely wanted to let her know that I have been asked to take a small yet vital role in the movie. I protested, naturally, but the woman who called all the way from California pleaded with me to accept.” She once again waited for a response—anything
, even a primitive grunt of admiration—but Perkins’s eldest seemed to be in one of her taciturn moods. “I shall donate the money to charity. It’s the Christian thing to do, and I will feel much better about being involved with that kind of people if I know I’m helping to feed little heathen children in Africa or to do something about those disgusting homeless people.”
Perkins’s eldest took the bucket and went outside to dump the scummy gray water on the shrubs.
“Because,” Mrs. Jim Bob continued, “it’s vital that we share with the less fortunates and the heathens. It seems I’m to play the role of a kindly widow woman who gives shelter to an innocent girl in order to protect her virtue. I must say, I wouldn’t have accepted a part in which I did anything less.”
Jim Bob came through the back door, stealthily opened the refrigerator to extricate a beer, and went back outside to lie in the hammock and dream about movie stars. On his way across the yard, he nodded to Perkins’s eldest, who was taking down sheets from the clothesline.
Mrs. Jim Bob took a deep breath. “I asked the woman, a Miss Lowenberg or something, the names of my co-stars, but I only recognized one: Anderson St. James. He was in one of my soaps for years, and I always thought he had a civilized air about him, even though the script called for him to act rather crudely to his wife. Do you recall him?” She took the ensuing silence as a negative. “Perhaps you wouldn’t, since you don’t have a television out in that disreputable excuse for a house. I was telling Eula just last week that I was amazed to hear you had plumbing.”
Perkins’s eldest accepted a few dollars from Jim Bob and trudged down the driveway, looking like she was thinking about something. It could have been about her next cleaning job, or it could have been the result of gas. Perkins’s eldest took secret pride in being an enigma.
Mrs. Jim Bob lost interest in the Perkins residence. “I asked when they would send me a script. The woman, who claimed to be the assistant director, said not to worry about my lines, that I was obviously quick-witted enough to learn them in a Hollywood minute—whatever that is. I asked her which days I would be filming so that I could have my hair done, and she said it was impossible to decide ahead of time.” She tightened her mouth for a minute as she faced an unpleasant reality. “I’m going to be forced to use Estelle. If I don’t know until the last minute, I simply won’t have time to run into Farberville to have my regular girl do my hair.”
