by Stuart Woods
A light clicked on. Dylan found himself gasping for breath in the clutches of two huge goons.
Sylvester stood in front of him. He didn’t look angry. He looked calm.
It was the most chilling thing Dylan had ever seen.
* * *
So,” Sylvester said, “we seem to have a problem. That’s all right. Problems come up, then they have to be solved. You disagree. You seem to think problems are to be lived with, that they absolve you of your responsibility. You are wrong. Problems give you the responsibility of solving them. Now, tell me about your problem. You were not picked to be on the set?”
“No.”
“Who was picked instead?”
“Sandy.”
“Who is Sandy?”
“A guy I work with.”
“Then the situation is easy. You will take Sandy’s spot.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“He won’t give it up.”
“Actually, he will. I can help you out in that respect.”
“You’re going to threaten him?”
“Certainly not. Our presence cannot be known.”
Sylvester took out of his pocket a small glass vial full of liquid. He handed it to Dylan.
“What’s this?” Dylan said.
Sylvester smiled. “I’m glad you asked.”
36
The party was in full swing by the time Dylan got to the bar. Sandy had had a few, and was loud and uninhibited. He spotted Dylan from across the room and bellowed, “Hey, look what the cat dragged in. I told you he couldn’t stay away.”
Dylan waved and made his way over.
Stacy greeted him warmly. “Glad you could make it.”
Sandy’s good nature vanished for a second. “Thought you were going home,” he said to Dylan.
“I felt like a poor sport, not celebrating with you guys. Let me buy you a drink. What’ll you have?”
“Draft beer.”
“You got it.”
“Get a pitcher.”
A pitcher did not suit Dylan’s needs, but there was no help for it. He went to the bar and ordered a pitcher, paid, and brought it back to the table.
“Here you go, guys.” Dylan filled Sandy’s glass first and said, “Who needs a refill?”
Several did. Dylan filled glasses around the table and found the pitcher nearly gone.
Sandy had already chugged half his beer. That was a break. Dylan sat down, dropping the pitcher beneath the top of the table. With his left hand he pulled out the vial and poured it in.
“And here’s the man I bought it for,” he said, slapping Sandy on the back. He poured the rest of the beer into Sandy’s half-filled glass.
“And what are you drinking?” Stacy said.
Dylan looked surprised. “Me? I forgot about me.”
Everybody laughed.
Dylan took the pitcher back to the bar. He was afraid if he left it someone might try to drink the dregs.
“You want another?” the bartender said.
“Yeah, but not in this. It’s got flat beer in it. Give me a new pitcher and let me have my own glass.”
“You got it.”
Dylan went back to the table, filled his own glass, and set the pitcher down. “Fight over it,” he said. “This time I’m taking care of me.” He took a slug of beer and stole a glance at Sandy.
Sandy’s beer was half full. This time Dylan didn’t top it off. If he kept diluting it, Sandy would never finish the dose.
Not to worry. Sandy drained his glass and reached for the pitcher.
Fifteen minutes later Sandy could barely keep his head off the table. His speech was slurred, and his eyelids drooped.
“My drinking buddy’s had enough,” Dylan said. “I guess that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have bought those pitchers. Well, I wasn’t staying anyway. I’ll see he gets home.”
Dylan put his arms under Sandy’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet.
“I’ll help you,” Stacy said, getting up from the table.
“Absolutely not,” Dylan said. “If he wakes up and finds out the two of us took him home, that is going to have all kinds of bad implications as far as he is concerned.”
It wasn’t easy, but Dylan managed to get Stacy to sit back down. Then he maneuvered Sandy in an unsteady stumble toward the door.
It was dark out. The sidewalk was empty. A cab came down the street, but Dylan didn’t hail it. Instead, he guided Sandy along the sidewalk into the shadows away from the streetlamp.
A couple of doors down Dylan found what he was looking for: A long stone stairway down the side of the building to a path below.
“Careful,” Dylan said, walking Sandy to the top of the steps. “Stand up straight, get your balance. Take care.”
Dylan stuck out a foot and gave Sandy’s shoulder a little push.
Sandy hurtled through the air and tumbled down the stairs, landing at the bottom in a misshapen heap.
37
Dylan called Hal from the hospital.
“Hal? Dylan. Sorry to call you at home, but there’s been an accident. Sandy broke his leg.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“He lost his balance and fell down a flight of stairs.”
“Drunk?”
“You know how it is. He was celebrating getting assigned to the set.”
“How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. They’re taking him into surgery now.”
“You’re at the hospital?”
“Yeah. I rode with him in the ambulance. Anyway, he wanted me to call you. He knew you’d be upset. You’re about to start shooting and he goes and does this.”
“Hey, accidents happen. Tell him to take it easy, will you?”
“I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”
“On crutches, you mean. All right, you’re going to have to fill in for him. Check the call sheet. Where it says Sandy, that’s you. Show up on location, six o’clock Monday morning.”
“You got it.”
Dylan hung up and called Sylvester.
“I’m in.”
38
Early Monday morning, Trial by Fire began filming outside the First National Bank in downtown Los Angeles.
For his first shot, Peter had chosen the scene of Viveca walking Tessa into the bank. There were many scenes outside the bank, but Peter had opted to start with that one for many reasons. It was short and simple, just the two women walking into the bank. It was a non-dialogue scene, and could have even been shot without sound, though tape would be rolling. And the actresses were pros who would probably nail it in one take. Getting the first shot always made the crew feel good and started the movie off on the right foot.
The other reason was that Billy Barnett was able to be there because Mark Weldon wasn’t in the scene.
Teddy showed up on the set as Mark Weldon, wished the actresses well, and announced cheerily that if anyone needed him he’d be in his trailer.
Teddy’s trailer was a new perk, and very welcome. Peter had wanted to give Teddy a trailer all along, but a supporting player rating a trailer would have raised suspicions. A Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination changed all that.
Mark Weldon’s trailer was parked on the street right next to Viveca’s and Tessa’s trailers. Teddy went in and locked the door, in case some eager-beaver assistant director showed up to summon him to the set.
Teddy kicked off his sneakers, pulled off his slacks and polo shirt, and selected a suit and tie from the closet. Then he sat down at the makeup table, opened up his kit, and turned himself into Billy Barnett.
Teddy unlocked the trailer door and peered out. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention. He stepped out of the trailer and headed for the set, stopping to glad-hand any crew m
embers he met on the way. Grips, electricians, propmen, teamsters, Teddy knew them all, and they knew him. Billy Barnett was a workingman’s producer who pitched in with the crew, listened to their bitches and moans, and helped in any way he could. During a rough setup he might say to one of the grips, “Can I help you lift this, or would it fuck up some union rule?” Just the offer would ease the tension, make the job go smoothly.
Before he was halfway to the set, Teddy found himself at the caterer’s table, having coffee with the gaffer, the key grip, and the teamster captain.
39
Dylan was assigned to traffic control. He wore a headset and had a walkie-talkie, and was one of the production assistants in charge of keeping the crowd behind the rope line.
When the camera rolled, he would be responsible for stopping pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk that Tessa and Viveca had to cross in order to get into the bank.
Down the block the cameramen were lining up the shot, and Peter was coaching Tessa and Viveca on how he wanted the scene. The electricians were setting up reflectors, grips were placing sandbags, and the assistant directors were instructing the extras who would be on the sidewalk.
A propman walked by and headed for the caterer’s table, where coffee, bagels, and doughnuts had been laid out. Dylan wondered if he had time to get a cup of coffee himself. He’d been there since early morning, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep, what with hanging out at the hospital with Sandy. He glanced over at the catering table and saw—
Billy Barnett.
There he was, large as life, holding a paper cup of coffee and talking to the head electrician. The gaffer, Sandy had called him. Dylan had a flash of guilt, thinking of Sandy. He pushed it from his mind. He needed to focus, save himself, and get out of this nightmare.
Dylan whipped out his cell phone and called Sylvester. “He’s here.”
“Billy Barnett.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the caterer’s cart, talking to the gaffer.”
“The who?”
“The head electrician.”
“Good. Don’t do anything to tip him off. I’ll take it from here.”
The line clicked dead.
Take it from here? Sylvester would take it from here. What the hell did that mean?
Dylan had a feeling he didn’t want to know.
* * *
Sylvester called Max. “Where are you?”
“Hanging out on the sidewalk with everybody else. Just another starstruck tourist.”
Max’s account was not entirely accurate. Most of the tourists were in shirtsleeves. Max wore a suit jacket to hide his shoulder holster.
“Good. Barnett’s there, at the catering table.”
“I’m closer to the camera. It’s gotta be down that way. Hang on, let me see.”
Max pushed his way through the crowd. He saw several of the crew standing around a table on the sidewalk.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. There’s some guys drinking coffee. Yeah, that’s him. He looks just like his picture.”
“Take him out.”
“That’s a problem. There’s too many people around.”
“They won’t see what happened. You lose yourself in the crowd.”
“You’re not hearing me. There’s too many people. I’d have to be standing right next to him. Don’t worry, he won’t be at the coffee cart forever. I’m on him.”
“Just get it done.”
Max clicked the phone off, moved in closer to his prey. His gun was still in his shoulder holster. He wouldn’t take it out until he was ready to shoot.
The crowd thinned out. Billy Barnett crumpled up his cup and tossed it in the garbage. Max eased his gun out of his shoulder holster.
A cop walked up, attracted by the doughnuts. He startled Max, made him miss a beat. Billy Barnett began walking away. Max hid his gun under his jacket and started off after his prey.
Billy Barnett was headed for the spot where the camera was set up, right where Max would have been if Sylvester hadn’t told him to move.
There came three blasts of a loud buzzing sound, as if someone were ringing a giant telephone. A kid in a headset stepped out on the sidewalk and blocked Max’s path.
“Quiet, please. We’re on bells. That means were about to shoot a scene. Stay where you are. No talking, please.”
Billy Barnett hadn’t stopped. He walked right down the sidewalk and greeted the director and the two actresses. Max could see him joking with them a bit before putting up his hands, clearly saying sorry, he knew they were about to shoot, he’d be a good boy, though no one appeared upset at the interruption.
Once again they were ready for the shot.
The assistant director said, “Roll it!”
The sound mixer said, “Speed!”
An assistant cameraman stepped out with a clapboard, said “Scene 46A, take one,” and clacked the slate.
The assistant director yelled, “Background, action!”
A few extras walked down the sidewalk.
The director yelled, “Action!”
The two actresses crossed the sidewalk and went into the bank.
“Cut!” the director yelled.
One long bell rang, signaling that the shot was over and people could move again.
Max pushed forward, but he lost sight of Billy Barnett in the crowd. By the time he got to the camera, the producer was gone. So were the actresses, who had been escorted back to their trailers by the assistant directors assigned to their care. Only the director remained. He seemed to be talking to the cameraman about lining up the next shot.
But the producer was nowhere to be seen. Where the hell had he gone? There was a lot of activity around the coffee cart. Max checked it out, but Billy Barnett was not there.
Max’s cell phone rang.
It was Sylvester. “Is it done?”
“No, it’s not done. They shot a scene and no one would let me get close.”
“Are they still shooting it?”
“No, but when it was over there was a huge scrunch of people, and the guy isn’t there.”
“Find him.”
Max never did. About twenty minutes later they had the camera moved, and were ready to film another shot. The actresses came back, along with an actor who was in the scene with them, but the producer never showed.
* * *
Teddy, rehearsing the scene as character actor Mark Weldon, kept an eye on the goon in the crowd. He’d spotted him back at the coffee cart, and done his best to keep away from him and avoid making a scene. An ugly incident during the first day’s shooting was not the type of publicity Peter needed to launch his movie. Teddy probably would have been able to handle the situation, could have lured Max away from the set and overpowered him when no one was looking, but it wasn’t necessary. Teddy knew who he was and who he worked for. It was easier to leave him frustrated than to deal with him right now.
40
Viveca went back to her trailer where her automatic coffeemaker was set to go. She made herself a cup of cappuccino and sat at the table in her little dinette. She sipped the coffee, and took out her cell phone.
“Manny?”
“Hi, Viveca. I hear your picture is doing well.”
“Where do you hear that?”
“Industry buzz. You and your costar are getting along, or is that just Hollywood hype?”
“She’s not my costar, Manny. I’m just a supporting player.”
“You’re never a supporting player, no matter what the role. Are you girls playing nice?”
“We’re getting along just fine. I like her. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to beat her on Oscar night.”
“What do you need?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just a hint that little Miss Goody Two-shoes is a trif
le fond of the bottle.”
“She’s drunk in rehearsal?”
“I’m not saying that. I want that implied, but I am certainly not the one saying that.”
“I can do it. Are you sure you want it?”
“Why not?”
“With so much good publicity coming out, are you sure you want anything negative?”
“As long as it doesn’t stick to me.”
“It never does.”
41
Gino Patelli was listening to Ollie Fox, one of his underbosses, report on his collection of protection money from the south side. It had been light lately, and Gino had called his boss in to account. Ollie Fox was, despite his name, someone Gino had considered too dumb to steal. He was not, however, too dumb to be stolen from, and Gino suspected some of his minions had been skimming.
The conversation was not profitable. Fox had no idea who might have been skimming, and Gino soon lost interest in listening to a man whose underlings were hoodwinking him. When Fox was finally gone, Sylvester, who had been sitting in on the conversation, said, “What do you want to do?”
“Figure out who’s stealing the most, dump Fox, and put him in charge. I’d rather have a sharp thief than an idiot. Speaking of which.”
“Billy Barnett?”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Why is it so important?”
“Because he’s a ghost,” Gino said. “That’s what makes him so goddamned interesting. Here’s this schmuck movie producer I ought to be able to whack any day of the week, and it’s a huge fucking project, and I want to know why.”
“It could be just bad luck.”
“Bad luck for me, and bad luck for my uncle. Anyone this guy encounters has bad luck. He surfaces just long enough to cause me trouble and disappears again.”
“Even so.”
“Even so, I’m obsessing about the son of a bitch. It seems like I can’t trust anyone else, I gotta handle this myself. So you tell me: How can I get close to Billy Barnett?”
