“I don’t know. A hundred. Hundred and twenty? It’s the Sheraton, man. You pay for the name,” said Johnny Gee.
Sound of door opening, closing. Sound of refrigerator opening in kitchenette, out of view of camera. Refrigerator closing. Water running in sink. Water off.
Sound of door opening again. Man’s voice, authoritative:
“Step out in the middle of the room and say something, so we can get a sound level, Stillman.”
Another man’s voice: “Can I get a beer?”
First man:
“In a minute. Sit down on the sofa and say something. We’ve got to get our levels set.”
Second man:
“What do you want me to say?
First man:
“Recite the alphabet. I don’t care.”
Sound of door closing.
Frankie appears on camera, at the lower left edge of the screen. He turns and looks up at the camera.
“It’s Frankie!” said Sam. “He’s got his hair slicked back, and he’s wearing a suit, but it’s him.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Johnny Gee.
Frankie Stillman walks over to the sofa and sits down. Starts reciting the alphabet. Gets to the letter O and says:
“That enough? You guys got enough?”
Sound of door opening.
Man’s voice:
“That’s fine, Frankie. Now keep your shit together until the others get here. One beer. I told you. You’ve got to be straight for this.”
Stillman looks in the direction of the voice:
“One beer?”
“Looks like Frankie ain’t none too happy,” said Johnny Gee.
The man called Frankie Stillman is sitting on the sofa, beer in hand, staring at the wall on the other side of the room. He takes a swig of beer. He stares. Another swig. More staring. Time signature: 8:30 P.M. Phone rings. Man called Frankie Stillman picks up the phone.
“Yeah? So? What are you giving me this problem for? Solve it yourself.” He hangs up.
Silence. Listening. Foot tapping edge of coffee table. Sits down. Takes swig of beer.
Sound of knock at the door. Man called Frankie Stillman stands up, walks off camera to the door.
Sound of Frankie Stillman’s voice:
“Jimmy. C’mon in. Been expecting you. Want something to drink?”
Sound of another man’s voice:
“What are you having?”
Sound of Stillman’s voice:
“Beer. We’ve also got Scotch, bourbon, you name it. What’ll it be?”
Other man:
“Bourbon will be fine.”
Stillman:
“On the rocks with a splash?”
Other man:
“That will hit the spot.”
Sound of refrigerator opening, ice hitting glass, liquid pouring, faucet on and off.
Frankie Stillman appears on camera, sits down on the sofa, same spot. He is followed by the man with shiny hair, bourbon on the rocks in his hand. He takes a seat in one of the bucket chairs, and begins to swivel the chair back and forth, left and right.
Johnny Gee stood up and stretched.
“Stop the tape for a minute, will you, Spicer? This is gettin’ good, and I got to take a leak. Don’t want to miss anything.”
Spicer hit the stop button and sat down. Johnny Gee ambled into the back of the trailer toward the bathroom.
“I wish I had a better idea of what’s going on,” said Sam. He crushed his empty beer can and pitched it into the empty box.
“I know what you mean, Butter. You look at this shit one way, it’s kinda funny. You look at it the other way, it’s scary.”
“What’s scary?” Johnny Gee walked back into the trailer’s control room and sat down.
“Butter and me was just talkin’ about these tapes. It’s kinda scary, not really knowin’ what’s goin’ on.” Spicer scooted his chair closer to the console. “Like, who’s spyin’ on who? Who’s the big shot runnin’ the show?”
“Who cares?”
“I care.” Sam fixed Johnny Gee with a stare and didn’t move. “We’ve got to figure out who made these tapes, and why. Somebody tried to kill us for these tapes, and from everything we’ve seen so far, I’m as lost now as I was two hours ago.”
“You got a point, man. Let’s watch the rest of this stuff in the Sheraton. Every time old Spicer punches up a tape, we get a little closer, don’t you think? To figuring out where we stand, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead, Spicer.” Spicer hit the play button.
The room pops into view.
The man called Frankie Stillman and the man with the shiny hair are still sitting with their drinks.
“What time are the others coming?” asks the man with the shiny hair.
“They should be here any minute. What time is it?”
“A little after eight-thirty.”
“The man’s already here. He arrived this afternoon, took a room downstairs. He said he doesn’t want to make the drive home tonight.”
“Who are we waiting on?” The man with the shiny hair checks his watch again.
“The man’s lawyer. Harvey Pugh. You met him last week.”
Stillman gets up and walks over to the window, moves the curtains aside, and looks out.
“Yes, of course. Harvey Pugh. Interesting man. How long does he know our friend?”
“Years. The man and his father were partners, then Harvey’s father died, and the man put him through college. They’ve been together ever since. Like father and son, you know?”
“You can trust him, then. Pugh, I mean.” The man with the shiny hair checks his watch, takes a sip of his bourbon.
“Of course I do. You do business with the man, you do business with Harvey. Harvey handles everything for him. Even talks for him. They’re like the same person.” Stillman takes a swig of beer and sits down on the sofa again.
Phone rings. Stillman picks it up.
“Yeah?”
Stillman listening intently.
“Jimmy’s already here. You all come on up.”
Stillman listening.
“We’ll be waiting for you.”
Stillman hangs up the phone.
“That was Harvey. They’re on the way up. They’ll be here in a minute.”
Room falls silent. Both men sip their drinks.
“Fascinatin’ conversation, huh?” said Johnny Gee, pointing at the screen. Neither man moved a muscle. “Coupla real party animals. Frankie’s just thrilled to be there. The other dude looks like he sat down on a sixteen-penny nail.”
“Shh.” Sam held his finger to his lips, still watching the screen.
Sound of knock at the door. Man called Frankie Stillman gets up to answer it.
Sound of Frankie’s voice:
“Hey, you old buzzard. How are you doing? You’re looking well.”
Sound of another voice:
“Real good, Frankie, real good.”
Sound of Frankie’s voice:
“Harvey. Good to see you.”
Sound of another voice:
“Same here, Frankie. How are things in Chicago?”
Sound of Frankie’s voice:
“I can’t complain.”
Sound of Harvey Pugh’s voice:
“That’s good to hear. Seems to me I heard something about them empaneling a grand jury up there.”
Sound of Frankie’s voice:
“They’re always gonna empanel a grand jury in Chicago. I stopped paying attention to that shit years ago.”
Camera picks up the backs of two men entering the room.
“It’s the fat dude!” said Johnny Gee. “He looks twice as big up close. Where you figure he gets them suits? You could pitch that suit in the woods and sleep under it.”
Spicer yanked his cigar out of his mouth and started laughing.
“That’s the guy I seen before. Sure is,” said Spicer.
Harvey Pugh sits down in one of the
bucket chairs. He’s a short, slight man with a bald head and a freckled face and almost no chin.
“Dude looks like an accountant,” said Spicer.
The fat man collapses on the sofa, breathing heavily.
Sound of Frankie’s voice from the kitchenette:
“You gentlemen care for a beverage?”
“I’ll have me a Coke,” says the fat man.
“The same,” says Harvey Pugh.
Frankie delivers the Cokes and sits down.
“The purpose of this little get together …” says Frankie.
“We know what the purpose of this meeting is,” says Harvey Pugh. “That right?”
“That’s right,” says the fat man.
“We want to know how things went with O’Brien and Friedman the other night. That right?”
“That’s right,” says the fat man.
“Very well,” says Frankie. “They were on time, and we were on time. And they left happy.”
“And Friedman’s going to pass along a taste to Jones and Walters and the other guy. What’s his name? The chairman of the committee.” Harvey Pugh consults some notes in his lap.
“To Jones and Walters. I’m meeting with the committee chairman myself. He’s playing hard to get,” says Frankie.
“We want to know when all the, uh, legislative transactions have been accomplished. That right?”
“That’s right,” says the fat man, taking a sip of Coke.
“Now, Jimmy,” says Harvey Pugh, turning to the man with shiny hair. “Your people are happy with the site. Am I correct?”
“Very,” says the man with the shiny hair. “We’re prepared to go through with the closing as soon as the governor signs the bill.”
“And we’re not expecting any problems there,” says Harvey Pugh. “That right?”
“That’s right,” says the fat man.
“The senate’s scheduled to act on the bill right after Thanksgiving, and we should get some action from the house the week after that. And the governor’s been very cooperative. That right?”
“That’s right,” says the fat man. He finishes his Coke.
“You want another?” asks Frankie Stillman.
The fat man nods his head. Frankie gets up and walks off camera in the direction of the kitchenette.
“What’s with those two?” asked Sam, indicating the figures on the TV screen. “All that business … ‘That right? That’s right.’ Over and over. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.”
“It’s some weird shit, is what it is.”
Frankie Stillman returns with the Cokes and sits down.
“How about your people?” asks Harvey Pugh, looking in the direction of Frankie Stillman.
“My people are rock solid,” says Frankie. “We’re prepared to take our share of the mortgage, if it means the kind of jobs we’ve been talking about.”
“It will,” says the man with shiny hair. “We expect to be doing business in a three-state area before the end of next year.”
“Sounds good to us,” says Harvey Pugh. “That right?”
“That’s right.”
“How about another drink, boys?” asks Frankie Stillman, standing up. “I think this calls for a little celebration.”
“I’ll have another Coke,” says the fat man.
“Same here,” says Harvey Pugh.
“Bourbon for me,” says the man with shiny hair.
Frankie Stillman disappears from view into the kitchenette. Sounds of refrigerator door opening and closing, ice cubes hitting glasses, pouring liquid. Frankie returns with the drinks and passes them around.
“To the future,” says Frankie, raising his glass.
“Hear hear,” says the man with shiny hair.
Harvey Pugh stands up.
“My daddy always told me land was as good as money in the bank,” says Harvey Pugh. “That right?”
“That’s right.”
“To money in the bank,” says Harvey Pugh.
“That’s right,” says the fat man.
SPICER HIT THE VCR stop button.
“What do you make of that shit?” asked Johnny Gee.
“I think they were talking about that land with all the surveyor’s marks we saw on the other tape,” Sam said. “On the other tape, they visited the land. On this one, someone is selling it, and someone else is buying it, and I think the seller and the buyer were right in that room in the Sheraton.”
“Which one is which?” Johnny Gee studied the glowing tip of his cigarette, flicked the ash into the wagon wheel.
“The fat man is selling, and the other guy is buying.”
“After some law is passed in Springfield.”
“And that’s why they were payin’ off those dudes in the Ramada Inn. They were buyin’ votes.”
“Right.”
“This is gettin’ downright interestin’,” said Johnny Gee. “Let’s take another look at that Ramada tape, see who else is gettin’ paid off.”
“How’d you like this shit?” asked Spicer. “Long as you all got these tapes, you got somebody’s nuts caught in a vice, for sure.”
“These tapes have a whole bunch of peoples’ nuts in a vice,” said Sam, a grin passing across his face. “Now I understand why they’d even be willing to kill for them. If these tapes get out, a whole lot of powerful people are going to take a very big fall.”
“Yeah, but the fact that we got the tapes and not them has got our shit hanging in the proverbial sling, too,” said Johnny Gee. “We got ’em and they want ’em, and from the looks of things, I’d say we ain’t the only ones who got plenty to fuckin’ worry about.”
Sam put the tape marked “Ramada” on top of the console. Spicer popped the Sheraton tape from the VCR and slipped in the new tape. He punched play.
Blank screen. Then, Ramada Inn room.
Time signature: August 12, 7:49 P.M.
Sound of door opening, closing.
Man appears, camera shooting him from high on wall near door. Walks into room, looks around, walks over to window, pulls curtains aside, looks out.
“That’s the same room in the Ramada as before,” said Johnny Gee. “And there’s our boy Frankie. He looks happy to be back.”
Sound of door opening. Sound of man’s voice:
“We’ve got to get a sound level, Frankie. Say something.”
“Don’t you guys have the equipment set up from before?” Frankie Stillman turns from the window toward the camera.
Sound of man’s voice from door:
“We pulled our stuff out of here on the fifth, the day after the meeting with O’Brien and Friedman at the Sheraton. We didn’t even know you were going to meet with this guy until yesterday.”
“So sorry about th ,” says Stillman. “You want me to say anything else?”
Sound of man’s voice from door:
“That’s okay. We’ve got our level. Where are you going to sit?”
“Same as before.” Frankie Stillman indicates the table and chairs in the corner.
Sound of man’s voice:
“What time is your boy due?”
“Eight-thirty. That’s what he told me on the phone yesterday.”
Sound of man’s voice:
“Okay. Do it just like before. Here’s the money.”
Sound of something hitting the floor.
Frankie Stillman walks toward door, off camera.
Sound of door closing.
Frankie Stillman walks back into room carrying a black briefcase, puts it on the table. Switches on the TV, flips channels. Stops on “Wheel of Fortune.” Lies down on the bed, hands behind head.
Screen goes blank.
“I wonder who he’s meeting with this time?” asked Sam.
“They said something about payin’ some dude when they were at the Sheraton shindig,” said Johnny Gee.
“These guys must get tired of hotel rooms,” said Spicer, blowing a big smoke ring. “That guy Stillman ought to be thinkin’ a
bout gettin’ himself a nice scam where he can spend some time at home. Fuck all that runnin’ around.” Spicer grinned expansively, looking around at his trailer setup. He leaned his head back and blew another smoke ring.
Same scene pops up, time signature: August 12, 8:27 P.M.
Frankie Stillman is still on the bed. On the television, two cars are careening around corners at top volume.
Sound of knock on the door.
“Just a minute,” says Stillman, getting to his feet. He switches off the television and walks off camera in the direction of the door.
Sound of door opening.
Sound of Frankie Stillman’s voice:
“I’ve been expecting you, and you’re right on time. C’mon in.”
Sound of door closing.
Two men walk into view, one of them Stillman, who walks directly to the table and takes a chair.
“Have a seat,” he says to the other man, indicating the chair across from him. “You have a long drive?”
“Couple of hours,” says the other man, whose back is to the door, and whose face still isn’t visible.
“I know this is inconvenient, but there’s no sense in taking chances,” says Stillman. “Around Springfield, things are so …”
“Public,” says the other man.
“You got it. Public. Exactly.” Stillman fingers his tie, looking everywhere but directly at the man across the table from him. “I’d offer you a drink,” he says, “but I didn’t get a chance to stop on my way here.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got to drive back tonight myself,” says the other man. He’s wearing a suit, and has a full head of dark hair, combed just over the ears and cut to the collar in the back.
Stillman reaches under the table and comes up with the briefcase and places it before him on the table.
“My understanding is that things are going well in Washington,” says Stillman, looking right at the other man for the first time.
“They are,” says the other man.
“In Springfield, too. I’m told the bill will be reported out of committee the first week after Thanksgiving.”
“That’s correct.”
“That will come as good news to my people,” says Stillman, patting the briefcase.
“I hope so,” says the other man.
“What’s in here will come as good news to the finance director of your election committee,” says Stillman, smiling broadly now, patting the briefcase.
Rules of the Road Page 12
