KW 09:Shot on Location

by Laurence Shames

  Donna seemed to accept that. Ace, starting in on a second batch of fish fillets, said nothing. Bert took the opportunity to stop pretending he was drinking the veggie juice and to put the glass down on a table.

  Jake sipped some beer and went on. “Look, weird stuff’s been going on. Accidents that probably weren’t accidents. You with the boat. Now Candace has been stung by a scorpion.”

  The stuntwoman, accustomed to the workday hazards of scrapes and sprains and broken bones, didn’t seem particularly impressed. “Shit happens. Scorpions aren’t exactly rare down here.”

  “Except this one was planted. Know how I know? Someone left behind a marked-up page from the script. Your script, I’m guessing. It looks like someone’s out to torture her. Drive her nuts. Hurt her worse. Who knows?”

  Fish sizzled softly in the pan. Ace, vigilant in his work, took small light-footed steps, boxer’s steps, in front of the stove.

  Donna said, “Candace getting tortured. I probably should be happy but I’m not.”

  Jake, misinterpreting, said, “Yeah, I think she’s really shook.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I mean it’s looking like that horseshit publicity angle is turning out to be true. Like it’s been all about that prissy bitch right from the beginning.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Jake. “Look, the person who planted the scorpion must have had a boat. So it might be the same lunatic who ran you over. That’s what I’m trying to figure out and why I need to find this person and figure out what her deal is.”

  Seeming to come out of a light stupor or momentary nap, Bert suddenly said, “Her? Did you say her?”

  “Right,” said Jake. “The sister of Candace’s old boyfriend from L.A. Who killed himself when she dumped him.”

  “Sister,” Bert murmured. “Family vendetta. That’s not good. The brother — you say he’s dead?”

  “People who kill themselves generally are.”

  “That’s not good,” Bert said again. “Family shit, it’s never really over. My guess, she’ll end up icing her. Or trying, at least.”

  The mention of icing dug a deep trough in the conversation. It was Donna who dared to step across it first. She said to Jake, “Listen, I think you’re making way too much of this. I got in the way of a boat. Candace got bit by a spider. Now you’re making it sound like some big murder revenge thing.”

  “I’m not making it anything. It’s there. Right in front of us.”

  “You have an active imagination, Jake. It’s part of your charm. But wherever you’re going with this, leave Ace out of it. He’s finished with those people. He’s gonna be a chef. Whatever happens from here, it has nothing to do with him.”

  Trying not to scratch his sunburn, Jake searched for a response but found none. None turned out to be needed.

  Silently, resignedly, without fanfare, Ace had started taking off his apron. He labored with his bulky arms to untie the strings then coaxed the dainty pastel garment up over his leonine head. He said, “Sorry, baby, but it has a lot to do with me.”

  “No it doesn’t,” she shot back.

  “Yes it does,” he quietly insisted. “Stupid me is the guy that grabbed the script in the first place. What if what happened to you was my fault? I couldn’t live with that. Or what if this Candace broad gets whacked?”

  “Let her. I don’t give a rat’s ass about that.”

  “You don’t mean that, baby. Maybe you wish you meant it, but you don’t.” To Jake, he said, “Tell me what you need to know.”

  Jake said, “The woman who bought the script. I need to know how to find her. That’s all.”

  Ace nodded, looked wistfully at the perfect fish fillets he wouldn’t get to eat, and felt in his pockets for his car keys. He walked into the living room and kissed Donna gently on the forehead. Then he asked his new idol, Bert the Shirt, the gangster who got out and lived to tell about it, if he felt like taking a ride.

  37.

  Feeling like a kid brother who gets left behind while the bigger boys go off on an adventure, Jake stayed a while at Donna’s and ate some grouper. It was delicious.

  An hour later, he was back in his cottage, feet up on the bed, watching the slow and mesmerizing motion of the ceiling fan, when his cell phone rang. It was Quentin Dole, sounding calm, collegial, even chummy. “How’s it going in Key West?” he asked.

  Keeping it simple, Jake said, “Oh, fine. Just fine.”

  “Staying out of the bars long enough to get much work done?”

  With barely a shred of guilt, Jake glanced over at the small desk in the alcove where his laptop still sat in its case. It had not been switched on even for a moment; not even taken out for show. He hadn’t written a word of the book he’d been hired to write, and over the past couple of days it had been dawning on him, not by conscious thought but by a quiet yet fundamental shift in attitude, that he probably never would. “It’s moving right along,” he said.

  “Excellent. You going with that story line I mentioned, about the secret weapon test?”

  “Yeah, yeah. That was inspired. Sets the whole thing up.”

  The whole time Jake was bullshitting he was gazing at the laptop as if it were a totem. He clearly understood that he was sinning big-time by omission. This wasn’t just a matter of missing a deadline. It was a matter of completely, intentionally punting on a job, tearing up a contract, leaving a publisher with nothing to publish. It would be a huge black mark against the previously ultra-reliable ghostwriter; it might even wreck his career altogether. He found the possibility less terrifying than bracing.

  “Glad it’s working for you,” Quentin said. “Is Lulu in it?”

  “Lulu?”

  “Lulu. The character in the show.”

  “Um, not yet. Should she be?”

  “No. Definitely not. That’s partly why I’m calling.”

  “But I thought —”

  “— she was the franchise? I thought so too. But things evolve. Story lines change. Interesting process, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “Well, keep up the good work. I’ll be down your way in a day or two. We’ll have a schmooze. Maybe you’ll show me some pages.”

  Pages? The word caught Jake up short. Fumbling, stalling, he said, “You’re coming here? Key West?”

  “Mostly finished with a new script,” Quentin said. “Very exciting. Bit of a bombshell, actually. The minute it’s done I’m hopping a plane. Want to present it in person.”

  Hoping to keep the conversation far away from his non-existent pages, Jake said, “What’s it about? Can you tell me?”

  “You’ll find out,” the producer said. “Believe me, you’ll find out.”

  ---

  In the quiet and safety of her suite at The Nest, Candace McBride was soothing her frazzled nerves by watching an old movie and sipping the contents of several small bottles, first of vodka then of cognac, from the mini-bar. The searing pain in her back had by now diminished to a vague heat and a faint throb that seemed somehow outside her body. As far as she knew, what had happened was an accident. Still, it came on top of various other stresses and worries, and she would have much preferred it to happen to someone else — a stuntwoman, say, or some other more dispensable person on the set. Then again, the scene they’d been shooting was a sexy one, a half-naked close-up with pouty lips and flirtatious dialogue; the sort of scene their adolescent viewers loved, that made the girls feel dreamy and inflated the boys with lust. No one but herself could have played that scene; that much she was sure of. She told herself that in getting stung she had suffered for her art.

  Her attention divided between her self-admiring thoughts, the movie, and the cognac, she reacted only slowly to the knock on the door. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Housekeeping. Would you like turn-down service this evening?”

  She didn’t want to be bothered with turn-down service and she said so.

  “May I just bring in some fresh towels and some chocolate for you?”<
br />
  The actress hesitated. She didn’t need more towels. Had the offer been for towels alone she would have told the housekeeper to go away. The chocolate was a different story. Chocolate was hard to pass up. A bit of chocolate and one more tiny bottle of cognac would cap the evening nicely. “All right. Come in,” she said.

  The housekeeper entered. She wore a starched but shapeless dress of institutional blue and her hair was pinned up in a cap made of paper. Although she seemed extremely nearsighted in thick-lensed glasses, she moved quietly and efficiently, first gliding to the bathroom to deliver a pile of neatly folded towels, then moving deferentially, not too close, toward the bed where Candace lay, and leaving a gold-wrapped bonbon on the nightstand. She turned to go, saying a soft and respectful goodnight that the diva did not bother to answer. She’d barely looked up at the housekeeper. Why would she? Housekeepers were generic, interchangeable. Though if she’d paid just a little more attention she might have noticed one incongruous detail. Beneath the frumpy blue dress, the housekeeper was wearing gold sandals whose undulating straps wound up her legs like intertwining snakes.

  The door closed, and Candace wasted little time before reaching for the chocolate. With fingertips made slightly clumsy by eagerness, she tugged at the overlapping edges of the wrapper, then popped the bonbon into her mouth, briefly closing her eyes to concentrate on the intoxicating richness of that first taste. When she opened them again she saw the writing on the inside of the wrapper. There was an inexpert but unmistakable drawing of a scorpion. Next to it was the caption: Feeling better? Not for long.

  Candace jerked and stiffened as though she’d been injected with another dose of venom. Coughing, gagging, she spat out what was left of the thickly melting chocolate, tried to call back the portion that had already trickled down her throat. Spasmodically, she threw her legs over the edge of the bed and trundled, crouched and heaving, toward the toilet bowl to kneel and vomit.

  Standing again, she rinsed her mouth and threw cold water on her haunted face. Unthinkingly, she reached for one of the newly brought towels to dry herself and when she unfolded it she found that the inner layers had been soaked in blood.

  38.

  Dusk is a contemplative time, a time that calls forth confidences, and on the leisurely ride up the Keys Ace poured his heart out to Bert the Shirt. He no longer wanted to live the life that he’d been living. The violence done to Donna had finally made him understand the ugliness of violence. He didn’t have the stomach for it anymore and he was ashamed of many things he’d done; cowardly things, as he saw them now, to people much weaker than himself. He wanted a very different future for him and Donna and he didn’t know how to get there from his past. Did Bert have any advice for him?

  The old man stroked the chihuahua as if he was rubbing his own chin. Then he said, “You made?”

  “Nah. Just an associate. I’m only half-Italian. Cuban on my mother’s side.”

  “That should make it easier,” Bert said.

  Ace brightened.

  “Not that it’s ever easy,” the Shirt went on.

  Ace slumped a little in his seat.

  “I mean, it’s not like ya just send in a form or somethin’. Ya gotta … how should I put it? Ya gotta walk outa the room and keep on walkin’ no matter what people yell at your back. ’Cause there’s gonna be people tryin’ to pull ya back in. With insults. With offers. There’s gonna be resentment, jealousy. Most important thing, don’t leave any messes, nothing that people can come after ya about. Ya leavin’ any messes?”

  Ace licked his lips and thought it over. “Just this bullshit with the script. I think that’s it.”

  “Good,” said Bert, and he spread out his yellowish hand to tick off another item on a big-knuckled finger. “Next thing, don’t think ya can leave while owing any favors. Y’owe one of these dickheads a favor, he’ll find you at the ends of the earth. Y’owe any favors?”

  Ace pondered as he drove. After a moment, he said, “Ponte. Just a little favor. He loaned me a speedboat.”

  Bert shook his head. His big nose went back and forth like he was taking easy warm-up swings with a bat. “Due respect, Ace, there’s a mistake in there. With Ponte there are no little favors. At least not if you owe him. Y’owe him, period. Better find a way to pay him back.”

  Ace took that in with a certain solemnity and for a while they drove on in silence. They crossed over bridges and causeways with pelicans gliding both above and below the roadway. Water curled around wooden pilings, cascading into tiny whirlpools on the lee side of the flow.

  At some point Ace came out with a laugh and said, “Hey, Bert, ya know something that impresses me? We been driving for like an hour and you haven’t asked me where we’re going.”

  Stroking the dog, tugging softly at its all but hairless tail, Bert said, “If ya wanted to tell me, ya’d tell me. Besides, I know where we’re goin’.”

  “No way.”

  “Ten bucks says I do.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Okay, here’s what I’m thinkin’. You’re mainly Ponte’s guy, so this is someone you know through Ponte. But it ain’t Ponte himself and it ain’t someone close to Ponte’s level, ’cause, no offense, stealing a notebook is kind of a diddlyshit job. So it’s someone farther down the food chain. And since it’s wrapped up with this television bullshit, it’s someone who has or likes to think he has some connection to show business. Now here’s the capper. Since stealing someone’s notebook is basically a sneaky, chickenshit thing to do, and since this guy didn’t even have the balls to grab it himself but hired you to do it, then I say we’re dealing with a sneaky fuck who always gets other people to do the work. Therefore I say we’re headed to Handsome Johnny’s Crab Joint.”

  “Amazing,” said Ace.

  “Basic,” said Bert.

  “I guess you really don’t like Johnny.”

  “No, I don’t. He’s a two-cent turd with a hundred dollar haircut. Now gimme my fuckin’ ten bucks.”

  Ace started stretching in the driver’s seat to reach into his pocket.

  “Nah, just kiddin’,” the old man said. “But now that we know the kind of scumbag we’re dealing with, how ya gonna handle the meeting?”

  Ace’s lips moved but no words came out. His hands lifted from the steering wheel and he shrugged.

  “Ya don’t have a plan?” said Bert. “No offense, but this is a mistake. Y’always have to have a plan. Plan might go to hell, plan might fall apart, but y’always have to have one. So come on, let’s make a plan.”

  39.

  Around nine pm, while Jake was going slightly cross-eyed from lying on his back and trying to stop the blurry motion of the hypnotically turning ceiling fan, his cell phone rang again. It was Claire and she got straight to the point. “The scorpion lady has made another attack,” she said. “We should talk. Can you meet me for a drink?”

  So he got back on the purple bike and pedaled off to the place she suggested, a beachside restaurant called Ciaobella. She was already there when he arrived and she’d ordered a bottle of Vermentino. It was sitting in a silver bucket, leaning at a jaunty angle, streaming little rivulets of condensation and looking beautiful. Claire, with her hair down and wearing a simple cotton shirt, seafoam green, open at the throat, looked beautiful as well, and Jake dimly reflected that when you really liked a woman she got prettier and prettier every time you saw her. He felt an impulse to kiss her on the neck as he was moving around the table to sit down but he didn’t do it.

  He settled into his chair and a waiter poured the wine. The table was candlelit, with the classic red-checked cloth. Palms swayed all around them and twinkling stars were reflected in a faintly phosphorescent ocean. But while the setting was romantic, the conversation was rather less so.

  “So she threw up the chocolate,” Claire was saying, “and threw the bloody towels on the floor, then she called the front desk screaming hysterically, and the front desk called me, and we found the real housekeeper, who
confessed immediately.”

  “Confessed to what?”

  “To how the crazy sister got the uniform and the pass key. She slipped the housekeeper a couple hundred bucks and made it all sound like fun and games. A sex game, specifically. Hotel guest and maid. She said her boyfriend had always wanted to play that game, the thought of it drove him wild. She said the boyfriend was a guy on the show whose suite was next to Candace’s. And the woman looked respectable and wealthy, so the housekeeper took the money and went along. Anyway, she’s been fired and Candace is back in her room pumped full of Xanax with a security guard in front of her door.”

  Jake said, “And the chocolate?”

  “What about it?”

  “Was it poisoned?”

  “Didn’t seem to be. No ill effects. I think it was just a bluff, and a waste of perfectly good chocolate.”

  Jake drank some wine. Almost admiringly, he said, “Creative, this wacko sister. Resourceful. I kind of look forward to meeting her.”

  “Preferably,” said Claire, “before our diva flips out altogether.”

  “It’ll be soon,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Ace is on his way to try to find out where’s staying, how to track her down.”

  Claire seemed relieved at that, but not very. “Good. That’d be good. Then what?”

  Jake raised a finger as though to make a point but realized he didn’t know what point to make. Then what? It was a question that had come up with relentless frequency these past few days and he never seemed to have an answer for it.

  “I mean,” Claire went on, “do we just go up and politely ask her to stop what she’s been doing? And really, what has she done? We can’t prove she planted the scorpion. Do they arrest people for impersonating a housekeeper? I mean, what do we really have?”

  Jake pondered that, drummed fingers on the table. “My mind keeps skipping back to what happened to Donna. We know it wasn’t Ace. We know the sister’s crazy. We know she has a boat. If only there was some connection —”