“Sure,” I said. “Sure I do.”
We walked down the hill toward the film site. The snow was crisp, and dry as sand in the cold. The trees around the Common were black and angular with hard snow in the places where the big limbs branched out. The fountain, where in summer the bums reclined, glaring at the tourists, was still and icy, and people cutting across the Common for a late breakfast meeting at the Ritz or the Four Seasons were hunch-shouldered, high-collared, hurrying stiffly through the chill. I had on a black Navy watch cap and a leather jacket with the fleece lining zipped in, and my gun in a shoulder holster under my left arm, to keep the bullets warm.
Inside the kiosk the stairs ran down steeply to the station. An escalator ran parallel to the stairs and the hot industrial smell of the subway system rose to meet us as we went through the door. The camera and light cables ran down along the sides of the stairs and a couple of MBTA cops were there to steer the subway customers past them. The station was still fully functioning, and the filming worked around that fact. Mixed among the customers was a squadron of technicians, each a mismatched ode to Eddie Bauer in down parka and insulated moon boots.
“Used to have those in Korea,” I said to Susan. “Called them Mickey Mouse boots. They were a little less colorful, but just as ugly.”
At the foot of the stairs to the left of the turnstiles, a small area was brightly lit with the big movie lights that you always see in ads. A couple of high-backed black canvas chairs stood just outside the lighted circle. On the back in white script was written, Fifty Minutes. There were cameramen and lighting men and sound men with earphones. There were assistant directors to herd the civilians around the shooting area, and a first assistant with the script in a big leather holster. A guy wearing a hat that looked like a World War I aviator’s helmet, with the straps undone and the earpieces flapping, was setting up the shot; and there in the middle of the bright area wearing a tight red dress and a black mink coat thrown over her shoulders was Jill Joyce, America’s honey-bun.
Susan nudged me. I nodded.
Jill Joyce said, “Harry, for crissake, how long are you going to fuck around with this shot?”
“Pretty soon, Jilly,” the guy with the earflaps said. “I want you to look just about perfect, Jilly.” Harry was looking through a lens he wore on a string around his neck and he spoke to Jill Joyce the way you speak to your puppy, in a kind of remote coddling tone that expects neither comprehension nor response. Jill Joyce waggled one of her hands toward a production assistant. He put a lighted cigarette in her hand. She took it without looking, dragged in a big lungful of smoke, and let it out in two streams through her nose.
Harry backed away a little, gazing through his lens, then he straightened and nodded. The first assistant director spoke into a bullhorn, “Quiet, please . . . rolling for picture.” A red-haired woman with a thick sheaf of script open on a clipboard stepped in and took Jill’s cigarette. Jill stared into the camera; her face got prettier. A little guy with a straggly beard and an orange down vest jumped into the shot with a clacker and clacked. Behind Jill the subway train that had been idling there patiently began to creep forward. “. . . and action,” Harry yelled. Jill looked off camera right and called out, “Rick? It’s all right, Rick, I’m here.” Her eyes scanned past the camera, looking for Rick. The train pulled on through behind her and moved on down the tunnel. The camera panned after it as it went and held on, its taillights disappearing, and Harry said, “Cut. It’s a keeper.”
Jill put her hand out again in the general direction of the script person and waggled it. The script woman handed her the lighted cigarette and she took another big drag, dropped it on the floor, shrugged deeper into her mink, and headed toward the escalator. A uniformed Boston cop named Ray Morrissey walked ahead of Jill and moved people out of her way.
“Wow,” I said. “Was that magic, or what?”
Susan grinned. “God save me, I could watch it all day.”
“Really?” I said.
“You think I’m deeply disturbed?” Susan said.
“Yes,” I said.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I think you’re right.” Then she smiled her smile that made Jill Joyce look like a cow flap and nodded her head toward a group standing beyond the escalator.
“There’s Sandy,” she said.
Sandy was state-of-the-art Eddie Bauer. He had on a full-length gold-colored down-lined jumpsuit, with black fur-topped thermal boots half zipped and a black knit ski cap with a large golden tassel. He was short and probably wiry but who could tell in the down jumpsuit. He had a goatee. With him was a hatless man with a lot of black curly hair, a strong nose, and dark skin. As we moved through the crowd toward them, the crew was packing up equipment, folding light stands, coiling cable, dismantling the cameras, packing up the sound gear. Everyone seemed to know what he was doing, which made this a unique enterprise in my experience.
Susan said, “Sandy.”
Sandy turned and smiled at her. His glance took me in too, but it didn’t harm the smile.
“Susan,” Sandy said. “And this has got to be Mr. Spenser.” Beyond Sandy and the guy with the black curly hair was a youngish guy with a round face and rimless glasses. He looked at both of us without expression.
Susan introduced me. “This is Sandy Salzman,” she said. “He’s the line producer.” Susan had been consulting on the show for less than a month now and already she spoke a language as arcane as the psychological tech talk of which I’d but recently cured her. We shook hands.
“This is Milo Nogarian,” Susan said, gesturing toward the guy with the curls, “the executive producer, and Marty Riggs, from Zenith.” We shook hands.
“Susan is the consultant we hired, Marty,” Sandy said. “And Mr. Spenser is a, ah, private security consultant, that maybe is going to give us a hand with Jill.”
Marty Riggs gazed at me with his gray expressionless eyes, enlarged a bit by the rimless glasses. He was wearing a tweed cap and a cable-stitched white wool sweater under a thick Donegal tweed jacket with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. The loose ends of the scarf reached to his knees. He gave me a small stiff nod. I smiled warmly.
“Susan actually is a psychotherapist, Marty,” Nogarian said. “Sees to it that we don’t get our complexes mixed up.” Susan smiled even more warmly than I had.
“I’m sure,” Marty said. “Milo, just remember what I said. I don’t want to have to go in to the network again and defend a piece of shit that you people have labeled script and sent over, capice?”
“Time, Marty,” Nogarian said, “you know what the time pressures are like.”
“And you know what cancellation is like, Milo. You have the top television star on the planet and you haven’t broken the top ten yet, you know why? Script is why. Jill’s been raising hell about them and she’s right. I want something better, and I want to start seeing it tomorrow.”
“How come your scarf’s so long?” I said. Susan put her hand on my arm.
Riggs turned and looked at me. “What?” he said.
“Your scarf,” I said, “is dangerously long. You might step on it and strangle yourself.”
Susan dug her fingers into my arm.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Riggs said.
“Your scarf. I may have to make a citizen’s arrest here, your scarf is a safety hazard.”
Riggs looked at Nogarian and Salzman. “Who the fuck is this guy, Milo?”
Nogarian looked as if he’d eaten something awful. Salzman seemed to be struggling with laughter. Susan’s grip on my arm was so hard now that if I weren’t tougher than six roofing nails it might have hurt.
“Looks dandy though,” I said.
Whoever Riggs was he was used to getting more respect than I was giving him, and he couldn’t quite figure out what to do about me.
&
nbsp; “If you want to work around here, buddy,” he said, “you better watch your step.” Then he glared at all of us and turned and walked away. In a moment he was on the ascending escalator, and soon he had risen from sight.
Nogarian said, “Jesus Christ.”
Salzman let out the laughter he’d been suppressing. “Wonderful,” he said as he laughed, “a citizen’s arrest. You gotta love it.”
“Who is he, anyway?” I said.
“Senior VeePee,” Salzman said, “Creative Affairs, One Hour, Zenith Meridien Television.”
“Why’d you lean on him?” Nogarian said.
“He seemed something of a dork,” I said.
Salzman laughed again. “You start leaning on every dork in the television business, you’re going to be a busy man.”
“So many dorks,” I said, “so little time.”
“It’s not going to help us with the studio,” Nogarian said.
“Milo, it was worth it,” Salzman said, “watching Marty try to figure out who Spenser was so he could figure out if he should take shit from him or fire him.” Salzman snorted with laughter. “You ready for some lunch?”
“Since breakfast,” I said.
“Come on,” Salzman said, and we followed him up the escalator. The subway station was empty of film crew. The equipment was gone, the cables had been stowed. It was as if they’d never been there.
As we went up the escalator Susan put her arm through mine. “I know why you needled Marty Riggs,” she said.
“Sworn duty,” I said, “as a member of the dork patrol.”
“You needled him because he ignored me.”
“That’s one of the defining characteristics of a dork.”
“Probably,” Susan said.
We rode the rest of the way to the top, where the light, filtered through the glass, looked warmer than it was, and went out into the cold behind Salzman and Nogarian.
2
“I’VE got to have lunch with some people from the film commission,” Nogarian said. “Sandy can fill you in on our situation.” We shook hands and he headed down Winter Street toward Locke-Ober’s.
“We’re feeding in the basement over here near Tremont Temple,” Salzman said. “I’ve asked Jill to join us.”
We went across Tremont Street and in through a glass door into a corridor and down some stairs. At the bottom was a large basement room that looked as if it might be a recreational space for a boys’ club or a church group. There was a serving counter set up along one side, and tables with folding chairs filled the room. The crew was spread out, down parkas hanging from chair backs, down vests tossed on the floor, hunched over trays eating. There was roast turkey with gravy, baked ham with pineapple, cold cuts, cheese, two kinds of tossed salad, succotash, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and baked haddock with a cheese sauce. I noticed that the official crew meal was some of everything. Salzman had some ham and some haddock and a large helping of mashed potatoes. I was watching Susan. Her normal lunch was something like a lettuce leaf, dressing on the side. She carefully walked the length of the serving table and studied her options. I waited for her. When she was through she came back and picked up a tray.
“What do you think,” I said.
“Eek,” she said. She put plastic utensils on her tray and had a large serving of tossed salad with no dressing on a paper plate. I had some turkey.
Salzman had saved us a table in the corner, with space reserved for Jill Joyce when she arrived. Most of the tables seated twelve. This was the only small one.
“So what do you know about the deal here,” Salzman said when we were seated.
“I know Susan’s working for you as a technical adviser on this show, which is about a woman shrink and her husband who’s a cop.”
“Right,” Salzman said. “You seen the show?”
“No,” I said.
“Premise is ridiculous,” Susan said.
“Right,” I said. “How could a sophisticated psychotherapist fall for the kind of semi-thug that gets to be a cop?”
“Semi?” Susan said.
Salzman said, “Yeah, anyway. We got Jill Joyce to star. I assume I don’t need to tell you about Jill Joyce.”
“I know about the screen persona,” I said. “Beautiful, wholesome, just kookie enough for a little wrinkled-nose fun?”
“Yeah,” Salzman said. “She’s a little different, in fact.”
“Un huh.”
“Anyway, she’s been getting a series of harassing phone calls and things happening to her lately, and it’s making her nervous. When Jill’s nervous . . .” Salzman shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head slightly.
“What do you mean, sort of harassing?” I said.
“Hard to say exactly what it is. Jill’s not too clear on it. She’s clear that it’s bothering her.”
“And the things happening to her?” I said.
Salzman shrugged. “Things.” He turned a palm up. “That’s what Jill says, things.”
“Anybody else heard these calls or seen these things?”
Salzman shook his head. I looked at Susan. She shrugged.
“So Jill’s, ah, demanding some action,” Salzman said. “And Susan mentioned that she had a friend and one thing and another so I suggested you come over and have lunch and meet Jill. See if maybe you can help us out.”
“Would I be working for you?” I said.
“Not technically.”
“Who would I be working for technically?” I said.
“Michael J. Maschio,” Sandy said.
“Who is?”
“President of Zenith Meridien Television, a subsidiary of Zenith Meridien Film Corporation.”
“Not Riggs,” I said.
“Hell, no, when Mike Maschio says ‘green,’ Marty Riggs says, ‘and a deep dark green it is, sir.’”
Salzman ate some haddock.
“But actually,” he said, “you’d be working for me.”
He looked up and got to his feet.
“Here’s Jill,” he said.
I got to my feet. Jill Joyce, her black mink coat open, was swiveling through the dining room with Ray Morrissey a few feet back of her. Morrissey didn’t look very happy. He looked at me and I shot him with my forefinger. He nodded once and when Jill reached us, peeled off without a word and headed for the chow line. Salzman was holding Jill’s chair. She swivel-hipped around the table and sat in it and looked appraisingly at me from under her eyelids, slowly raising her head. Susan smiled and was quiet.
“Jill, you know Susan Silverman, our consultant. This is her friend that I mentioned to you, Mr. Spenser.”
“Do you have a first name, Mr. Spenser?” Jill said. She had a soft girlish voice with just a hint of huskiness at the edges. I told her my first name.
“I don’t like it,” she said.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” I said. “I’ve been worried about it all month.”
A small frown line deepened momentarily between her eyebrows and went away.
“I’ll just make up a name for you,” she said.
Susan’s inward smile was widening. She said softly, “Boy, oh boy.”
Jill stared at her coldly, and then turned back to me.
“What shall I call you,” she said.
“Cuddles,” I said. “Most of my closest friends call me that.”
“Cuddles?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You seem to have awfully big shoulders for Cuddles.”
Everything Jill Joyce said was said in a sort of half-childish lilt that implied sexual desire the way an alto sax implies jazz.
“Well,” I said, “we’ll think of something, I’m sure.”
“Sandy say
s you’re a dick,” Jill Joyce said.
“Un hmm,” I said with a straight face. Susan looked down at her salad.
“Are you going to help me, Dick?” she said. When she said help she leaned a little forward and let a hand flutter near her mouth. Tremulous.
“Sure,” I said. “Tell me a little about what you need help with.”
A dark-haired guy wearing a T-shirt and an apron came over with a tray. The T-shirt said First Run Catering on it. The tray carried a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket and a wineglass. The dark-haired guy put the tray down, opened the wine bottle, poured half a glass, waited while Jill sipped it. She nodded and he picked up the tray and departed.
Salzman said, “Jill, let me fix you a plate.”
Jill smiled rather vaguely and nodded. Salzman got up and headed for the serving line. Her eyes never left me. From the corner of my eye I saw Susan pick up a leaf of red-tipped lettuce, inspect it carefully, and take a neat little bite from one edge of it. Jill finished the half glass of wine and looked at me.
“May I pour you some?” I said.
“Oh, Dickie,” she said, “how sweet.”
I poured the white wine into her glass, waiting for her to say when or gesture with the rim that the glass was full enough. She did neither until I stopped because it was full. She drank about a third of it.
“So, Dickie,” she said, “you’re friends with, ah, this girl?” She made a sort of groping gesture with her left hand and finally nodded her head toward Susan.
“I’m friends with that girl,” I said.
“Good friends?”
“Good friends.”
“Sleep with her?”
“None of your business.”
Susan was still nibbling on her greens, but she looked less amused. I knew how much she enjoyed being referred to in the third person. Almost as much as she liked being called a girl. I paused, giving her a moment to kneecap Jill Joyce. Nothing happened.
“Ohh, Dickie,” Jill said with her lilt getting more pronounced. “No need to be snarky about it. A girl needs to know things.”
Robert B. Parker: The Spencer Novels 1?6 Page 18
