Rough Cut

by Brian Pinkerton

  “Nora Hurley,” said the man firmly, accent on every syllable.

  Shit, thought Harry to himself, I have no idea who Nora Hurley is.

  “Nora Hurley,” said Harry, sitting up on the pavement. How long could he buy time before the next attack? He could feel his lower lip swelling, blood dribbling to his chin. “Nora Hurley...”

  “You gave her a fake name for the movie, asshole,” said the giant. “Sandra...something.”

  “Sandra Ross?” said Harry immediately.

  The giant said “Yes.”

  “She was your wife?”

  “She is my wife, asshole,” spat the giant, and Harry braced for another blow; but the giant didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I’m a bit dizzy right now. My ears are ringing.”

  “What’s my wife doing in your movie? That’s what I want to know. She’s no actress. She just comes out here and you make her a star overnight? How come? Did she suck your dick?”

  “No,” said Harry. “No, no. She did not. That didn’t happen.”

  “Then how come you cast her?”

  Harry chose his words carefully. “She gave a...very realistic performance.”

  “She looked like a whore.”

  Harry didn’t have an answer for that. He slowly rose to his feet. His legs shook. He kept one hand wrapped around his aching ribs.

  “I want to help...” said Harry. “I really do. What can I do?”

  “You can bring me back my wife.”

  Harry said, “Sure, I’d love to. There’s just one problem. I don’t...know...where she is.”

  The husband’s eyes narrowed. He obviously didn’t like the answer. He stepped closer.

  “I am not leaving until you return her to me. I will camp out here, and I will hammer the shit out of you every time I see you, until you bring back my wife.”

  “Please understand,” said Harry. “After we wrap on a movie, I don’t always keep tabs on —”

  The giant’s hands rushed forward and grabbed Harry by the throat. He shoved Harry backward, throwing him into a Pontiac Grand Prix. Harry crashed into the passenger door, setting off a shrieking car alarm.

  Harry realized he had a small window of opportunity to escape: he remained standing on his feet, and the giant did not have a hold on him.

  Harry dashed through the narrowing space between the Pontiac and the angry giant.

  “I’m not done with you!” thundered Harry’s attacker.

  Harry hurried to his car, grateful that it was unlocked. In a single, rapid, seamless motion, Harry pulled on the door handle, opened the door, leapt inside, slammed the door shut, and secured all the doors.

  The doors locked with a “chunk!” just as the giant slammed against the side of the car.

  Harry started up the engine. The giant pounded on the glass.

  Dear God, he’s going to shatter the window.

  “Bring me back my wife you wife thief!” screamed the giant. He began circling to the front of the car to block its advancement.

  Harry threw the car into reverse and floored it.

  The Audi shot back, crashing into a parked Ford Taurus, shoving it back. Harry slammed his car into drive, yanked the steering wheel to the right, and spun away from the rushing madman. The Audi roared out of the lot, entered Wilshire Boulevard and nearly hit a delivery van. Several vehicles braked and honked. Angry drivers waved fists or middle fingers, but they were the least of Harry’s worries.

  Harry swerved into an open lane and sped away from the office building. Several blocks later, Harry pulled over to the side of the road.

  The pain from his beating continued to throb. He examined himself in the rearview mirror. His face did not look pretty. Swollen, purple and bloody, he looked like something out of one of his movies. But this was not makeup.

  Harry felt a rising anger over the unwarranted attack. Fury and humiliation washed over him for becoming such a helpless punching bag.

  Harry’s eyes landed on the plain brown package on the floor of the passenger seat. The Beretta semi-automatic pistol.

  In that instant, Harry imagined a vivid and explosive scene where he returned to the parking lot. He could feel the words erupt from his throat, “You want to rumble, crazy man?” Then he would blast away the maniac who beat him bloody.

  Now who’s the tough guy?

  Harry could imagine every angle, every edit of the sequence. The storyboard unrolled in his mind. Start with a point-of-view shot of Harry from the madman’s perspective...don’t reveal the gun in the frame until it’s too late...maybe just the audio, an abrupt, shocking bang. Then a wide shot: the attacker goes down, humbled and neutralized, bullets searing his flesh. Close-up on Harry’s battered but satisfied face. The roles have been reversed. The madman, bleeding, begs for mercy, but it’s too late. Show no mercy; receive no mercy. Harry feeds him more lead...

  Harry continued to contemplate the scene. He really wanted to bring it to life. He wanted to feel the satisfaction of revenge, the power of bloodshed.

  But he knew he couldn’t.

  He picked up his cell phone.

  He dialed Marcus Stegman.

  “Marcus, it’s Harry.”

  “Comrade...”

  “Don’t talk. Just listen. We have a...No, you have a problem. Remember Nora Hurley? Well, Nora Hurley’s husband is parked in an RV outside my office; and he’s not going to budge until he finds out what happened to his wife. He’s angry and he’s violent.”

  “Is he.”

  “He’s getting suspicious,” said Harry. “We need a plan.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Talk to him? I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  “Sure it will. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?”

  “Do you know what your problem is, Harry? You worry too much.”

  Harry was speechless. He stared at the phone for several seconds, before ending the call with an angry jab of his thumb.

  37

  The bedroom in the rear of Lenny Hurley’s 1988 Gulf Stream Sunstream RV was barely big enough to fit a bed. As Lenny slept, his large body covered the mattress, head crushing the pillow, fists gripping the sheets. A curtain separated the bedroom from the rest of the living quarters. The window shades were drawn tight, blocking out the parking lot lights.

  Three hard knocks stirred him awake. His eyes opened. He listened to a lengthy silence, and then the knocks returned. Three again, evenly spaced, forceful.

  “Who the fuck,” he said, quickly sitting up, planting his bare feet on the carpeted floor. He wore a gray, sleeveless T-shirt and faded blue sweatpants. They didn’t smell too good. Neither did the bed sheets. The RV could get stuffy at night, plus he sweated a lot when sleeping. However, finding a Laundromat had not been high on his list of priorities.

  He looked at his watch.

  Three-fifteen a.m.

  That made him mad. He expected the encounter to be ugly.

  He ripped the bedroom curtain aside and headed up the thin aisle, past the mini bathroom, past the dinette table and compact kitchen area, and between two facing sofas.

  Lenny reached the door and looked out a small window. He wanted to get a good look at his visitor.

  A skinny young man, dressed in black, with a ponytail and goatee, waved at him.

  This better be good.

  Lenny unlatched and opened the door.

  “What,” he said, filling the single word with maximum menace.

  “Mr. Hurley, I’m sorry for disturbing you at this hour.”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning, asshole.”

  “I know. But I wanted to see you as soon as I could. My name is Marcus Stegman. I understand you’re looking for Nora Hurley.”

  Lenny stared at the stranger, startled by hearing her name out loud.

  “I am,” he said. His tone switched from annoyed to anxious. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I am here to reunite you with her,” be
amed Stegman proudly. “May I come in?”

  Lenny nodded. “Let me get the lights.” He felt excitement pushing away the fog of sleep, his heartbeat drumming. He snapped on some fluorescent lighting, then waved the stranger inside.

  Stegman stepped into the RV. “I figured you wouldn’t want to wait until morning,” he said.

  “I just want to find her. Where is she?”

  Stegman asked, “May I have a seat?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Stegman sat on one of the small sofas and crossed his legs. Lenny sat on the other one, across from him, still studying the stranger.

  “Your wife made a movie called Deadly Desires,” said Stegman. “Her scenes were filmed near Mexico City.”

  “I know about the movie. That’s why I came here to their offices. Nobody will tell me anything. How do you know Nora?”

  “I know Harry Tuttle.”

  Lenny asked, “Did he fuck her?”

  “No,” replied Stegman. “I’m pretty certain he did not.”

  “Then why won’t he tell me where she is?”

  “I can tell you where she is,” said Stegman. “She’s still in Mexico.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “Not much.”

  Lenny felt confused. The conversation was weird. This man showing up in the middle of the night was weird. But he had information on Nora. “So she’s in Mexico...” Lenny said.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Stegman, fixing him with an odd, thoughtful gaze.

  “What.”

  “Have you ever been in a movie?”

  “In a movie? What do you mean?”

  “Acting.”

  “Acting? Hell, no.”

  “The reason I ask... I’m sorry, I couldn’t help noticing. You have classic movie star features. Handsome, chiseled face. Great build. Strong jawline.”

  “Are you some kind of fruit?” Lenny felt ready to pounce.

  “No, no. Hear me out. I’m a filmmaker,” said Stegman, “and I’d like to put you in my next movie.”

  “What does this have to do with Nora?”

  “My new movie is about a crazy killer who loves horror films,” continued Stegman. “He kills his victims in tribute to his favorite movies. For each murder, he becomes a different character. He’s obsessed.”

  “Why are you changing the subject?”

  “Did you ever see Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Either the original or the remake?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A shame,” said Stegman. “Because they’re both classics.”

  Lenny stood up, scowling. He towered over Stegman. “Okay, I’ve had enough of this shit. You have exactly one minute to tell me where I can find Nora, or you are going to be my personal massacre, you goddamned freak.”

  “I can send you to Nora right now,” said Stegman.

  “Then do it,” demanded Lenny.

  Stegman smiled. He faced the door.

  He called out, “Action!”

  A mighty roar erupted. A tall, red-haired man burst into the RV, gripping the handle bar of a screaming 16-inch chain-saw.

  Stegman flattened himself against the wall, and the bearded man charged forward, the cutting bar extended in front of him. A second young man entered the RV, armed with a large video camera with a mounted light. He followed the action, equipment propped on his shoulder, watching through the eyepiece.

  Stunned by the surreal scene, Lenny had no time to think —only time to react. His impulse was simple: he made a fist and threw it forward, punching at the attacker who came at him.

  The chainsaw cleanly severed Lenny’s right hand at the wrist, and his fist fell to the carpet with the thud of a softball.

  Lenny screamed.

  Behind the rotating chain, he saw the crazed man with the red beard grinning with excitement.

  Behind the man with the red beard, he saw a big, round camera lens and a bright light.

  Behind the camera, he saw part of the cameraman’s face, neither grinning nor shocked, just focused and businesslike.

  Then he saw nothing at all, ever again.

  38

  To load the magazine, remove it from the pistol by depressing the magazine release button.

  Harry studied the pages of the Beretta product manual he had downloaded and printed out from the Beretta web site. The document contained diagrams and detailed information on loading, firing, ammunition, and maintenance. A good, immediate primer for a novice like himself.

  Harry sat at his kitchen table. His eyes moved back and forth between the gun illustrations on paper and the three-dimensional, very real gun resting near his salt and pepper shakers.

  The firing chamber of the pistol is the portion of the barrel into which the cartridge is fed...

  The telephone rang.

  Harry stood up and grabbed the receiver off the wall. He studied the caller ID.

  Paul.

  “Shit.”

  Harry took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Paul...”

  “The wacko in the RV is gone,” said Paul. “I came in early this morning and the lot’s empty. But there’s no telling when he might come back. Listen, should we call the police?”

  “No,” said Harry immediately. “Let’s not get the police involved. It’s not worth their time. Just some nut...”

  “Who was that big ape?”

  “The husband of an actress from one of my movies. The crazy jealous type. He thought I was screwing his wife.”

  “Were you?”

  “No! I never even met her. How could —”

  Paul cut in, “Never met her and she was in your movie?”

  Harry jumped to correct himself. “Barely ever met her. It was a real small part. A couple of lines. I don’t remember. I’m getting old.”

  “Harry...” Paul hesitated, troubled. “Are you OK? We go way back. I can tell when something’s not right, and you’re just not yourself anymore. You’ve got this big hit movie; you refuse to do any publicity. You never come around the office anymore. You...”

  The doorbell rang.

  Jesus now who is it? thought Harry. He interrupted Paul, “I gotta go. There’s someone at the door.”

  “When are you coming in so we can talk?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll let you know.”

  “Let’s set up a time —”

  “OK, gotta go, bye.” Harry hung up.

  He picked up the pistol from the kitchen table. He headed for the front door, staying away from the windows.

  Harry stopped at the peephole in the front door. Still gripping the gun, he shut one eye and pressed the other to the hole.

  Rachel.

  Harry’s heart sank. She had left several messages on his cell phone and home phone. He had not called her back.

  Harry quickly took the gun into the living room and tucked it under a chair cushion. Then he returned and opened the front door, just as she started to retreat down the walkway to her car.

  “Rachel.”

  Rachel saw him. She headed toward him and began to smile. But then an alarmed look took over.

  “What happened to you?” she gasped.

  “What —?” Harry didn’t realize right away, but then saw the shocked way she stared at his face. “Oh, that. I got mugged.”

  She brought up a hand and gently touched his cheek. He flinched.

  “Mugged?” she said. “When did this happen? Where?”

  “I was running an errand...last night...downtown...location scouting...it doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Just a little banged up. Heh, you think I look bad, you should see the other guy...”

  She wasn’t laughing. “Harry, how come you haven’t returned my calls?”

  Harry worked to keep the lie machine cranking, but for a moment he was entirely distracted by the beautiful porcelain face, sympathetic blue eyes, and the way her shining blonde hair hung like soft sheets down to her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” he sai
d simply.

  “Is everything OK?”

  “Just busy.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “My mother?” He gave her a puzzled look. “She’s fine. Why?”

  His nonchalant response startled her. “The car accident...”

  Harry fumbled to catch himself. “Oh —yes —well, she’s on the mend. Banged up a bit, that’s all.”

  “How long will she be in the hospital?”

  “Not very long. They’ll have her out of there in no time. She’s a tough lady.”

  “Did you hear what happened to Walter Wiggins?”

  Harry forced himself to think clearly before responding. “Yes. I did. On the news.”

  “Can you believe it?”

  “It is pretty incredible.”

  “You were just with him.”

  “I know. We taped that interview.”

  “All of L.A. is talking about it,” said Rachel. “I bet they catch who did it. They said the killer left tire tracks on the beach.”

  Harry shuddered and thought, Note to self: replace tires.

  “Anyway, I still haven’t told you my big news.”

  “What’s that?”

  She broke into a huge grin. “Are you ready? Here it is: I just landed my first big movie role!” Rachel raised her fists in a victorious gesture.

  “Oh. Okay.” Harry nodded, half listening. His mind remained on tire tracks. Maybe I should ditch the car altogether.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. Movie role.”

  Rachel’s upbeat mood deflated. She looked him over. “You’re not listening. Well, maybe it’s not a big deal to you; but it’s a big deal to me. I have been working my butt off for years to get a role like this and you don’t even want to hear about it. I guess you just don’t care. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll go now.” She turned.

  “No, Rachel...”

  Rachel headed down the walkway, sandals clicking.

  Harry quickly followed. “I’m sorry. I know I’m distracted. I’m a little dazed from the mugging, that’s all. Really, I’m excited for you.”

  She stopped and turned. “Are you?”

  “Yes. I am. In fact, let’s go out tonight and celebrate. We’ll have dinner at Buzz. We’ll drink champagne. We’ll get crazy. I’m sure this is the start of big things for you.”