Beach Town

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Yeah. Looks like it’s been a tough morning,” Greer said. She nodded toward Bryce. “Who pissed in his Cheerios?”

  CeeJay smiled widely. “Good ol’ Sherrie Seelinger. She’s cutting off the cash pipeline. Looks like the casino demo is a no go.”

  “When did that happen? Bryce was texting me last night wanting me to hustle back here to get stuff lined up.”

  “I guess word must have come down this morning. One of the paint crew guys heard him on the phone in his RV at base camp this morning. He was apparently making a last-ditch effort to try to raise the money on his own, but one of the transpo guys took Jake Newman to the airport in Gainesville around lunchtime, so he’s out of here. I heard Newman wanted half the money up front to do the explosion.”

  “Oh wow. I bet Vanessa was livid when she got the news,” Greer said. “After all the expense they went to, flying in Sawyer and everything. That is not a cheap oops.”

  Just then, Bryce walked up. “Ceej, Addie’s gonna need some damage control on her face after her latest temper tantrum. So how about you get back to work?”

  “Fuck you,” CeeJay said sweetly.

  Bryce watched her go and shook his head, before turning his attention back to Greer. “I guess you heard that bitch Seelinger nixed the casino explosion. So we have to retool, and fast. The word’s come down from on high. No more money, no more time. They want everything here wrapped up next week, by midweek. Whatever we don’t get here we finish up back in L.A.”

  Greer felt her jaw drop. “I thought we had at least another week and a half here. How are we gonna get it all done?”

  “Terry’s working on a new ending,” Bryce said. “I’ve seen the first few pages, and I think it’ll work. It’s nowhere near as good as the casino explosion, but at this point we gotta punt and hope for the best.”

  “Can you give me any idea of what he’s planning? I’ll need to start figuring out logistics.”

  Bryce looked around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. Paranoid to the end, Greer thought.

  “He’s thinking about a boat chase. High-speed cigarette boats. Like the ones they used to have on Miami Vice, back in the day? Bobo’s already lining ’em up. He says he can have ’em here by tomorrow, no problem, so the stunt guys can start practicing with ’em.”

  Greer’s brain was spinning. “How soon can I get some pages?”

  “Soon,” Bryce said.

  “Can you give me an idea of the starting and ending point?”

  Bryce furrowed his brow while he thought about it. “When you first got down here, you sent me some pix of an old boathouse-looking place. That’d be good, especially if we do some night shots.”

  “The mayor owns that,” Greer said. “I’m pretty sure he’d be willing to lease it to us.”

  “The mayor who’s still frosted over the casino?” Bryce looked dubious.

  “He’ll get over it,” Greer assured him.

  “For the end of the chase, I’m thinking right out here.” Bryce turned and pointed toward the pier and the bay. “I want to shoot it with the casino in the background.”

  “So … start early in the morning at the boathouse? And then move back over to the pier?” Greer asked.

  “That’ll work,” Bryce said. “We’ll put a splinter unit on top of the casino to do long shots of the boat chase.”

  Greer nodded. “We’ll need security on boats out in the bay, and here on the pier. If we start early enough in the morning at the boathouse, we won’t need as much security, because it’s in sort of a commercial area”

  Bryce took his phone from his pocket and stared down at an e-mail. “Uh, you might want to run that by Zena. She, uh, has been working on this since yesterday.”

  “Zena?” Greer’s eyes narrowed. “Zena the assistant location manager?”

  “Whatever,” Bryce said. “I just want working bathrooms and no rubberneckers screwing up my shoot. You girls settle the turf war amongst yourselves.”

  “Girls?” Greer scowled at Bryce’s retreating back.

  A few minutes later, her radio squawked.

  “Greer?” It was Zena.

  “Hi, Zena.”

  “I heard you’re back.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank God! The air conditioner in tent one isn’t working. Addie is literally having a meltdown up here.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Greer said.

  “Um, so, you’ll come up and fix it?” Zena said.

  “Um, no. Bryce just told me you’re handling things today,” Greer said. “You want to be a location manager? Here’s the secret, sweetie: you have to actually manage.”

  Greer turned her radio off and started walking toward the catering truck in search of food that didn’t come from a vending machine. When she saw her golf cart parked at the curb, with the key tucked in the cup holder, she climbed aboard and rolled off.

  57

  It was Friday night and the Cypress Key Inn was jamming. Eb had texted her that they had an eight o’clock dinner reservation, but she’d arrived thirty minutes early, telling herself it was so she could nab a seat at the bar. Who was she kidding? She’d been thinking off and on most of the day about seeing Eb.

  Greer snaked her way through the throng of people waiting for tables in the restaurant and managed to claim what amounted to twelve inches of unclaimed space at the bar. The bartender rushed up, took her order, and promptly disappeared. Greer leaned with her back to the bar and surveyed the crowd, which appeared to consist largely of the cast and crew of Beach Town.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. “Hey, movie lady.” It was Jared Thibadeaux, miraculously—and temporarily, she was sure—cleaned up and sobered up. He was sitting to her right, jammed shoulder to shoulder with Kregg.

  “Oh, hi, Jared.” She nodded politely to his companion. “Kregg.”

  “Can I buy you a beer?” Jared asked, raising his arm to motion for the bartender.

  “I already ordered a glass of wine,” she said quickly. “But thanks.”

  “Kregg,” Jared said, “do you know this nice lady? She’s staying at our motel.”

  Kregg gave Greer a sour look. The black eyes had faded to a bilious shade of yellowish green, and it appeared that he was using professional-strength foundation to cover the other damage he’d incurred in the beat-down Eb had administered. “We’ve met,” he said.

  Greer looked around the crowded room. “Where’s your posse tonight, Kregg?”

  “He’s with me,” Jared said. “Nobody’s messing with my boy Kregg while I’m around.”

  Jared poured himself a shot of Jägermeister from the bottle on the bar, drank it, and slid the bottle over to Kregg, who did the same.

  “Tell me your name again, movie lady?” Jared said.

  “Greer.”

  He pulled a narrow steno pad from the pocket of his jeans and held it up for her inspection. “Me and Kregg, we’re collaborating on a screenplay together.”

  “That’s fascinating.” Greer craned her neck, looking in vain for the bartender and her MIA glass of pinot grigio.

  “We’re calling it O-Train,” Jared went on. “Because of OxyContin. We’re thinking it’ll be kind of like Breaking Bad, but instead of being about a high school teacher cooking meth, it’ll be about a doctor unfairly incarcerated for allegedly selling OxyContin.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were actually a doctor,” Greer said.

  Jared shrugged. “Well, not board certified, but I did my time in med school.”

  Greer kept her eyes on the door, watching for Eb, but it was still early yet.

  “And will Kregg play the role of Jared Thibadeaux?” she asked.

  Kregg knocked back his shot. “Hell yeah.” He pointed at the steno pad. “This right here is some raw stuff. It’s the shit.”

  “He’s writing all the music for the soundtrack too,” Jared confided. “That’s why I’m staying at his place on Bluewater Bay now, so we can really concentrate on the writing, when h
e’s not on set.”

  Greer was bored. She couldn’t help herself. “So you’re not staying at the Silver Sands anymore?”

  Jared’s face darkened briefly. “Ginny decided she needed to rent the room. Which was okay by me, because frankly the place is a rat hole. My cell at Starke was nicer than that room.”

  “Bryce wants to take a look at the screenplay, when we’re a little further down the road, you know, to maybe option, but I’m probably gonna have my agent shop the screenplay around town,” Kregg said. “And in the meantime, I’m setting up my own production company, too.”

  “Sounds like you boys are going to be pretty busy,” Greer said. “But Kregg, aren’t you going out on tour in a couple weeks?”

  “That’s right.” Kregg nodded.

  “Won’t it be kind of hard to collaborate on a screenplay when you’re doing all that traveling?”

  “Naw,” Kregg said. He slapped Jared’s back. “My man Jared is going on the road with me. This here’s my newest roadie, the J Man.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,” Greer said, wondering if her wine would ever arrive.

  The door from the street opened and a knot of people swelled forward, but Eb was not among them. The crowd did, however, include Zena, who seemed to be scanning the crowd, looking for a familiar face.

  Greer had to grudgingly admit that the girl was strikingly beautiful. Her gleaming, dark hair was pinned up tonight, and she wore a striking black one-shouldered knit tube dress that left little to the imagination.

  Both Jared and Kregg, along with half the men in the bar, had taken notice of Zena’s entry. Kregg slid from his bar stool and pushed his way through the crowd. “Hey, Zena,” he called. “Zena!”

  Her smooth face lit up when she saw she was being hailed by Beach Town’s male lead. Kregg took her by the hand and steered her through the crowd toward his spot at the bar.

  This, thought Greer, is about to get interesting.

  When Zena saw Greer, her smile briefly vanished. “Hi there, Greer,” she said coolly.

  Jared stuck out his hand. “Hey. My name’s Jared.”

  “Zena,” the girl said, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. She pivoted and deliberately turned her back to Greer.

  The front door opened and Eb stepped inside. He stopped and looked around the room, searching for his date. When he saw Greer, and her companions, he raised one eyebrow and frowned.

  Fortunately, the bartender arrived with her glass of wine. Greer put some money on the bar, nodded a farewell to Jared and Kregg, and headed for the door.

  Eb slid his arm around her waist and kissed her briefly. “You look nice,” he murmured. “What were you doing with those two bozos at the bar?”

  “Killing time until the man of my dreams showed up to sweep me off my feet,” Greer told him.

  The hostess was a slender, middle-aged woman with bright red hair. She showed them to their table on the glassed-in porch, took their drink orders, and promised to send a waitress as soon as possible.

  “Allie’s not working tonight?” Greer asked.

  “She told Gin she wasn’t on the schedule,” Eb said.

  When their drinks arrived, Eb sat back and nodded in the direction of the bar, where Jared, Kregg, and Zena seemed to be having an impromptu party. “What’s going on over there?”

  “They’re just plotting their next movie project,” Greer said. “I’m sure Zena will be signed up as location manager.”

  “Movie.” Eb rolled his eyes. “Has Jared got his steno pad with him?”

  “He sure does,” Greer said. “He told me he’s moved in with Kregg, so the two of them can work on their collaboration. Does that mean you kicked him out of the motel?”

  “I didn’t get a chance,” Eb said, chuckling. “Ginny booted him out first thing yesterday morning. Woke him up at eight, threw his stuff in a laundry cart, and told him to hit the road.”

  “Your aunt is my hero,” Greer said.

  “Mine too.”

  The waitress came and took their orders: a New York strip for Eb and seared scallops with a sugar cane and mango salsa for Greer.

  “How did Allie take the news that her dad had decamped?” Greer asked.

  “She’s been pretty subdued. I’m sorry that she had to see Jared that wasted, but on the other hand, maybe that’s what it takes to open her eyes to who her father really is.”

  “Fathers,” Greer said with a sigh. “I think every girl wishes she had Atticus Finch—or Gregory Peck—for a father. Unfortunately, most of us end up with somebody who’s somewhere between Jed Clampett and Homer Simpson.”

  Eb casually placed his hand atop hers. “Which did you get?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” she admitted. “He’s not as easy to hate in person as he was from a distance. You know, the picture of Clint that my mom always painted—some larger-than-life, macho redneck—just doesn’t seem to gibe with the reality. And maybe that has to do with age. Maybe he’s mellowed. Right now, he seems so vulnerable, so desperate for my approval, I just feel sorry for him.”

  “Is he going to be all right—after the wreck and all?”

  “His doctor is one of his poker buddies, who seems to know my father pretty well,” Greer said. “He actually wanted me to come to the hospital to let me know Clint is losing his eyesight. He has macular degeneration.”

  “Oh hell. What’s the prognosis?”

  “Clint didn’t want to talk about it, and I decided not to push it, so soon after his accident. But the doctor said he’ll eventually be legally blind. There are some treatments that may slow the progress of the disease, but there’s no cure.”

  “How old is your dad?”

  “I don’t even know,” Greer admitted. “Early seventies, I think. Pretty sad, huh? Even sadder when his doctor tells me he’s told all his buddies all about me and my career, even shown them pictures of me.”

  “He’s the one who walked away from you,” Eb pointed out. “It’s easy for him to brag on you, now that all the heavy lifting has been done—by somebody else.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Greer said slowly. “Before she died, when she was nagging me to reach out to Clint, Lise said she couldn’t remember anymore who left first. And she said it really didn’t matter, because they both were in the wrong. Which was news to me. So, the last time I talked to Dearie I specifically asked her what went down when my parents split up.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t want to. Not at first. Finally, when I pressed her, she said my parents had been having money problems. Clint couldn’t stunt drive, because he’d hurt his back, and Lise wasn’t getting any real acting jobs. And I was sick a lot that year, with earaches. So this one day, Clint decides to spend the last of their savings to buy one of the Chargers they’d wrecked for a stunt on the show.”

  “Charger? Show?” Eb looked momentarily confused. “I thought you said your dad owned a car business.”

  “Now. But he was originally a stunt driver. He worked on The Dukes of Hazzard.”

  “For real?”

  “I thought I told you that.”

  Eb shook his head. “No. I think I would have remembered if you’d told me your dad got to drive the General Lee.”

  Greer stared at him. “That’s a big deal to you?”

  “Are you kidding? I grew up in the South. Every red-blooded boy in the South wanted to be Bo Duke.” He grinned. “And to get into Catherine Bach’s Daisy Dukes.”

  Greer rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Clint came home with this busted-up Charger which he’d bought for seventy-five dollars. Without consulting Lise. He had some grand scheme to do all the body work, repaint it, and lease it back to Warner Brothers for the show. Unfortunately, Lise had been planning to use that money to buy herself a new outfit for a callback she had for a television pilot. They had a huge fight, and Clint left.”

  She took a sip of her wine. “I don’t have a lot of memories of the times th
ey were together, but I do remember the fight that night. I remember her screaming about seventy-five goddamn dollars. And I remember Clint lifting me into the front seat of the Charger and letting me blow the horn.”

  “Which played ‘Dixie,’” Eb said.

  “Which made my mother really go insane. After he left she took all his stuff and threw it out into the front yard. The next morning she called our next door neighbor to babysit me, because she had that audition.”

  Greer took a deep breath. “Here’s where the story gets interesting. That first time, when I met Clint at his house, he was totally indignant that I thought he’d walked off. He admits he left that night—to drive around and cool off—but he said when he eventually did go go home, the teenage babysitter had been there all night. Because Lise never came home. And she never called, either. Clint said he kept me all weekend, with no word from Mom. Finally—because, let’s face it, he was a guy and he didn’t know what to do with a kid who screamed all night because of an earache—he called Dearie and asked her to come help.”

  “He’s saying your mother was the one who took off and left you?”

  “Dearie confirmed it,” Greer said. “She didn’t want to admit what Mom had done, but she finally confirmed Clint’s version. She says Lise came home after a few days, never said where she’d been, and after that is when they got divorced.”

  “Sad story all around,” Eb said. “So maybe your dad wasn’t Atticus Finch. Most dads aren’t.”

  “But he also wasn’t Dr. Evil.”

  Their food arrived, and they found other things to talk about. They were sipping coffee when Greer noticed Eb looking at her oddly.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “You won’t get mad if I ask you one more thing about your dad?”

  “It’s about that damned car, isn’t it?”

  He looked sheepish.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What happened to the Charger? I mean, every once in a while you read about one of those cars selling at auction, for like hundreds of thousands of dollars. Does he still have it?”

  “He actually did fix it up and lease it back to the studio. I think he told me his General Lee was used for the last season of Dukes. Clint’s kind of a pack rat—like you, I guess. He’s got the car in a barn at his place, along with maybe three dozen other vintage novelty vehicles—old fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, school buses, like that.”