Identifying the body would take a while, if it ever was identified; and his death-mysterious as it was (had a drunk stumbled out into that road and got run over?)- would hardly make headline news. Jerry had said his part of the job was over, so I didn’t figure Nick would be looking to get in touch with him. If the local paper in a day or two carried a little story about the weird death in the boonies, well, why should Nick think it was about Jerry?
And assuming somebody helped himself to the Mustang, it would either wind up in a Vegas chop shop or be merrily driven off by some lucky winner. Admittedly, that winner would have an eye-popping moment or two, discovering the weapons in the trunk of his new car. Or maybe not. If it was a pro and not an amateur who took the Mustang, the guns might just be something else to fence.
Everybody wins.
With the Mustang dumped, and the Hendrix t-shirt stuffed in a trash bin, I returned to the Four Jacks and found my way through slots and poker machines and bluehaired patrons to the snack bar, which was off to the right. Open onto the busy casino, Jack’s Shack was fashioned after an old-time soda fountain with tables and a few booths, its back wall decorated with cartoon cut-outs of cowboys and Indians and gunfighters. I got myself a sugar cone with Rocky Road ice cream and sat in a booth licking and nibbling it, while I thumbed through the dead man’s notebook.
I could bore you with details, because Jerry had filled almost sixty pages, and there was a lot to piece together. But I won’t. What I learned boiled down to this: the target was Arthur Stockwell, film director.
The first two weeks of Stockwell’s activities proved irrelevant because this period represented something called pre-production. His hours were erratic, as he apparently was spending time at various film locations in Boot Heel, and sometimes checking with production staff who were staying at three hotels (including the Spur but not, you may be shocked to learn, the luxurious Saddle Up). Halfway through the second week, Stockwell began rehearsing with actors in a conference room at the Spur, but the times were all over the place.
For somebody in the murder business, dealing with a target involved in such a constantly shifting activity was your worst fucking nightmare. You want to deal with your mark in his or her daily life, where there’s a routine to discern. Patterns, predictability- so important when you’re planning to kill somebody.
What I didn’t get was why the hit was going down here, and now — why not wait till after the film wrapped? (That was the term, wasn’t it?) Why not wait till the director would be back in Beverly Hills or wherever, living a normal life? Not that people lived normal lives in Beverly Hills. Even so, that life certainly had some order, some structure, not this movie-making chaos.
Speaking of which, why hadn’t Stockwell been snuffed before he came to Boot Heel to shoot a movie for weeks at a time or maybe months? (Jerry’s notes gave me no indication of how long this-or any-movie production might last.)
Last week the film had started shooting. Again, the times were all over the place, with the only common thread the director working very long hours. He would be on the set as early as six a.m. and get back as late as nine or ten or even midnight. The sets ranged from a desert location just outside town to, well, the Four Jacks Hotel amp; Casino. Apparently they’d shot a scene in this very snack bar.
A local home and an apartment had been used as sets and were (according to Jerry’s notes) “shot out.” Had Jerry ingratiated himself with crew? He seemed to have picked up the jargon.
And it seemed one full day had been spent at the local sheriff’s office. Great place to be shadowing a subject! This seemed more and more like madness…
A dozen names of cast and crew appeared in Jerry’s notes. Either he was a hell of a back-up guy, soaking up information at the scene, or he’d been briefed heavily going in to the job. I could only assume the latter, because as far as I could tell what Jerry really soaked up was Dewar’s.
The names that seemed to matter-the ones that showed up again and again, and figured in Jerry’s surveillance-were (in addition to Arthur Stockwell himself) Tiffany Goodwin, apparently the lead actress, Eric Conrad, lead actor, and J. Kaufmann, producer. Another actress, referred to only as J.S., rated four notations.
I had actually heard of both Tiffany Goodwin and Eric Conrad, and the movie they were making- Hard Wheels 2 — was the sequel to a sleeper hit of a year or so back.
Tiffany Goodwin had been a Playboy Playmate of the Year half a decade ago-I didn’t know she’d gone on to be an actress in the movies. I figured she was probably just hanging out at the Playboy Mansion fucking Hefner.
Eric Conrad had been on a very popular TV show about cops who worked on the beach. Actually, I thought he was still on it, though I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t something I kept up with, despite the beautiful girls in bikinis running on the beach. Even I need some plot.
We were not exactly dealing with Al Pacino and Diane Keaton here. Nor did I figure Bogie and Bacall’s romantic icon status was likely to be challenged by Conrad and Goodwin. And John Ford and Steven Spielberg had little to worry about from Arthur Stockwell.
Clearly the movie being made in Boot Heel was strictly of the drive-in variety, the kind turning up on the shelves of these video stores popping every wherever these days. One of my poker buddies owned such a shop in Lake Geneva.
I have always liked movies but am no film buff. Still, the name Arthur Stockwell rang a bell. That, and the thought of that video store back home, gave birth to an idea…
I got some change at the snack bar counter, and found a row of payphones near the bar. It took a while, as I had to go through directory assistance, but eventually I heard a familiar nasal voice answer, “Lake Geneva Home Video, two tapes, three days, four dollars. This is Bruce, how may I help you?”
“Hey, Bruce,” I said.
Bruce, at thirty, was the only guy in the poker group younger than me.
“Hey, Jack. Ya haven’t been in lately. What’s it take, dude? I don’t even charge you late fees!”
Jack was a first name I used a lot. Mostly it was the last name that shifted.
“I’ve been out of town visiting relatives. Still am, actually. We’re playing one of those silly trivia games, and hell, Brucie, you know more about movies than anybody I know.”
“No argument there.”
“So help me look good, dude.” Yes. I said it. “Tell me who Arthur Stockwell is.”
Bruce did.
Turned out Stockwell was a very well known B-movie director. As a young man in the late ’50s, he had directed a number of films for producer Roger Corman; he broke off on his own and in the ’60s specialized in genre movies of all kinds, mostly for American International-science fiction, horror, biker, “a few hippie flicks, where they drop acid and stuff.” He had worked with Jack Nicholson, Peter Falk and Bruce Dern before they got famous. And, as with Jerry Lewis-who I like, so watch it-he had a favorable reputation among certain influential French film critics.
“Stockwell got a chance to make a movie for Twentieth Century Fox,” Bruce said, “about ten years ago. After one of his cheapies, Acid Trip, unexpectedly broke box office records, he got his shot. Made this big epic about World War One biplanes, The Red Baron. And I don’t mean Snoopy.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It tanked. El flopperoo. For a while he couldn’t get arrested.”
That’s a bad thing?
“The drive-in market kind of dried up in the ’70s,” Bruce was saying. “Stockwell started directing episodes of TV shows, mostly cop shows, you know, Quinn Martin action crapola. Then last year he made Hard Wheels, a throwback to his classic biker movies. And it was a big hit on home video.”
“Not in theaters?”
“It did all right, in what few drive-ins and grindhouses there are left. But the video stores are changing everything. Hard Wheels is one of the first movies ever to get famous and popular just from people renting it. And playing on cable.”
“Cable.”
“Oh, yeah, man-HBO rules! You need to get a satellite dish, my friend. You really do. And I have a friend who can fix you up.”
“We’ll see. Thanks for this, Bruce.”
“Sorry for yammering on so long, buddy. I gave you a lot more info than you need for a trivia game.”
“No, that’s cool, it’s interesting stuff. You’ll make me look smart.”
“Then I am a genius…Hey, man, I hear Stockwell’s making a sequel. Can you dig it? A sequel to a movie that was a hit on home video. It’s a brave new world, Jack.”
“You’re slipping, Brucie. That was a literary reference.”
“Books serve their purposes. Hell of a lot of good flicks came from ’em…When you gonna be back in town?”
“Probably in time for poker. I’ll let you know if not.”
I went out to the street, where the night had turned sultry but with a teasing breeze, and walked to my car. Not a rental, my own wheels (hard wheels?), which I’d purchased in Vegas, after flying in from Wisconsin. I used phony I.D., of course, and paid in cash. It was nothing special, a ’76 Chevy Nova, dark green, fairly sleek, almost sporty. No red Mustang, though.
The Spur was everything the Saddle Up wasn’t. At night, I couldn’t tell what color the three-story brick building was-light pink? — and in truth it was nondescript and institutional-looking. But the big elaborate boot-shaped neon complete with spinning-neon spur, all green and yellow and orange, had enough flash for four motels.
All I had for a suitcase was a brown vinyl carry-on, slung over my shoulder when I entered the lobby of the motel, which proved to be a mini-casino. Well, that might be an exaggeration-it was just slots that ringed the walls, though the coffee tables around which comfy chairs were arranged were embedded with poker machines. About half a dozen guests were making use of them.
The cowboy trappings were limited here-the lobby was modern and bright, with only a couple of large framed western prints (a rodeo scene, a desert vista) to hint that we were in Boot Heel, Nevada. Behind the long check-in counter were three stations, but only one clerk was working, an attractive big-hair brunette in her midtwenties, with luminous brown eyes and a nice tan and an immediately friendly smile. She was in a green blazer the same startling color as her eye shadow; whether fashion statement or coincidence, I couldn’t say.
Her name tag said tina.
“Hi, Tina,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation.”
“No problem, sir. We have rooms available. Facing the pool, if you like.”
“Cool.” I leaned an elbow on the counter and gave her my friendly, shy smile. Maybe she was just a good clerk, but the vibe I was getting said she didn’t find me repulsive. “I’m here to do some PR for the movie company that’s in town. Art Stockwell is an old friend of mine.”
She got even more pleasant and friendly. “Well, I can put you on his floor, if you like.”
“That would be great. Closer the better.”
She checked her book. “How about…across the hall? Down a little, but real close.”
“Perfect. What room is he in again?”
“Three-thirteen. You’re in three-sixteen. Your room looks out on the pool, but don’t worry. There’s no swimming after ten, so it shouldn’t be noisy.”
“Great. Say, I just got in. Is Art back from the day’s shoot yet?”
“No, Mr. Stockwell is still out.”
We did the check-in stuff, and I gave her a credit card that said JOHN H. REYNOLDS. I had two on that particular name, attached to a legit bank account. She wondered if I’d want the room charged to the Stockwell Production Company account. It was tempting, but that might require some kind of clearing process, so I said no.
“Tina, could you give me a call when Art gets in? Assuming you’re still working.”
“Oh, I’m on night shift. I’ll be here. So should I have Mr. Stockwell call you, then, Mr. Reynolds?”
“No. Please don’t. We’re old pals and I want to surprise him. He isn’t expecting me till the weekend. You call me, please.”
“Glad to, Mr. Reynolds.”
We exchanged smiles that were polite but with promise. My general policy was no sex on the job. Too distracting. Fortunately, I was completely inconsistent on this point.
I went up the elevator to my room. It was surprisingly spacious, nicely modern, nothing western in the appointments beyond another desert vista print and an earthtone color scheme. I unpacked, wishing I could risk a shower, but I didn’t know when the phone might ring announcing Stockwell’s presence.
The nine millimeter, which I’d transferred from the Nova’s glove compartment to the carry-on bag, I rested on the nightstand by the phone. I turned off the lights, stretched out on the bed, propped a couple pillows, and used the remote to check the TV stations on the nice big 21” Sony on the dresser. They had satellite. Bruce would have loved it here.
Enough time passed that I was suddenly watching Johnny Carson. I realized I’d dropped off to sleep a few times, and that was no good. I got up and went out on the little balcony to stretch and let the night breeze wake me up a little.
Someone was swimming down there.
The motel, I now realized, was a squared-off U-shape, the short, flat part of the U representing the lobby wing facing Main Street. Within the U was a courtyard that was mostly swimming pool. Few lights were on down there, but the pool glowed from underneath, making the gracefully swimming figure a near silhouette.
A woman.
What from here, at least, seemed to be a lovely woman…longish dark hair, long legs, a slender, shapely body in a black bikini against a tan that aided and abetted the silhouette effect. According to Tina at the desk, the pool wasn’t open this late. But who was going to complain about this nymph relaxing with a solitary swim? Not any male guest, anyway.
The balcony I stood on was wrought iron and fairly small and I was wreathed in darkness, as the only light behind me was from The Tonight Show. When she swam on her back, she either couldn’t see me or didn’t care that I was up there leaning at the rail, gazing down admiringly.
Funny. With the pool’s under-lighting and the slice of moon’s grayish ivory, she eventually became somewhat more distinct in my night vision, less of a silhouette, and I’d be damned if she didn’t remind me of Joni. A little. Of the adult woman Joni at thirty-something might have grown up into, if she took decent care of herself and didn’t run to fat or anything.
The phone rang.
FOUR
It was pushing midnight, but I took the time to shower and make myself presentable. You don’t want to drop in unannounced on somebody, with a wild tale of hitmen on the loose, looking like the long day you’d just had.
I even shaved, and took the time to put on my creamcolor sport coat over a rust-color polo and brown jeans. I had put the sport coat in the closet when I unpacked, and it was fairly hung out from its time in the carry-on. It would give me a nice young professional look, and cover the nine millimeter stuffed in my waistband.
Earlier, when Tina down at the desk called, I made sure she hadn’t spoiled my surprise-she hadn’t-and then laughed and said, “Bet Art’s in one of those crazy Hawaiian shirts of his.”
“Uh, no-I think he just had on a t-shirt and jeans.”
Before the confusion in her voice could turn into anything, I said with another laugh, “Must be a little too warm out here in the desert for the Don Ho bit. I tell you, back in L.A., that’s his uniform.”
She managed to laugh at that, and I thanked her for her help and she said not at all, and I didn’t sense anything suspicious in her voice.
I’d just wanted to make sure I knew who I’d be talking to when I knocked on the door of 313. And a good thing, too, because the guy who answered was not wearing t-shirt and jeans.
Whoever-this-was in the doorway had on a pink polo shirt and off-white slacks with a puka necklace and sockless sandals (somebody was doing the Don Ho bit after all). Tall, slender, almost skinny, w
ith a dirty blond early Beatles haircut, he wore aviator glasses whose lenses were tinted a faint rose. The light blue eyes behind rosecolored glasses were wide when the door opened; but they immediately became hooded when he saw a stranger before him.
Till then, he’d been smiling and I’d describe his expression as friendly-a pleasant-looking man in his forties, well-tanned, his boyish features slightly marred by pockmarked cheeks-but seeing me, his demeanor went freezedried.
That made sense, both his answering my knock so easily and then reacting negatively. I figured a movie company was a little world unto itself, with lots of people coming and going, so you wouldn’t think twice about opening a door half-past-midnight.
And that door had opened wide, giving me a glimpse of a guy sitting at a table, with paperwork spread out in front of him. A guy in a white t-shirt and jeans. Then the one in the pink polo narrowed the door to not much more than a crack.
Making three syllables out of it, he said, “Yes?”
“I apologize for the lateness, I just got in. Mr. Stockwell doesn’t know me, but I have an important business matter to discuss with him.”
My reluctant host’s voice was a pleasant baritone with a faint Southern tinge. “And how do you know I’m not Mr. Stockwell?”
“Because you aren’t. I assume you’re a business associate. His producer?”
The way the light-blue eyes unhooded momentarily told me I’d guessed well.
“I’m Mr. Stockwell’s producer, yes.”
“Mr. Kaufmann, it’s vital I have a few minutes with him. I know how valuable Mr. Stockwell’s time is, and I won’t abuse it.”
Despite the lateness of the hour, and people trying to sleep in rooms all around us, I was talking in a normal, even somewhat loud manner. I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious, I just wanted the guy in the t-shirt at the table to get the drift of the conversation I was having with the guard at his gate.
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