The world wouldn’t miss this prick.
EIGHT
I went back to Stockwell’s room to make sure no tidying up was needed. None was. As noted before, my knock-out blow had not bloodied the back of Nick Varnos’ head, though I did give the carpet a good close look-more out of habit than necessity.
In the bathroom, where I’d sat watch, I’d left behind my paperback, and retrieved it. Flushed the doctored Percodans. Didn’t bother wiping anything down for fingerprints. Who’d be checking room 313 for those?
Back in my room, I took the time to shower again-it had been a long morning and I’d worked up some sweat with all that scuffling-and I was a little tense, a little tight in the shoulders. The hot water helped, but not enough, and I decided to go down for an early afternoon swim. It was the weekend now, meaning families with kids were around, lots of running and screaming and splashing, and cuffing children is frowned upon these days. Not that relaxing, so I cut it short.
Up in my room again, I got into a fresh polo shirt and some black jeans and running shoes and threw the sport coat on, too, though it was another warm dry sunny day out there. But the nine millimeter was in my waistband for now. I skipped lunch. It’s not that killing some fuck freaked me out or anything, but neither did I work up an appetite.
I did take time to look at local newspapers in the lobby, although sitting in that mini-casino with the nine mil digging in my belly was not exactly the most comfy or peaceful reading experience. Most of the slots and poker machines had worshipers making offerings. The Spur on a Saturday, probably any place in Boot Heel on a Saturday, was way too populated for my tastes.
Anyway, the papers-both the local one and the Las Vegas Review-Journal — had nothing about a body with a smashed head being found on a country road. Though I’d just removed the Active half of the hit team, I was more concerned at the moment with the Passive half. It always took the media a day or so to catch up.
I had checked the papers yesterday, too, and listened to a couple of local newscasts on the car radio and the TV in my room, and Jerry just wasn’t making the news. Which I found gratifying. Driving his ass out of the county had been worth it.
That dirt road fatality would be tough to I.D. and the same would be true of the accident victim on the bathroom floor of room 319. The former had his wallet stripped off him, and the latter would have checked into the Spur under a false name supported by a credit card or two. The Buick Century in the parking lot was a vehicle Nick had purchased for cash. Very likely its registration would be in whatever fake name he’d checked in under.
Of course, the vehicle might have yet another name on it-I always make sure the collars and the cuffs match, when I’m using one of my eight sets of I.D. (credit cards, driver’s license, social security). This precaution dated back to Broker days. But Varnos had been his own man, so he might be sloppier than me…or less so-who could say?
Since I was the one still alive, I would vote for sloppier.
Anyway, all of this would send the authorities down a blind alley or two for at least forty-eight hours, and nothing they might find would likely lead to me or for that matter my client, Arthur Stockwell, and his movie shoot.
Nonetheless, when you have dumped two dead bodies in the same general area within a couple of days-and those dead bodies are fucking hit men-hanging around indefinitely is not the greatest plan. I had removed my client’s immediate threat-Jerry and Nick-but now, to earn my bonus before getting out of Dodge, I needed to quickly remove whoever had commissioned those two.
This was unquestionably the trickier of the services I offered to select clients like the director of Hard Wheels 2.
Which had been shooting since this morning at the Four Jacks casino. I parked the Nova in the back lot (nine mil in the glove compartment, sport coat left behind as well) and went in the rear doors. If I’d thought the place was bustling before, Saturday afternoon more than topped it, the vast casino floor crowded and clamorous and if the cigarette smoke had been any thicker, the sprinklers would have come on.
The blue-hair bunch had been infiltrated by younger couples and I didn’t see any who looked like they could afford to heedlessly slam coins into one-armed bandits much less chase dice or a little white spinning ball or try to hit 21 at a blackjack table. These were the good solid salt-of-the-earth Americans I had gone off to war to protect, who had presumably benefitted from all those little yellow people I killed, making the world safe for idiocy. I hoped they fucking appreciated it.
Today I spotted two Carter For President buttons. If I’d got a buck for every Reagan, I could have retired myself.
Aggravating this chaos was the presence of a movie company. Even amid all the colorful flashing lights of machines, they were easy to spot-the little invading army of technicians and actors had taken over a roulette table in the far left corner, up toward the front of the building. Around it were slots and poker machines in clanging, dinging action; some of the people playing them I recognized from the film set.
Actually, this whole corner was cordoned off by the half-dozen Hell’s Angels types on the production’s security force, plus another half-dozen real security guys in cop-like light blue who worked for the casino. In the great scheme of this vast room, perhaps only 5 % of the available gaming floor was blocked off. Another roulette table, nearest the one where a scene was being shot, was out of use; but otherwise the remaining 95 % of the casino was business as usual.
As crowded as the place was, freckle-faced Ginger-working her clipboard on my side of the blockade, wearing a tiny-titty-perked red Hard Wheels 2 t-shirt and frayed blue jeans-found me, and took me by the arm and walked me past security. She wasn’t speaking because they were rolling. The down-turned sailor hat was absent and revealed short red shag-cut hair. Maybe she would like to be the next Mrs. Quarry.
Despite a casino being one of the most brightly lit chambers on earth, a towering array of lights on stands, some of them with colored gels, half-ringed the roulette table where the scene was playing out. I couldn’t hear what was being said.
Eric Conrad, shirtless in his denim vest and jeans, was winning at roulette (a tech, out of frame on the floor, was running a gizmo that apparently controlled the white ball). At the star’s side, cheering him on, was Tiffany Goodwin in a white dress reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch. You know, where the subway blew her skirt up.
Joni, not in her diner uniform but in a sexy, smutty plaid blouse and denim short shorts, was also next to Eric, but not cheering him on. Next to her was an older guy, a fifty-ish actor I hadn’t seen on set before, in a light-green leisure suit and televangelist hair; he seemed to be losing and also giving Eric verbal shit. I figured he was the villain (I think he may have been that actor who played the dean in Animal House).
Anyway, that’s all I could get out of it, since I couldn’t really hear what anybody was saying. I had a feeling the makings of the movie’s entire plot were gathered around that roulette table. I’d wait for the video rental.
Finally Stockwell, standing beside the big camera-not on wheels today, hard or otherwise-yelled, “ Cut! ”
And Ginger, still at my side, finally said, “Hi, Mr. Reynolds. Welcome to the Four Jacks.”
I said hi, even though we’d been standing together for ten minutes already, and said, “This strikes me as a tricky place to shoot in.”
“Fuck yes!” she said.
I was of a generation that had never quite got used to clean-cut girls like Ginger saying “fuck” so casually. Somewhere deep in my Midwestern heritage, I felt offended; the rest of me thought, Fuck yes!
“Controlling a set within a noisy, crowded space like this is a logistical nightmare,” she said cheerfully, as if all this trouble were a good thing. “And we had a surprise thrown at us today that I admit threw us all for a loop.”
“What surprise is that?”
We were talking fairly loud because of the ding-ding-ding of the slots.
“Mr. Licat
a flew in from the Coast for a visit,” she said, “without any warning. He’s our money man, you know. And he’s…he’s kind of a public figure himself. I’m surprised nobody called you about it-you being our unit publicist and all.”
“I was at the hotel on the phone all morning with People and Variety,” I said, mentioning the only two appropriate publications a non-showbiz guy like me could summon on short notice. “If Art found a free moment to try to call me, he probably couldn’t get through.”
“I assume you know who Mr. Licata is.”
“Yes. And what he is. Why, Ginger, has he been a problem for you?”
She chose her words. “He just needs to be handled with care. Mr. Licata and Mr. Kaufmann are in the bar right now, I think. You might want to go introduce yourself.”
“I’ll do that. But I do need to talk to Art.”
“They’ll be moving the camera around for a new angle probably in about half an hour.”
“Okay.”
Another take began, same scene, same camera position, and I stayed put, right there next to Ginger. When Stockwell again yelled, “Cut!” and moved in to talk to the actors, I said to Ginger, “Where’s that guy I saw yesterday with the big fuzzy microphone on that fishing-pole type thing? Don’t they need him for sound?”
This particular technician had been at the diner yesterday covering the action by the gas pumps, recording grunts and groans and such memorable bad guy dialogue as, “Eat shit and die, motherfucker!” and “I’m gonna feed ya your nuts, asswipe!” The good guy dialogue was limited to: “Come and get me,” and “Try it.” More fun to play a bad guy.
“Mr. Stockwell isn’t going with a boom operator here in the casino,” Ginger was saying. “All of the actors are wirelessly miked.” She pointed toward some slot machines in back of the roulette table. “Our sound man is set up back behind there, off-camera.”
“What about all this racket going on?”
“Oh, he’ll be able to mix that in and out. First thing he did today was record room tone-you know, ambient noise? And everybody at those slot machines, in view of the camera, is either a crew member or an extra we hired out of Las Vegas. We have to maintain continuity.”
“Can’t have different people in the background, you mean? Disappearing and appearing.”
“Right. You catch on fast, Mr. Reynolds.”
“I always liked movies, but never imagined this was how they were made.”
“Well, we’re pretty down-and-dirty. Guerilla Filmmaking 101. But it’s not terribly different than what you’d see on a big Hollywood film.”
Before they started another take, I smiled and nodded at Ginger, then moved through the masses to the bar, where not so long ago I had sat in a booth with Jerry and caught up on old times. As irony would have it-or just because it was the most secluded of the booths-that was where producer James Kaufmann and Louis Licata were seated.
Halfway over to them, I hesitated, because they were deep in conversation, and a bunch of paperwork was on the booth’s tabletop. But Kaufmann spotted me and called, “Reynolds! Come over here.”
I did so, standing there like a waiter about to take an order.
Kaufmann, in his pink polo and puka shells again, said, “Lou, this is Jack Reynolds-the guy I told you about, who Art hired for publicity. Jack, Mr. Licata.”
“Mr. Licata,” I said, with a nod, extending my hand.
Louis Licata was small, about the size of Eric Conrad, maybe forty, with a head full of black curly hair and a California tan, real not bottle. Even before the sun had got hold of him, he’d been darkly handsome, too handsome to play a mobster in a movie, though his heavy black eyebrows and matching mustache were a bit much-if he hadn’t started out looking like Valentino, the effect would have been Groucho Marx.
“Glad to meet you, Jack,” Licata said in a smooth baritone, meeting my hand with his, flashing a charming, blindingly white smile that made good use of the kind of expensive caps actors go in for.
“Thank you, Mr. Licata.”
And he looked more like an actor than a producer. He was in a lightweight white sport jacket and a black t-shirt and one gold chain. Fairly elegant when a lot of his breed still dressed like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. He gestured with a hand whose only ring was a wedding one.
“Make it Lou. We’re among friends…Join us.”
Kaufmann slid over to make room. He was all smiles, upbeat; if he still harbored any doubts about me, they didn’t show. “Jack did preliminary interviews with Tiffany and Eric yesterday.”
Licata nodded, the startling white smile in the dark, darkly mustached face tilting like an art deco moon slice. “So I hear. We have a couple of very talented lead actors, Jack, don’t you think?”
“They’re terrific. Charismatic.”
That pleased him. “I insisted on both of them for this production. Miss Goodwin is a kind of…protйgйe of mine, and I had money in Eric’s TV show. He’s a great talent. All man, that boy.”
I managed neither to laugh nor comment. I did glance at Kaufmann, whose smile seemed even more forced.
Licata said, “I’ve been going over money matters with Jim here, and everything is going swell. We’re right on schedule, and a shade under budget.”
“You’ve got a real pro in Art Stockwell,” Kaufmann said.
“Of course, you’re prejudiced, Jim.” Licata’s eyes narrowed but he was still smiling. “Tight as you two are.”
“Well, I wasn’t blowing smoke, Lou. I leave that to the PR types like Jack here. But if Artie and me weren’t friends since jump street, I wouldn’t even be in the movie game.”
This seemed to surprise Licata. “You mean, you weren’t in the movie business before you and Art teamed up?”
“No, sir. He rescued me from insurance in Denver. When he moved into independent production a few years go, he gave his old buddy a call. Hell, I knew nothing about this trade before then. Talk about your crash course.”
Licata was nodding. “Just how far back is ‘jump street?’ ”
“High school. Best man at his wedding. That far.”
The mobster seemed vaguely amused. “Business spoils a lot of friendships, Jim.”
“Not Artie and me.”
Now Licata’s dark gaze shifted my way. “Jack, there’s a good story in that, don’t you think? Human interest?”
“Sure,” I said, and Kaufmann glanced at me, since we’d been down this road before. “But meaning no offense to Jim here, or to Art, it’s the stars people care about. Are you comfortable, Lou, with us exploiting Miss Goodwin’s Playboy fame?”
A shade nervous, Kaufmann said, “ ‘Exploiting’ has a nasty ring, Jack.”
But Licata didn’t agree: “No, that’s the game we’re in, guys. When you’re making a low-budget movie, tits and ass and violence, what else is it but exploitation? Not a bad word at all.”
“Good to know you feel that way,” I said.
He leaned forward, conspiratorially; his dark eyes were lazy-lidded but sharp-centered. “Jack, I am fine with you capitalizing on the fame Mr. Hefner lavished on our leading lady. She can be a little sensitive about it herself-no actress likes to be seen as a mere sex object. There’s a lot more to that little lady than mere sex appeal.”
“She’s got depth,” I said, remembering her head bobbing up and down in my lap.
Kaufmann turned toward me. “Now, Jack, it’s important you keep Mr. Licata out of any publicity. You do understand that? He has a financial interest in the production, but we don’t list him as a producer.”
“Silent partner,” Licata put in. He was lighting up a cigarillo.
Kaufmann continued: “And his interest in Miss Goodwin is strictly artistic.”
Is that what it was called?
Licata said, “A lot of people spread dirty rumors in the show business biz.”
I was trying to get past the redundancy of that when Kaufmann put in, “You need to squelch any of this vicious nonsense about Lou a
nd Tiffany. It’s all a misreading- Lou simply thought that our hiring Tiffany would be beneficial for the film, artistically and commercially.”
“Good exploitation,” Licata said, exhaling cigar smoke.
“And you need to stonewall any questions on that front,” Kaufmann said. “And make sure no pictures of the two of them get out. Nothing is more important than protecting Lou’s privacy.” The producer looked exhausted, maybe from having to deliver that speech about the choice of Tiffany being artistic and commercial.
“I appreciate that, Jimbo,” Licata said. Was there something mocking in his tone? “Now, I need a private word with Jack here. Do you mind? I have a few publicity strategies I want to run past him, and I’m sure you have more pressing work to do.”
“Absolutely,” Kaufmann said, and gathered his paperwork, and I got out of the booth and let him out. He smiled and nodded at Licata, ever servile, and was gone.
Now I was alone in the booth with Licata. “Producers,” he said, and mock-shivered. “Make your skin crawl, don’t they? Phonies to a man.”
“I think Jim’s sincere about his friendship with Stockwell.”
“You know,” Licata admitted, “so do I…well, everybody needs a saving grace.” He gave me an earnest look. “Look, Jack. I want to apologize about something.”
“What could that be?”
He shook his head, his smile tight, chagrined. “Two of these biker goons we hired on-Skull and his pal Juke- gave you a hard time yesterday about spending time in Miss Goodwin’s trailer. They were out of line.”
“No problem, Lou.”
“I should have imported some of my own help, top fellas, but because of the biker nature of the production, Skull and Juke and their friends could do double duty. They could also be extras in certain scenes, and…well, it was a decision I probably wouldn’t make again. I kind of owed them a favor because Skull owns a bar in Indianapolis that is a sort of major distribution center for us.”
I’d figured drugs was how brain-dead bikers like that pair could make a living.
“They didn’t understand you’re a PR guy,” he was saying, “and, well, as for any…jealousy issue on my part, where you and Tiffany is concerned…I understand you’re batting for the other team, so that’s a moot point.”
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