by Brad Smith
Kari Karson was now looking at the director darkly, as if considering other uses for the heavy maul in her hands.
“Why don’t you show her how?” Virgil said.
“What?”
“If it’s so easy, why not just show her?”
The director took a moment, aware that the whole crew was watching. And so was Kari, who had shifted her attention now to Virgil, staring at him openly, curious.
“Because it’s not my job to split wood,” the director said. “I went to film school so I don’t have to split wood, or paint props, or haul cable. You understand? I’m the fucking director, and right now I’m directing you to move your fucking horse out of the fucking shot.”
Tommy Alamosa had been standing quietly by, probably hoping that things would subside, but now he stepped forward, looking to defuse the situation. Virgil shook his head at him before turning back to the director. “Did they teach you anything in that film school of yours about being civil to your actors?”
“Guess what?” the director said. “You’re not an actor.”
“I’m talking about Bob,” Virgil said. “He doesn’t appreciate that kind of language.”
“Fuck you,” the director said before turning to Tommy. “Call lunch. And get this straightened out.”
Tommy called lunch. When the crew had wandered off, he approached Virgil. “Having fun?”
Virgil smiled, but before he could speak, Kari Karson walked up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” she said and walked away.
Tommy shook his head in amusement. “Well, Walter Raleigh, how you going to keep that ham of a horse on the other side of the field?”
“I’ll spread some grain out along that fencerow,” Virgil said. “That’ll keep him there long enough for them to get the shot.”
“If she manages to split the goddamn wood,” Tommy said. “We might have to use the stand-in again and shoot it from the hill. She doesn’t get her shit together, this movie’s going to have more long shots than the Kentucky Derby. Let’s get some lunch, Virgil.”
“Go ahead,” Virgil said. “I’ll get some oats from the trailer for Bob. Push comes to shove, I can tie him off with a light lead. It won’t show from that distance.”
Virgil got a bucket of oats and set it by the gate before walking back to the little cabin to have a look at the woodpile. There was a selection of hardwood there—white oak, elm, ash, maple. Who knows where the production company had come up with it? The log that the actress had been whacking futilely away at was white oak, freshly cut, it appeared. She couldn’t have split it with a hundred-pound maul. The elm was just as hard and gnarly as well. Virgil sifted through the pile and found a half-dozen logs of white ash, clear with no knots. He set them on the block and with the maul split each of them lengthwise, stacking the pieces off to the side of the pile. The ash had a straight grain and Virgil knew it would split easily, whether green or cured.
When he was finished he wandered toward the food tent to find Kari Karson. Walking past the trailers, he spotted her sitting outside one of them, drinking a can of soda and smoking a cigarette. It was warm there in the sun and she’d removed her character wig and unbuttoned the dress and pulled it down around her waist, revealing a period chemise that bared her arms and shoulders. She also had the hem of the dress pulled up to her thighs. Her legs were spread forward in the dirt and when she saw Virgil she remained like that, watching him openly as he approached.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m going to grab a sandwich. Why don’t you come over to the cabin in a bit? I have something to show you.”
He half expected her to question him, but she didn’t; she just nodded and pulled on the cigarette before flicking it into the dust between her feet. There was something tough about her, or maybe she was just good at acting that way under the right circumstances. But there was a look in her eyes that Virgil had seen when the director was dressing her down that should have given the man pause, although Virgil suspected the man was too oblivious to notice.
Virgil got a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee from the meal tent and walked over to the little log cabin to eat by himself. He was sitting in one of the ladder-back chairs there, his boots up on the railing, watching the clouds drift across the noon sky, when she approached.
“Who are you—Henry Fonda?”
It took Virgil a moment and then he smiled. “My Darling Clementine.”
“You’re good,” Kari said. “Wyatt Earp, sitting in front of the saloon. That thing he did with his boots on the railing, like a little dance.”
“Now, how would you know that movie?” he asked.
“So you can know it and I can’t?” she asked. “That’s a little condescending.”
“You’re right,” he admitted.
She stepped up onto the porch and leaned her backside against the railing, facing him. The cotton dress was still around her waist, tied there with the sleeves. Virgil couldn’t blame her; it was hot as hell in the little meadow, with not a hint of a breeze.
“When I got the part, my acting coach told me to rent Drums Along the Mohawk,” she said by way of explanation. “Same era as this thing here. Henry Fonda and John Ford, right? So I’m checking them out on IMDb and there’s Clementine. And Fort Apache too, but I didn’t care for that much. Fonda was a dick in that one.”
“You checked out what?”
“IMDb,” she said. “The Internet site.”
“Oh, that.”
She laughed. “Oh yeah, you’re hip. You probably got it bookmarked on your iPad.”
“I use a Bob Feller baseball card for a bookmark,” Virgil said. “And I don’t have an iPad.”
“I know you don’t,” she said. “It’s working for you, cowboy. What did you want to show me? You’re not a pervert, are you?”
“Not that I know of.” Virgil got to his feet. “Come on.”
He led the way to the pile of firewood, with the actress following. Virgil handed her the heavy maul, then selected one of the half pieces of ash he’d cut earlier and placed it on the block.
“I can’t do this,” she said.
“Sure you can. Lift it above your head and let it drop on the log. You don’t have to swing it.”
She did what he said and the log split easily, with a sharp snap. The two pieces fell away from the block and landed in the dirt.
“Well, shit,” she said. “Why couldn’t I do that before?”
“Because you were trying to split a piece of white oak that Paul Bunyan couldn’t cut.” Virgil pointed. “There’s a dozen or so pieces there. Should be enough for the scene.”
“Let me do another,” she said.
Virgil placed another of the halves on the block. She dropped the maul on it with the same result. She smiled over at Virgil, and then flexed, showing him her biceps.
When the crew came back after lunch, the director announced that he’d come up with a plan, which, Virgil suspected, likely meant that someone else had come up with a plan and the director was taking credit for it. The idea was for one of the carpenters to cut the logs three-quarters of the way through with a saw, allowing Kari, theoretically anyway, to split them.
“No, I can do it,” she told the director.
“Except you can’t,” he reminded her. “We watched you try. After we watched you try to deliver a line without saying like every other word.”
She walked past him, grabbed one of the ash half logs, plopped it on the block, and split it with ease, stooping down to toss the two pieces onto the pile. Casually resting the heavy maul on her shoulder, she turned back to the director.
“Like, how’s that?” she asked.
The director glared at her, his expression suggesting he’d been tricked somehow. He glanced around suspiciously at the crew, his eyes finally falling on Virgil, leaning against the cabin wall.
“What did you feed that girl for lunch?” Virgil asked.
>
Late in the day, when filming was done, Virgil was loading the two workhorses in the trailer when Tommy Alamosa approached, carrying a sheaf of papers.
“Tomorrow’s call sheet,” he said.
“What’s up?” Virgil asked.
“Same as today. We need the horses here as background. No acting required.”
“Try and tell Bob that.” Virgil looked at the sky. “If this weather holds, I’ll be combining tomorrow. My wheat doesn’t care about your movie.”
Tommy laughed. “And neither do you. When will you know for sure?”
“Long as it doesn’t rain, I already know,” Virgil said. He thought a moment. “I can’t get at the wheat until the dew burns off. Tell you what—it’s only an hour’s drive from my house. I can have them here first thing in the morning and pick them up at night. If all they need to do is stand in the field, that is. If they need to be moved, then somebody would have to do it. I’d prefer that someone is you, Tommy. I don’t want that peckerhead director or the other one with the hair anywhere near my horses.”
“I thought they weren’t yours.”
Virgil smiled. “They’re not. But it still holds.”
“We can make it work,” Tommy said. “By the way, the peckerhead thinks you pulled some kind of hillbilly voodoo with that firewood earlier.”
“Let him think it,” Virgil said. He gestured toward his truck and trailer. “I’ve got some hay and a bag of grain in my truck. I’ll leave it in the barn there. You’ll have it for tomorrow, if you need it.”
Tommy agreed and then went off toward the trailers with the call sheets in his hand. Virgil carried a half-dozen bales inside the barn and stacked them off to the side. There was a considerable amount of movie-related equipment stored there—dollies and ladders and white screens of some sort mounted on wooden frames. Virgil went back out and returned with the bag of feed, which he tossed on top of the hay. He felt her presence before he heard her.
“Hey.”
She had changed from the long dress into a tank top and shorts and her dark hair was pulled back behind her neck. She smelled of musky perfume and pot.
“I never thanked you,” she said.
“No need.”
And then she was on him, her arms around his neck, her full lips on his, her tongue flicking wildly inside his mouth. It took Virgil a moment to react, then he stepped back and held her by the wrists.
“Whoa,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, attempting to lean into him again.
“It was just a lesson in wood splitting.”
“Where do you live?” she asked. “Around here?”
“Sort of.”
“On a farm?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I go home with you tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Virgil said. “I’m not set up for visitors.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” she asked. His hands were still on her wrists and she lifted the right one to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I don’t want to go back to the casino,” she said softly. “I don’t like it there.”
“Why not stay in Kingston with the rest of them?”
“Why not stay with you?” she asked. “You can teach me farm stuff. Don’t you like me?”
“I like you all right.”
“You want a blow job? I’ll do it right here.”
Virgil decided it was a good time to change the subject. “What’s wrong with the casino?”
“What’s wrong?” she repeated. “That red-haired Indian wants to do me, that’s what. He thinks I owe him because he got me the part. He’s trying to win me over with champagne and jewelry and food. He’s big on food.”
“Just tell him no.”
“I’ve been telling him but I got a feeling he isn’t used to hearing it. I’ve never seen an ego like his and I live in fucking Hollywood. He actually thinks he’s a movie producer and the thing is, he doesn’t know shit. I bet you he’s never heard of My Darling Clementine. He’s a fucking stalker, is what he is. And he’s scary.”
“In what way?”
Kari twisted her wrists to escape his grip and stepped back. “I think he always gets his way. It’s like he thinks he’s above the rules. I don’t like being around him.”
“Then go to Kingston.”
“Shit. I left my girlfriend there.”
“At Running Dog?”
“Yeah. She was supposed to come with me to set but she got too fucked up last night and wouldn’t get out of bed this morning. So I’ll go back there tonight but that’s it.” She smiled seductively, dropped her voice. “Unless you want to change your mind and take me with you.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
“She can handle herself. Maybe she’ll fuck the Red Hawk. She likes money.”
“You can’t stay with me.”
“Why not? We’ll have fun. I guarantee you.”
Virgil shook his head. Kari walked over to the entrance to the barn and glanced toward the trailers before turning back to Virgil. “You got a wife, is that it?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re scared of her?”
He shrugged. “She carries a gun.”
“That’s kinda cool,” Kari said. She walked toward him. “Can we kiss again? There’s nothing wrong with a little kissing, is there?”
“It can lead to harder drugs.”
She smiled. “You’re funny.”
“And I’m leaving,” he said. “I got chores to do.”
“Chores,” she said. “I like that. It’s romantic.”
“I’ve always said that.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said, but she smiled. “Okay . . . for now.” She turned and walked out.
• • •
Levi stood by the driver’s side door of the craft services truck, his eyes on the little barn in the meadow across the way. Ten minutes earlier he’d watched Kari Karson follow the horse wrangler inside. A few minutes before that he’d approached the actress, asking her to have dinner with him in Kingston that night. She’d turned him down without breaking stride, heading for the barn, dressed in shorts and a tank top that showed off her cleavage. She’d looked at Levi like she didn’t recognize him.
Now he stood by the truck wondering what she was doing inside the barn with the fucking hired hand. Was she fucking the hired hand? Christ, that didn’t seem possible. The man was a rube and she was an internationally known actress, albeit one with a dodgy reputation. Besides, Levi couldn’t know for sure that it was just the two of them inside. Maybe Tommy Alamosa was there too, maybe with a couple others, and they were getting high or drinking beer. Nikki wasn’t around the craft services truck; maybe she was there. Levi still couldn’t figure why she was banging Tommy. Why would a hot young thing like Nikki be interested in a guy old enough to be her grandfather?
While he waited, he looked at himself in the truck’s side mirror. He’d stayed in Kingston that morning and got his hair trimmed and highlighted. He looked good, he knew. He turned his head to look at his profile. The slightest hint of a double chin was just forming. Working out didn’t seem to help. He thought about growing a goatee, keeping it trimmed close, just enough to cover the minor defect in his appearance.
He glanced toward the barn again. Who the fuck was she to say no to him? He was a producer on a film she really had no business even being in. She should be kissing his ass all over the set. She’d spent the weekend at the hotel up at the casino with Ronnie Red Hawk, who basically looked like a fucking ogre beside Levi. Was she sleeping with him? Levi had to assume so; after all, Red Hawk had hand-delivered her the role. Maybe she was a freak, maybe she liked fucking marginal people, which was why she was in the barn right now with the hick who tended the horses.
At that moment she emerged from the building and started across the property for the trailers, where the limo was waiting. As she walked
she ran her fingers softly across her lips. What was that? When she got to the stretch Cadillac, she got inside. It looked as if she’d be going back to Running Dog after all. But what had gone down between her and the hired hand? Levi wondered if the man had come on to her, if she’d had to tell him to fuck off. He wanted to approach the car and ask her, but he couldn’t stand the notion of being rejected by her twice in a matter of fifteen minutes.
When the limo pulled away, he walked over to the main trailer and went inside. Sam was sitting at the end of the couch and Robb was lying there with his boots up on the armrest and his head in her lap. She had a damp cloth in her hand and was gently wiping his forehead.
“He all right?” Levi asked.
“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “He’s just had a long day.”
Levi went to the minifridge and brought out a Corona. “Any limes?” he asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“Of course there’s no limes,” he said, sitting down. “Why would anything go right? So what’s going on? Are we getting anything worth keeping out of that little bitch?”
“Ooh . . . that’s kind of harsh,” Sam said. “You and Ms. Karson have a tiff?”
“Shit. I don’t give her the time of day.”
“The dailies actually look all right,” Sam said. “I suspect there’s going to be a lot of ADR, but I have to admit that the camera likes her. And it is what it is, right? We have to make it work at this point.”
“I’m pulling a performance out of her,” Robb mumbled. “But it isn’t easy. I had to teach her how to cut fucking firewood today.”
“I saw the footage, though,” Sam said. “She looked great. And it’s a nice moment, her at the woodpile, swinging that ax. It speaks of the character.”
“You can thank me for that,” Robb said. “To make it worse, I think she’s stoned out of her mind half the time.” He sighed at his burden. “Speaking of which—did you bring the hash, babe?”
“It’s back at the hotel,” Sam told him.
“Shit. Is there any ice cream?”
He lifted his head from her lap and Sam rose at once and went to the cupboard for a bowl. Levi watched as she doled out several scoops of strawberry ice cream from a container in the freezer and carried it over to Robb, who sat up three-quarters of the way, like a little kid in bed, to eat.
