by Stuart Woods
—
Boris Tirov stirred as the late-afternoon sun found him on the terrace, and he began to perspire. He got up and went through the sliding door into the air-conditioned suite and into the bedroom, where he stripped off his clothes. In one motion, he pulled back the covers and lifted one leg to climb into the bed. The rattling froze him for just a moment; he didn’t see the snake until it hit him on the thigh, then withdrew, remaining coiled and still rattling.
Tirov panicked and ran into the living room, looking for a phone.
“Front desk!”
“I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake!” he shouted into the phone. “I need an ambulance right now!”
“What was that, sir?”
“Rattlesnake bite! Ambulance!”
“Yes, sir, right away.”
Tirov hung up the phone and watched as the snake slithered from the bedroom and headed toward the terrace. The sliding door was still open a few inches, and it moved outside. Tirov ran across the room and closed the door behind it, then he began thinking about his predicament.
He went into the bedroom, treading carefully, lest there were more, undiscovered snakes. He grabbed a necktie from the closet, wrapped it twice around his leg and tightened it. He thought for a moment, What else? You were supposed to suck the wound, weren’t you? But he couldn’t reach his outer thigh to do that.
There was a loud knocking on the door, and he got up to answer it, holding the necktie in place. Before he could reach the door it opened, and a uniformed security guard walked in, to be confronted by a naked man with a necktie wrapped around his leg.
“Did you call an ambulance?” Tirov asked.
“Yes, sir,” the man said, averting his eyes. “Where’s the snake?”
“On the terrace. I want you to suck the poison out.”
The man was appalled. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know anything about that.”
“You have to suck the poison from my wound, or I’ll die.” He put one foot on a dining chair to make his thigh more accessible. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s outside my job description. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Do you have a knife?”
“I have a pocketknife.”
“Make a cut where the fangs went in.”
The man fumbled in his pocket, came up with a Swiss Army knife and selected a blade.
“Quickly!”
The man offered him the knife. “You’ll have to do it yourself,” he said.
Before Tirov could act, two men with a stretcher came into the room through the open door. “Where’s the rattlesnake?” one of them asked, looking around nervously.
“On the terrace,” Tirov said, then he began to get dizzy.
“You get him to the hospital,” the guard said. “I’ll deal with the snake. He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and started toward the terrace.
Tirov hobbled toward the stretcher, feeling ill, then he fainted and fell into the arms of an EMT.
—
Billy Barnett drove north, turned off the main highway onto Tesuque Village Road, then he pulled over, stopped, and got a cell phone from the glove compartment. He got the number for the Santa Fe New Mexican, the local newspaper, and asked for the city desk.
“City desk, this is Peg.”
“The movie producer Boris Tirov, who is making the movie being filmed out at the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch, has been bitten by a large rattlesnake and taken to the hospital.” He broke the connection, then made a similar call to the sheriff’s office, then he tossed the phone into the weeds beside the road and drove on to Gala Wilde’s house.
—
Boris Tirov woke up slowly on a gurney in an emergency room; a doctor was bending over him. “What happened?” he asked.
“You were bitten by a rattlesnake,” the doctor said. “We’ve given you the antivenom and, since you’re awake, you’re improving. How do you feel?”
“Sick,” Tirov said.
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
“Bullet wound to the arm—accidental shooting on a movie set.”
“We’ll need to report that to the police.”
“The sheriff’s department has already investigated. Call them, if you like.”
“You know,” the doctor said, “I’ve been working in this ER for eight years, and this is the first time we’ve ever admitted a naked man with a rattlesnake bite and a gunshot wound.”
“I’m happy for you,” Tirov said.
52
Tirov stayed the night in the hospital, since the doctor insisted, and checked himself out the next morning. He drove out to the set and went to his trailer to pick up his script. He was surprised to find the door unlocked, and when he opened it, he found the place turned upside down. The drawers of his desk had been emptied onto the floor and clothes were everywhere.
The AD appeared in the doorway. “It’s the same all over the lot,” he said. “Every trailer and set has been searched. That detective had a warrant.”
“Are we shooting yet?”
“We’re having to put the saloon back together, using photographs to place everything correctly. We’re about an hour away from starting.”
“Tell the snake wrangler I want to see him. Now.”
“Right.” The AD trotted off toward the parking lot.
—
The snake wrangler was not amused to receive Tirov’s invitation. He locked his truck and stalked off toward where the trailers were parked.
Tirov had made some progress straightening his trailer when the snake wrangler knocked on the open door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Are you missing any snakes?”
“Well, yeah. First of all, there’s the six-foot rattler I loaned—pardon me, sold to you. Then there’s another four-footer that’s missing.”
“Somebody put that one in my bed at the hotel. You have anything to do with that?”
“I did not. I found the back door to my truck unlocked yesterday, though, and Lizzie was missing.”
“Who’s Lizzie?”
“My four-foot rattler, the female. Did you get bit?”
“I did, spent the night in the hospital. You tell the security company I want a twenty-four-hour guard on your truck.”
“Is Lizzie okay?”
“How the hell would I know? I put her—it—on the terrace of my room before the ambulance got there. You might check with the hotel. And don’t you bill me for this one.”
“Which hotel?”
“La Fonda, suite 500. You seen anybody hanging around your truck?”
“Nope. The crew don’t park where I am. All I ever see is the folks getting on and off the tour bus.”
“All right, get out of here.”
The snake wrangler went gladly. He got out his cell phone, called La Fonda and asked for the manager.
“Yes?”
“My name is Simmons. I’m the animal wrangler on the movie being shot out at Bonanza Creek. I’m told you’ve got one of my snakes there.”
“Describe it.”
“Four-foot, diamondback rattler, female.”
“We’ve got one answering to that description, though I can’t vouch for the gender. We haven’t known what the hell to do with it.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour and take her off your hands.”
“We’d appreciate that. It’s in a burlap bag inside a cardboard box. It bit one of our guests, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he sued you. His name is Tirov.”
“Yeah, I just had a conversation with him. Somebody who doesn’t like him stole the rattler from my truck.”
“From what I know of him, there’s nobody who does like him. My staff were rooting for the rattlesnake.”
“I kno
w how they feel. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Can you check the suite for any more snakes?”
“I’m only missing the one.”
“Thank God for that.” The manager hung up.
—
Boris Tirov was seething, but he didn’t know who to be angry at. The sonofabitch had entered his home, drugged him, and threatened him. Then there was the call after he was shot: Had the guy followed him to Santa Fe from L.A.? Whoever he was, he was working for Barrington; he knew that much.
Tirov went to the set and found them nearly ready to shoot. The director approached. “Boris, I can’t work like this.”
“Like what?”
“You getting shot, the police tearing up my trailer and my sets.”
“You think I have anything to say about that?” Boris demanded.
“I guess not.”
“Then get your ass in gear and fulfill your contract.”
The man went back to work.
A man approached him, an extra in costume. “Mr. Tirov?”
“Yeah?”
“My name’s Tom Baxter. I—”
“Are you the guy who called in sick?”
“Yessir. I figured you wouldn’t want me infecting anybody else.”
“You have any idea who pretended to be you?”
“No, sir, I don’t. Wouldn’t nobody I know do something like that.”
“Then go back to work and leave me alone.”
“Yessir.”
Tirov turned away. “I’m going to have to end this once and for all,” he said aloud.
“Sir?”
Tirov turned to find the extra still standing there. “I said, go back to work!”
“Yessir!” The extra fled.
Tirov sat down in his chair and began to contemplate the end of Stone Barrington. It made him feel better.
53
During a break, while the first scene in two days was being shot, the film’s publicist approached Tirov.
“Boris,” she said, “I have a request from the Santa Fe New Mexican to interview you. I recommend you give the interview, as it will be good local publicity.”
Tirov sighed. “When?”
“She’s outside. What about now?”
“Where outside?”
“On the front porch. I got her some lemonade.”
“All right,” Boris said, heaving himself to his feet. He had discarded the sling as his wound improved, and he checked himself out in the mirror behind the bar before going outside. He walked out to the front porch and found a very attractive young woman sitting in one of the chairs, sipping from a glass of lemonade. “Good morning,” he said to her. “I’m Boris Tirov.”
“Good morning, Mr. Tirov, I’m Christy Mayson, Santa Fe New Mexican. Would you like some lemonade?”
Boris sat down. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
She filled another glass from the pitcher on the table and handed it to him.
“What would you like to know?” he asked. His eyes wandered down to her body and up again.
“Tell me what attracted you to this story,” she said.
“Well, I read the novel.” This was a lie; Tirov never read anything longer than a single-page synopsis. “And I liked the story.”
“How would you describe the story?”
“Without giving away too much, I’d say it’s an adult Western, rather than a family one.”
“So you expect an R rating?”
“We’re working on that. The ratings people have asked for a little toning down here and there—nudity and violence, some of the language. It’s my view that the old West has had too much of a cleaning up. The real West was a violent place, and the inhabitants were a profane bunch.”
“How about the women?”
“In a town like the one in our movie, most of the women were whores.”
“No wives, no families?”
“Perhaps those belonging to the local merchants. The rest were for rent by the hour, or less.”
“And do you feel it necessary to your story to portray them that way?”
“I like realism. How about you?”
“Within limits. I don’t see the necessity of making a film that takes the lowest view of all its characters, especially the women.”
“Ah, a feminist, huh?”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean, ‘of course’?”
“What woman isn’t a feminist these days? Don’t you favor equal pay for equal work?”
“There’s no equality in the movie business. There’s only who draws the audiences in, and that’s usually the male stars, especially in Westerns. Can you remember a Western where a woman was the star?”
“One or two.”
“Do you remember what the grosses were?”
“No.”
“I can tell you, they bit the dust, first week out. In the movie business we learn from our mistakes.”
“What about your female star in this picture, Helen Beatty?”
“She plays a whore.”
“Does she get the same salary as Brad Goshen?”
“Of course not, haven’t you been listening?”
“Does she appear on fewer pages of the script than Mr. Goshen?”
“I take it you’ve read the script—you tell me.”
“She has two more pages than Goshen.”
“You sure about that?”
“I can count, Mr. Tirov.”
“Call me Boris, Christy,” he said, looking her up and down again.
“I prefer Mr. Tirov and Ms. Mayson, if you don’t mind.”
Tirov shrugged. “Why would I mind?”
“Mr. Tirov, you have a reputation in the film community of being obstreperous—”
“What’s that? My English is not perfect.”
“Surly and aggressive, especially with women. Does that help?”
“Who said that about me?”
“Every single person I’ve talked to who knows you or has worked with you, and that’s probably a couple of dozen. I try to do my homework.”
Boris felt his temperature rising. “Then you’ve been talking to the wrong people.”
“Whom should I talk to? Give me some names, and I’ll call them. I want to be fair.”
“I won’t have you bothering my friends.”
“You don’t seem to have many,” she replied.
“Why would you say that?”
“Is it true that there have been two attempts on your life during this shoot? And your shoot is only a couple of days old?”
“Nonsense.”
“Well, you’ve been shot and had a rattlesnake put in your bed. Do you consider those friendly acts?”
“I don’t know where you get this stuff.”
“From the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office and the staff of your hotel. Are they lying?”
“The gunshot was an accident while shooting a gunfight scene.”
“But great care is taken, is it not, to load all the weapons on your set with blank cartridges?”
“Somebody made a mistake.”
“And how about the snake in your bed? It didn’t make its own way into La Fonda.”
“A prank gone wrong.”
“Isn’t it true that the snake came from that wrangler’s truck over there?” She pointed.
“I don’t know where it came from.”
“Do you have any objection to my talking to your former wife, Gala Wilde? I understand she lives in Santa Fe.”
“That would be an invasion of her privacy and mine.”
“I’ve been hearing rumors of a very large rattlesnake being put in her bedroom, and someone seems to have gone out of his way to attract a bear to her property.�
��
“What is all this about snakes and bears? I thought you came here to talk about my movie.”
“I just want to hear your side of these stories,” she said. “I thought you’d welcome the opportunity to set the record straight.”
Tirov got to his feet, upsetting the table holding the lemonade. “Let me set you straight, you fucking little bitch. This so-called interview is at an end, and if you print any of this stuff I’ll sue your paper. You tell your editor that.” He stalked back into the saloon.
The publicist came running out. “Christy? What happened?”
“He didn’t seem to want to answer my questions,” she replied, brushing the lemonade off her skirt. “Thanks, I’ve got everything I need.” She set off for the parking lot and her car.
54
Christy Mayson got back to her desk to find a note from her editor: “See me.” She glanced in his direction and found him away from his desk, so she put her notebook beside her computer, got a blank page on her screen, and started her story.
TWO ATTEMPTS ON LIFE OF MOVIE PRODUCER
Christy could type as fast as she could think, and she did so now. In twenty minutes she had a seven-hundred-word piece. She reread it quickly, made a few minor corrections, typed in her boss’s e-mail address, and pressed the Send button.
“Didn’t you get my note?”
She looked up to find him standing in her doorway. “I did, but you weren’t at your desk when I got in, so I wrote my piece. Just sent it to you.” She pressed the Print button and handed him the hard copy. “There you go.”
Her editor, whose name was Chuck Ellis, glanced at the headline. “Holy shit! This was supposed to be a piece designed to get the tourists out to the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch!”
“Please finish reading it.”
