by Stuart Woods
He was out there when Teddy pulled up.
Paco was trying to beat the heat by wearing a sleeveless undershirt, and sipping something cold from a paper bag in his lap.
“Hi, Paco.”
“Hey, Mr. Weldon.”
“Mark.”
“You moving in?”
“If you could call it that. I haven’t got much stuff.”
“Well, you can’t park here. But leave the keys with me while you unload. You won’t get a ticket.”
Teddy left his car with the super and lugged his bags up to his new apartment. Luckily in this town a guy moving into a cheap apartment with few belongings and no furniture wasn’t conspicuous. Paco had clearly seen enough starving-artist types not to blink an eye.
When he came back downstairs to get his keys from the super, he said, “Listen, there’s no lock on the hall closet. Any problem if I put a simple hasp and padlock on the door? I’ll take it off when I move out.”
“You can if you want to. We’ve never had a break-in, though. Someone stole a bicycle off the front porch once, but it shouldn’t have been left there.”
“Thanks.”
Teddy drove around to a hardware store and bought the best hasp and padlock they had. He also bought a screwdriver and a small electric drill set.
He passed a supermarket on his way home, but he could shop for food later. Right now he wanted to get back.
He parked around the corner where Paco had told him, and took the hardware back to his new apartment. He was relieved to find his bags undisturbed underneath the bed where he’d hidden them.
Teddy took out the hasp and lined it up against the closet door. He plugged in the drill and drilled starter holes for the screws. He didn’t need the screwdriver he bought. The drill had a screwdriver bit, so he was finished in no time.
Teddy lugged the bags with guns and disguises and money and IDs and tools and locked them up in the closet. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do until his new house was finished and he could put them in the safe. Luckily, nobody would be looking for Mark Weldon.
He just prayed no one knew Mark Weldon was actually Billy Barnett.
64
Slythe came in with the newspaper. “Well, so much for your skip tracer.”
“Oh?” Sammy said.
“He was found in the trunk of his car at the bottom of a ravine in Santa Monica.”
“What?”
“Apparently the guy wasn’t quite as good at his job as he thought he was.”
“Dammit.”
“This proves one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Billy Barnett’s still in L.A.”
“Tidying up his affairs?”
“Not according to his secretary.”
“So maybe he is a stuntman on a movie, like Genaro’s bar girl said, and he can’t leave until the shooting is over.”
“When is that?”
“I don’t know, but we can find out.”
“How are we going to verify whether he’s actually Billy Barnett?”
“All we have is Jake’s version of the story. We should get it firsthand. Let me find out who this bar girl is.”
* * *
—
Slythe put on a dress shirt and a suit and tie. He combed his long hair back and tucked it into the neck of his shirt. He took twenty thousand dollars’ petty cash out of Sammy Candelosi’s safe, hired a limousine, and had it drop him at the front door of Pete Genaro’s New Desert Inn and Casino. He stepped out of the limo, slipped two hundred dollars into the hand of the concierge, and said, “I want a seat at the no-limit hold ’em table, and I don’t like to wait. Can you make that happen?”
The concierge beamed. “You know I can.”
Five minutes later Slythe was seated at the table with five thousand dollars’ worth of chips in front of him, which he bet carelessly and often. After a half hour, during which he’d lost all his chips and bought in again twice, he called the pit boss over and palmed him a hundred-dollar bill.
“Could you see if Bambi’s working?”
* * *
—
Marsha Quickly was doing well. With more and more bar girls defecting, there were fewer per shift, which meant more customers and more cash for her. Bambi was earning tips like she never had before, and even counting for inflation it was remarkably good. She rented a nice apartment outside of town and leased a modest American car.
The only thing she didn’t have was a man. Oh, the customers hit on her, but the customers were suckers. She wouldn’t date one of them in a million years. A high roller, maybe, but high rollers weren’t waited on by bar girls, they were served by high-class girls in stylish gowns who catered to their every whim, which sometimes included getting a five-thousand-dollar Vera Wang ripped down the front.
Marsha was just filling a tray with drinks when the pit boss tapped her on the shoulder.
“There’s a high roller looking for you.”
* * *
—
Marsha flashed her hundred-watt smile across the dinner table. It wasn’t often a high roller asked for her, and when one did he usually turned out to be a pig. This man was nicely dressed, and though there was something about him that gave the impression of a coiled snake, he was polite and their meal was pleasant. Of course, two cocktails and a bottle of champagne might have something to do with her opinion. Or perhaps it was the rack of lamb she was contemplating.
Just the idea of being served instead of serving had a great deal to do with her mood. She allowed her high roller to fill her glass and took a healthy sip.
“So,” he said, “you’re an actress?”
Something dinged in the back of Marsha’s alcohol-addled brain. Actress was a red flag. Next he’d claim to be a producer, and hint at what he could do for her in the industry, in return for certain favors, of course. He seemed to be leading into it.
“Yes, I am.”
“You work in pictures?”
“I have.”
He smiled. “That’s wonderful. I don’t know a thing about making movies, but I’ve always found them fascinating. You must tell me all about it.”
* * *
—
Slythe was smug. “Jake missed one small detail.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Sammy said. “What is it?”
“Billy Barnett is working as a stuntman, but under the name Mark Weldon.”
Sammy rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“That’s why no one can find him. Billy Barnett isn’t around, but Mark Weldon is. He’s working on the picture, and he can’t kill you until the movie’s done shooting.”
“When is that?”
“This is the last week. They’re supposed to finish Friday. I can’t find out if Mark Weldon’s working that day, because I can’t get ahold of a shooting schedule, but I will. If he’s working on Friday, we’ve got until then. Not that I plan to wait. I don’t know where he lives, but I know where he works. I’ll find him on the set.”
“You’ll have a hundred witnesses.”
“I’m not going to walk up and shoot him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I won’t know until I know the terrain.”
“You’re going to L.A.?”
“I already booked the flight.”
65
Gerard Cardigan closed the door with more than his usual force.
Mason Kimble looked up from his desk. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I can’t find Billy Barnett.”
“That’s not surprising. Someone burned down his house.”
“And he bought another house, but he isn’t in it. He isn’t anywhere. All anyone will say is he’s on vacation.”
“Maybe he’s on vacation.�
��
“Someone burned down his house. You don’t go on vacation when your house burns down.”
“Why are you so concerned with finding Billy Barnett?”
“We don’t want him at the stockholders’ meeting.”
“He’s not going to be there.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I read Tessa Bacchetti the riot act. She knows what will happen if he shows up.”
“And what is that? What are you going to do if he shows up? Post the video online? If you do that, you lose your leverage and you’ll never get the studio. Is smearing the girl enough?”
“It’s something. Revenge on Ben Bacchetti at the very least.”
“Yes, and if that was all you wanted to do, you could have done it a long time ago. You’ve got a lot invested in this.”
“You’re looking for Billy Barnett so you can kill him?”
“It would certainly make life easier.”
“It would if we had nothing to do with it.”
“You have absolutely nothing to do with it, and neither do I. No one’s going to ask us any questions. No one’s going to know we were involved.”
“Yes, if we’re not involved.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been doing. What have you been doing?”
“Lining up investors. With all our stock purchases, our capital is spread pretty thin. I’ve been lining up people willing to invest in a PG-13 picture. There’s more of them than you’d think. I’ve secured commitments for more than two hundred thousand dollars in less than a week.”
“Oh, you smooth-talking man. Are you going to make a PG-13 picture?”
“I certainly plan to. I couldn’t tell you exactly when. If you want to continue your witch hunt, feel free. Meanwhile I’m making money, so don’t act like I’m doing nothing.”
“What about Little Miss Porn Star? You want to give her another scare?”
Mason nodded approvingly. “Just what I was thinking. That’s the problem with this two-week delay. It’s like a reprieve. She feels like she’s off the hook, that nothing’s going to happen until the meeting.”
“Exactly. So what do you want to do?”
“I was thinking we could leak a rumor to the tabloids. Nothing specific, just a hint that there might be dirty pictures in her past.”
Gerard made a face. “You might as well put her video on the Internet. If the gossip columns hint of dirty pictures, the game’s over and she wins. Her publicist can issue a statement that Tessa Tweed has never posed for a nude photo in her life, and if any exist they are the work of unscrupulous people who filmed her without her knowledge by the use of spycams. After that, you’ve completely lost your leverage.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Gerard smiled. “I might. You want to do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Set the machine up, would you? I want to copy a DVD.”
66
Tessa Bacchetti turned down the covers and climbed into bed. It was only ten-thirty, but she had an early call.
Ben climbed into bed next to her. “Are we getting old, or are we just in the movie business?”
Tessa grinned at him. “I’m in the movie business. You’re getting old.”
“Ah, you saucy wench,” Ben said, kissing her.
“Don’t get excited. I really do have to get to sleep.”
“Serves me right for becoming a producer. I could have been a used-car salesman.”
“Be still, my beating heart,” Tessa said. “What woman could possibly resist?”
Ben fluffed up his pillow. He frowned. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?”
Ben held up a clear plastic jewel case. “It’s a CD-ROM or DVD or something. It’s not labeled. It doesn’t say what it is.”
Tessa felt a cold chill. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“So how did it get under my pillow?” Ben said.
“I have no idea.”
“Well, that’s mighty odd. What could it possibly be?”
“Maybe it’s some producer trying to attract your attention with a stunt, just someone pitching a project. They probably paid the gardener or someone to sneak it inside and make sure you’d find it. Throw it away.”
“Don’t be silly. If someone was ingenious enough to get past our security system and get in here, I want to know who it is.”
Ben got up and walked toward the TV.
“Are you going to play it now?” Tessa tried to sound tired and put-upon, and to conceal her rising panic. It took every ounce of skill she possessed.
“Damn right I am.”
“Honey, please. I’ve got to get up.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t take more than a minute.”
Ben clicked on the TV. He shoved the disc in the DVD slot and hit Play.
A color picture filled the screen.
Tessa tensed, but it was just a commercial. Ben hadn’t switched the feed over from cable TV to Auxiliary. He did so now.
The color picture was replaced by crackling black and white, the type of blank screen before a dubbed recording came on.
Tessa clenched her fists. She knew she should have told Ben the truth, that secrecy was futile and somehow the situation would come back to haunt her. Now she would have no choice.
The video came on.
The picture was still black and white, but a map of Africa filled the screen. The names Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Paul Henreid were imposed over it. They dissolved into the title CASABLANCA.
“Look,” Ben said. “Casablanca. Why would anyone send me this?”
“I have no idea,” Tessa said.
“Maybe the housekeeper? She may have heard me mention it. Well, whoever it is, they have excellent taste. It’s one of my favorite films.”
Ben settled up against the pillows.
“You’re going to watch it?” Tessa said.
“I’ll keep it low.”
“Oh, honey.”
“Turn over. Go to sleep. I’ll probably fall asleep in the first few minutes. I just want to watch.”
Tessa pretended to sleep but couldn’t. She knew in her heart the DVD hadn’t been left by their kindly housekeeper, or even snuck in by an ambitious producer. She lay there on her side, her back toward Ben, watching the TV sideways, out of the corner of her eye. Occasionally she managed to turn in her feigned sleep enough to tell that Ben was still awake watching the movie.
It was excruciating. Tessa lay there, in the dark, bracing herself against the moment the TV screen would suddenly burst into living color, and there she would be, naked to the world.
It never happened.
But it didn’t matter.
By the time Bogie finally said, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” and walked off with Claude Rains, Tessa was a nervous wreck.
67
There was a cell phone in her trailer the next morning. Tessa had sensed there would be. It rang as she came in.
The voice, as usual, was mocking. “Did you enjoy the movie?”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Is that any way to talk? I give you a nice movie to watch, and this is the thanks I get?”
“What are you trying to do?”
“I’m not trying to do anything. Are you trying to do something? You shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t like that very much.”
Tessa said nothing.
“I hope you don’t get the idea that you’re off the hook. You’ve got a lot to worry about, like the next DVD, for instance. You got any requests? How about The Lady Vanishes? That’s a good one. Pretty appropriate, don’t you think, the way your career is going to vanish if you don’t play ball. Wanna watch that one and see if it runs straight through without any ‘commer
cial interruption’?”
“Stay out of my house!”
“That was just a stunt. Shall I send it to your husband by old-fashioned snail mail? I will if it comes to that. But I don’t think it will. I trust we understand each other.”
Tessa listened in helpless fury.
Her tormentor chuckled. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said, and hung up.
68
Teddy had lunch with Peter Barrington. They couldn’t do it as often as when he was producer Billy Barnett, but Peter could eat with his stuntman occasionally. They chose an out-of-the-way café five minutes from the studio that featured good burgers and fast service.
There was a lot to catch up on. Peter thought he was still living at the airport. Teddy hadn’t told anybody about the break-in at the hangar, because there was no way to conveniently explain how he’d dealt with it. He just told Peter his apartment was ready.
“When will your new house be ready?”
“Ask Marvin Kurtz. I have no idea.”
“You can move in next week when we wrap the picture and Billy Barnett gets back from vacation.” Peter took a bite of his burger. “Are you ready for the money shot?”
The climax of the movie was being shot on the top of a construction site with bare steel girders. What Peter was referring to as the money shot was a shoot-out on top of the girders and a five-story fall.
“Not to tell you your business,” Teddy said, “but on most pictures they schedule the crucial exteriors early in the shoot, in case there’s bad weather and they have to move to the cover set and reschedule.”
“Yes, and that’s how I had it originally scheduled,” Peter said. “Until I found out my featured villain would be doing his own stunt. I scheduled it at the end so in case you kill yourself falling off the beam, I can still cut the picture.”
