Fool Me Twice

by Michael Brandman

  “It’s always something.”

  She looked up at him. She inadvertently dislodged Mildred when she put her arms around Jesse’s neck and pulled him to her.

  “This is great fun,” she said just before she kissed him.

  32

  The first day of shooting generally sets the tone for the entire movie.

  Everyone on the set takes special note of how well the director interacts with the actors, the cinematographer, the crew, and the staff. The quality of that communication sends out signals as to whether or not the production will prove to be smooth sailing or rough going.

  “If the fish stinks from the head,” Frankie said, “people will smell it almost immediately.”

  Standing alongside Carter Hansen and a handful of other local dignitaries who were also watching the proceedings, Jesse realized anew how tedious the process of filmmaking actually was.

  Frankie had described what was taking place as a tracking shot. The camera was mounted on a wheeled dolly that was pulled rapidly backward along a specially constructed section of what resembled train track. The moving dolly would precede the action, allowing the camera to photograph the scene from in front of it, all the while moving rapidly apace with it.

  They were rehearsing the first scene. A young camera assistant stood beside the dolly mount and placed the clapper board directly in front of the camera. It displayed the title of the film, the name of the director, the scene number, and the time of day.

  “A Taste of Arsenic, scene one, rehearsal,” the assistant shouted. Then he slammed the top of the clapper board onto its base.

  “Action,” called the director.

  Marisol burst through the front door of a large office building, then stopped. She looked around. She reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone. She looked at it, then she looked up. A thought registered in her eyes. She walked hurriedly toward a car that was parked in front of the building. When she reached it, she opened the driver’s-side door and got in.

  The director yelled, “Cut.”

  “That’s a cut,” the assistant director called out. “Reset. Everyone back to first positions.”

  People returned to their original places and prepared for another take.

  While this was going on, Jesse spotted Crow approaching Marisol, accompanied by a little girl, who looked to be about seven or eight, and an older woman, most likely the girl’s mother.

  He watched as Crow introduced the girl to Marisol, who stood beside her while the mother photographed the two of them together. The child, all smiles, shook hands with Marisol, then she and her mother hurried away.

  After a few moments, Jesse saw Marisol turn to Crow in a rage. Everyone present could hear what she was saying.

  “How dare you bring strangers to me when I’m acting,” Marisol said to him. “You ruined the shot.”

  “The child played hooky in order to see you,” Crow said.

  “She destroyed my concentration.”

  “Well, if it makes any difference, you have a fan for life.”

  “Tell her to get in line.”

  Marisol stormed away in the direction of her motor home.

  She turned back to Crow.

  “That was truly stupid,” she said. “Never again. Don’t ever interrupt me like that again. You hear me?”

  Crow didn’t say anything.

  “Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  She stepped inside the motor home and slammed the door behind her.

  Everyone on the set pretended that what they had just witnessed hadn’t occurred. They turned their attention elsewhere and went on with their work.

  Frankie Greenberg made her way toward Marisol’s trailer, stopping only to have a word with Crow.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to him. “First day is always the toughest. Can you forgive her?”

  He grunted.

  “Please,” Frankie said. “I promise to make it up to you.”

  Then she turned and walked quickly to the motor home. She knocked on the door and went inside.

  Jesse meandered over to where Crow was standing.

  “That went well,” he said.

  Crow didn’t say anything.

  “Kid freaked her out,” Jesse said.

  “Nah. She was looking for an excuse.”

  “An excuse?”

  “To remind people that she’s the star.”

  “She needed to do that?”

  “You can lay odds that no one will forget what just went down, and they’ll pussyfoot around her for the rest of the shoot.”

  “So why did she storm off?”

  “For effect.”

  “You mean she wasn’t upset?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She does everything for effect.”

  “Isn’t that a cynical opinion,” Jesse said.

  “Cynicism is what floats my boat.”

  “So you’re not thinking of quitting.”

  Crow looked at him.

  “What, and give up show business,” he said.

  —

  Ryan Rooney left the cabin in the late afternoon and drove to Paradise. It was easy to find the convoy of movie vehicles in such a small town.

  Arriving at the end of the day, amid the hubbub of wrap time, would more easily allow him to accomplish what he intended to do. He parked and headed for the base camp.

  Ryan watched as the various departments packed up their equipment and began loading it into their respective vehicles. Everybody was on the move, which gave him his opening.

  Unrecognizable in a blond wig, dark glasses, and full beard, Ryan headed for the three-banger that housed the assistant directors’ cubicle.

  A three-banger is a twenty-foot trailer that has been subdivided into three separate rooms. In addition to the ADs’ office, it also housed a holding section for the extras and an individual dressing room for a member of the supporting cast.

  As he expected, no one was in the ADs’ section.

  At wrap, each of the assistant directors is busy with the distribution of the call sheets and maps for the next day’s shoot, as well as providing information about where the various departments could watch the screening of the rushes, the raw footage of that day’s work.

  Ryan slipped inside the trailer and quickly gathered copies of all the production schedules and contact sheets. The schedules detailed every day’s workload and its location. The contact sheets listed the local addresses of everyone connected with the movie.

  He also grabbed a copy of the script.

  No one noticed him. And then he was gone.

  He stopped at a Star Time Grocery and bought himself a frozen pizza and a six-pack of Rolling Rock. He splurged and also bought a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream.

  Then he returned to the cabin.

  33

  Portia Cassidy emerged from the Paradise Mall loaded with packages, heading for her car, where she was surprised to find Jesse Stone. He was leaning against the right-front fender of his cruiser, which was parked beside her BMW roadster. His face was turned to the sun.

  Portia loaded her packages into the BMW without acknowledging him.

  “I’m working on my tan,” Jesse said.

  “Why? Surely there must be any number of adolescent miscreants you could be dogging,” Portia said.

  “You know what I’m sorry about?”

  “Should I care?”

  “I’m sorry we got off to such a bad start.”

  “Spare me.”

  “No. I mean it. You see, I think we might have some common ground.”

  Portia now stood beside the car, facing him.

  “I’m going to regret asking, aren’t I,” she said.

  Jesse looked at her.

  “I think Courtney could use our help,” he said.

  “Our help.”

  “That’s funny. Your husband said the same thing. Is it so outlandish to think that I might w
ant to help get to the bottom of what’s causing her to behave as she is.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, it’s outlandish.”

  “Come on, Portia. You believe I’m an overzealous policeman, and I believe you’re a vindictive mother. Okay. So be it. But can’t we both step out of character for a moment and just talk to each other?”

  Portia didn’t say anything.

  “We’ve both got a problem here. Mine is dealing with an unrepentant lawbreaker with issues. Yours is trying to get to the bottom of your daughter’s behavior.”

  “That’s how you perceive this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look,” she said. “Even if I were to appreciate your point of view, which I don’t, by the way, I would still maintain that what’s happening with Courtney is none of your business. You don’t know her. You don’t know us. You don’t know anything. So for the sake of this conversation, allow me to advise you to, how shall I put it, stay the fuck out of it.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “Once again you’re wrong. Listen to me, Jesse. I’ll say this once and then we’re going to act like it never happened. We are the Cassidys. We don’t seek your opinion as to how we live our lives or conduct our family business. We buy and sell you. You don’t count. Do I make myself clear?”

  Jesse sighed.

  “Now, if you’ll please step away from my car,” she said.

  Jesse did.

  She got into it. She lowered her window.

  “Thanks for your time,” she said. “I know how valuable it is.”

  She gunned the engine, pulled out, and sped away.

  34

  Crow noticed the man the moment he and Marisol stepped outside of Daisy’s, where they had gone for a quick supper.

  It was just after nine o’clock on a chilly weeknight, and the restaurant crowd had thinned considerably. Marisol’s driver was parked in front, waiting for them.

  The man was standing across the street, along with four others, all of them in their thirties, all drinking beer from cans. The man was wearing a porkpie hat, loose jeans, and a wiseguy expression on his pockmarked face. When he spotted Marisol, he grinned broadly and headed in her direction.

  “Hey, look,” he said to his friends. “It’s a real live movie star.”

  Crow motioned for Marisol to stand behind him.

  The man approached them, followed closely by his four companions. He stopped just shy of where Crow was standing.

  “Move over, old man,” he said. “I wanna get me a good look at this here movie star.”

  Crow didn’t say anything.

  He was totally calm.

  The man moved a couple of steps closer.

  “What are you, hard of hearing,” he said. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  With barely a glance at him, Crow hit the man with the edge of his right hand, above the upper lip and just below his nose.

  The man screamed.

  He went down, doubled up on the ground, his face buried in his hands.

  Crow’s move was so explosive that before the others could even react, he had a gun in his hand, pointed at them.

  “Please don’t tempt me,” Crow said.

  The man in the porkpie hat lay on the ground, moaning. The others stopped dead in their tracks.

  Crow took Marisol’s hand and guided her to the waiting vehicle. He helped her inside.

  He took one last look at the five men and then got in the car.

  The driver pulled into traffic and sped away.

  Marisol sat in the corner of the backseat, staring at Crow.

  “My God,” she said.

  Crow returned the gun to his shoulder holster.

  He didn’t say anything.

  35

  Ryan pored over the production schedule. It was day seven that caught his eye, the first day of the second week of the shoot.

  Weather permitting, the unit was scheduled to set up shop along the west coast of Paradise Inlet.

  A number of small cottages dotted the coastline. Most were rudimentary, built years ago as summer places for vacationers. Many of them were without heat or insulation.

  When the long summer days shortened into early fall, many of the occupants closed up their cottages for the season. A Taste of Arsenic was scheduled to shoot in one of them for two successive nights.

  —

  Ryan drove slowly, checking out the landscape. He spotted the movie people almost immediately.

  A handful of cars and a couple of oversized trucks were parked in front of a two-story cottage. A paint crew was sprucing it up while the art department staff was off-loading furniture. Landscapers were installing squares of new grass on the front lawn.

  Scaffolding was being constructed in front of the cottage to hold the large lighting units that would illuminate the night, as well as the generators required to power them.

  Ryan continued his drive along the inlet. He could see that many of the cottages had been closed down. There was very little activity in most of them. Few if any cars were parked in the driveways.

  He doubled back and spotted an empty cottage two doors away from the shooting location.

  “That’s the one,” he said to himself.

  —

  Later that night, Ryan returned to Fisherman’s Road. The crew had all left.

  Driving with his lights off, Ryan pulled his Prius into the driveway of the cottage he had spotted earlier. He parked in back.

  The night sky was cloudless, and the sliver of moon provided just enough light.

  He paced the exterior of the house, looking for a way in. He saw no security system. He stepped onto the back porch and tried to open the kitchen window. It was locked.

  He picked up a rock and smashed one of the window’s six glass panes. He lifted out the jagged ends, reached inside, and unlocked the window. Then he raised it and climbed through to the kitchen.

  The adjacent dining room was furnished with an old wooden table and four chairs, as well as a serving hutch and a crockery-filled cabinet.

  The living room was larger. A worn sofa and love seat were its main furnishings, along with a pair of wicker chairs and a couple of mismatched side tables.

  Ryan wandered down the hall to the bedrooms. The larger of the two had a queen-size bed with a night table on each side. The smaller had a pair of single beds separated by a dresser. There was one bathroom with a sink and a combination bathtub/shower.

  For Ryan’s purposes, it was perfect.

  36

  Jesse arrived early for the hearing. He was sitting in Judge Emanuel Weissberg’s outer office, chatting with Marty Reagan, when the Cassidy family stormed in.

  Upon seeing Reagan, Richard Cassidy approached him.

  “Where’s Aaron,” he said.

  “Not here.”

  “Why not?”

  “He recused himself.”

  Cassidy gazed at his wife, Portia, who stared daggers at him.

  Courtney stood between them.

  “He can’t do that,” Portia said.

  Reagan shrugged.

  “Why aren’t we in Judge Green’s chambers,” Richard said.

  “She recused herself as well.”

  “What in the hell’s going on here,” Portia said.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Reagan said. “I’ll be representing the DA’s office.”

  Portia stepped over to her husband and spoke just loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “We’re being fucked,” she said.

  “No, we’re not. Something probably came up.”

  “You’re such a fool, Richard. Nothing came up. He bailed on us is what happened. And after all we’ve done for him. It makes me sick.”

  Richard shook his head. She glared at him. The room became icily silent.

  Portia sat down, picked up a magazine, and thumbe
d sightlessly through it. Courtney opened her bag, removed her cell phone, and started texting. Richard paced.

  The door opened, and Judge Weissberg appeared. He was thin and scholarly-looking, wearing black-framed eyeglasses and bearing a ramrod-straight posture. With a wave, he led them into his chambers, where they all found seats. The room was small and cramped with so many bodies crowded in.

  “I am Emanuel Weissberg,” he said. “I’ll be conducting this hearing. That is, unless there are any objections.”

  “It was my impression that Judge Green would be conducting the hearing,” Portia said.

  “You were mistaken,” Judge Weissberg said.

  She shifted uneasily under his steely gaze. She was suddenly alert to the possibility that she might have offended him. She looked away.

  “If there’s nothing else,” Weissberg said, “let’s begin. Mr. Reagan?”

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” Marty Reagan said.

  He introduced the participants and reviewed the charges against Courtney. He informed the judge that the Commonwealth would be seeking a one-year suspension of her driving privileges, as per the law. He proposed that she be placed under probation for a similar period of time. He also asked that she be given an equal period of community service.

  “Does the defendant have anything to say for herself,” the judge said.

  Courtney shrugged.

  “May I speak on her behalf, Your Honor,” Richard said.

  “You may,” Judge Weissberg said. “So long as you’re brief.”

  “I’ll do my best, Your Honor,” Richard said, standing. “As you can see, my daughter is a teenager whose actions were most certainly misguided. She is extremely apologetic and remorseful. She’s seventeen years old, Your Honor. The penalties that the Commonwealth is seeking seem unnecessarily harsh. We ask that she be remanded to the custody of both her mother and me without being further restricted.”

  He sat down.

  “Is it true she was a repeat offender? Weren’t there three incidents? One of them involving a serious accident?”

  Richard stood again.

  “We acknowledge that the accident was indeed her fault. We made restitution to the driver, who has declined to press charges. It’s possible that on the other two occasions, she may have been the victim of entrapment.”