Raves for the Work of MAX ALLAN COLLINS!

“Crime fiction aficionados are in for a treat...a neo-pulp noir classic.”

—Chicago Tribune

“No one can twist you through a maze with as much intensity and suspense as Max Allan Collins.”

—Clive Cussler

“Collins never misses a beat...All the stand-up pleasures of dime-store pulp with a beguiling level of complexity.”

—Booklist

“Collins has an outwardly artless style that conceals a great deal of art.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“Max Allan Collins is the closest thing we have to a 21st century Mickey Spillane and...will please any fan of oldschool, hardboiled crime fiction.”

—This Week

“A suspenseful, wild night’s ride [from] one of the finest writers of crime fiction that the U.S. has produced.”

—Book Reporter

“This book is about as perfect a page turner as you’ll find.”

—Library Journal

“Bristling with suspense and sexuality, this book is a welcome addition to the Hard Case Crime library.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A total delight...fast, surprising, and well-told.”

—Deadly Pleasures

“Strong and compelling reading.”

—Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

“Max Allan Collins [is] like no other writer.”

—Andrew Vachss

“Collins breaks out a really good one, knocking over the hard-boiled competition (Parker and Leonard for sure, maybe even Puzo) with a one-two punch: a feisty storyline told bittersweet and wry...nice and taut...the book is unputdownable. Never done better.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Rippling with brutal violence and surprisingly sexuality... I savored every turn.”

—Bookgasm

“Masterful.”

—Jeffrey Deaver

“Collins has a gift for creating low-life believable characters... a sharply focused action story that keeps the reader guessing till the slam-bang ending. A consummate thriller from one of the new masters of the genre.”

—Atlanta Journal Constitution

“For fans of the hardboiled crime novel...this is powerful and highly enjoyable reading, fast moving and very, very tough.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Entertaining...full of colorful characters...a stirring conclusion.”

—Detroit Free Press

“Collins makes it sound as though it really happened.”

—New York Daily News

“An exceptional storyteller.”

—San Diego Union Tribune

“A gift for intricate plotting and cinematically effective action scenes.”

—Jon L. Breen, Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers

“Nobody does it better than Max Allan Collins.”

—John Lutz

She was swimming lengths, her long dark hair streaming free, her bikini tonight a skimpy thing. I pulled up a deck chair and sat near the shallow end. It was past legal pool hours and we had no company.

She stood in the shallow to catch her breath, water lapping at her hips, the light from the pool’s floor highlighting the edges of her, but most of her in shadow. Then she noticed me and looked up. Eyes wide, the whites popping out of the darkness.

I stood. I unbuttoned the sport coat and took the gun out of my waistband. I wasn’t leveling it at her, but it was there.

“What are you doing, Jack?”

“Making a point...”

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

THE FIRST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

THE LAST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

QUARRY IN THE MIDDLE by Max Allan Collins

TWO FOR THE MONEY by Max Allan Collins

DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins

DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane

THE CONSUMMATA by Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins

FIFTY-TO-ONE by Charles Ardai

KILLING CASTRO by Lawrence Block

THE DEAD MAN’S BROTHER by Roger Zelazny

THE CUTIE by Donald E. Westlake

HOUSE DICK by E. Howard Hunt

CASINO MOON by Peter Blauner

FAKE I.D. by Jason Starr

PASSPORT TO PERIL by Robert B. Parker

STOP THIS MAN! by Peter Rabe

LOSERS LIVE LONGER by Russell Atwood

HONEY IN HIS MOUTH by Lester Dent

THE CORPSE WORE PASTIES by Jonny Porkpie

THE VALLEY OF FEAR by A.C. Doyle

MEMORY by Donald E. Westlake

NOBODY’S ANGEL by Jack Clark

MURDER IS MY BUSINESS by Brett Halliday

GETTING OFF by Lawrence Block

QUARRY’S EX

by Max Allan Collins

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-102)

First Hard Case Crime edition: September 2011

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street

London SE1 0UP

in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Copyright © 2011 by Max Allan Collins

Cover painting copyright © 2011 by Gregory Manchess

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-286-4

E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-403-5

Cover design by Cooley Design Lab

Design direction by Max Phillips

www.maxphillips.net

Typeset by Swordsmith Productions

The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

Printed in the United States of America

Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

For Charles

“No lover, be he of good faith, and sincere, will deny that he would prefer to see his mistress dead than unfaithful.”

MARQUIS DE SADE

“Marriage is a wonderful institution... but who wants to live in an institution?”

GROUCHO MARX

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Want More Quarry?

ONE

I guess the best place to start is with me getting lucky in a casino.

Which gets your attention, but is probably dishonest, since I am not really a gambler. Back in Wisconsin, at Paradise Lake, I played poker with a little group of locals once a month, young professionals in their thirties, two lawyers, a dentist, a doctor. I was a young professional, too, but of a different variety. We’d got to know each other at a health club in Lake Geneva, and started up our regular game maybe five years ago, but that’s not terribly relevant except to say that my idea of gambling was nickel/dime/quarter.

What had brought me to the big noisy casino in the little thriving town of Boot Heel, Nevada, was business, though you’d take me for another tourist. I was in a yellow polo shirt and chinos and loafers, and had a nice tan going, picked up over the month I’d just spent in Las Vegas, sixty miles north, also not gambling.

I was 32, five ten, one hundred sixty pounds, with shortish brown hair, a fairly anonymous sort, if passably presentable to the fairer sex. I based this on the many smiles I got from waitresses in little buckskin outfits, fringed vests over white blouses and fringed miniskirts; they were circulating, offering free drinks, as I threaded through the slots and poker machines and blackjack and roulette tables, heading back to the bar.

Boot Heel had six casinos, but this one—at the Four Jacks Hotel—was by far the largest, sporting a showroom that hosted the likes of Jerry Vale (this week) and Vikki Carr (next week). The little town’s claim to fame as a sort of second-string Deadwood or Tombstone was based on Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday having lived here for a time. Holliday even killed somebody. Wild Bill Hickok gunned somebody down on Main Street, too, it was said.

The town of ten thousand had one other claim to fame, an annual biker blow-out that attracted a lot of media every year, giving Boot Heel a certain modern-day outlaw reputation. The last such event had been three weeks ago, and currently no bikers were to be seen, at least within the Four Jacks casino.

Which catered to strictly middle-class tourist trade that found Vegas either too expensive or crowded for their collective taste. Lots of people in their forties and fifties, with scads of Reagan For President buttons on display and not a single Carter, not that I saw, anyway. Who said Jerry Vale and Vikki Carr couldn’t draw anymore?

Back to me getting lucky—while I was in Boot Heel for business, my presence at the Four Jacks casino was happenstance. I’d skipped lunch, due to following a guy here from Vegas, and having to shadow his every move. I had established the guy had checked in to a motel on the far side of Boot Heel, and he hadn’t come out after two hours, so now I was looking for some place to sit and eat a sandwich and maybe figure my next move. Someplace well away from that motel.

An open parking space just down the street from the Four Jacks had called to me. I swung in—no meters in this friendly little burg—and was about to cross the street to check out the restaurant in the Golden Spike, the smaller casino/hotel opposite, whose marquee—not having Jerry Vale and Vikki Carr to brag about—promised a $5 steak sandwich with “all the trimmin’s.”

But traffic was momentarily thick, so I’d strolled down my side of the street instead, up to the half dozen glass doors of the Four Jacks. One casino restaurant was as good as another. I asked one of the liveried doormen where to get the best food in his place of employment, and he recommended the bar at the rear of the main floor. I went on in, experiencing a vaguely irritating symphony of sounds that included country western music, chattering gamblers, and slots digesting coins. Whirring, dinging, ringing.

Outside it had been as dry as unbuttered toast, but in here the air conditioning stopped just short of a meat locker. Closed off from the casino, the bar seemed a little less cold; it had its share of Dodge City trappings—rough wood paneling, reproductions of ancient wanted posters for Billy the Kid and John Wesley Hardin, bartenders in string ties, waitresses in those same buckskin outfits.

At least the music piped in was not god-awful country western (with the exception of Patsy Cline, there is no other kind) and right now “One Way or Another” by Blondie was cranking. I smiled. I liked this New Wave music— reminded me of the ’60s stuff I grew up on back in Ohio.

The bar was underpopulated. It was mid-afternoon and, even in a world without clocks, that meant tumbleweed was blowing through the old watering hole. You could get free drinks out on the casino floor, so who needed a bar? And nobody was hungry right now, except me.

I settled into a rustic booth, which thankfully had padded seat and back; it was off to one side and nicely isolated. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries and Coke from the little redheaded waitress who smiled at me in a promising way.

It wasn’t that I was irresistible to young women. I wasn’t even irresistible to old women. But I was one of the youngest males at the Four Jacks. It was a Jerry Vale crowd, remember.

Still, this isn’t about me getting lucky with a barmaid. Just like it isn’t about me getting lucky at blackjack or even a poker machine. And at first it didn’t seem to be me getting lucky at all.

“Quarry! Is that you?”

The voice was midrange male and husky and just a little bit slurry.

I looked up. I had just finished my food, already pushed the plate aside, and was sipping the last of my Coke through a straw like a high school kid. I’m sure my reaction seemed casual, just an upward glance, but in my brain, those submarine sirens, the aahhh-ooogah ones, were blaring.

“Jerry?” I said. I didn’t use his last name, because I doubted he’d be using that name here, and anyway what I knew him by wasn’t his real one. Just like Quarry wasn’t mine.

Quarry was a name very few people ever called me by—and then only occasionally, in business-related situations. Now and then I used it myself, as a last name, because I grew kind of used to it. It had been given to me by the Broker, over ten years ago now, more a code word than an alias; he’d laid it on me when I first went to work for him, taking on contracts he arranged. The Broker, who was a pretentious Brooks Brothers type, found the “appellation” amusing—a quarry was hollowed-out rock, he said.

And maybe an irony was in there somewhere, since what I did was seek quarries myself—people I’d been hired to kill. That kind of contract.

So, anyway, Jerry.

He looked like an old hippie, and the Jerry fit him, since the first thing you thought of was Jerry Garcia, right down to the granny glasses. Not that his clothes were overtly hippie-ish—he had on a green plaid button-down shirt, open at the throat, and nice blue jeans, his salt-and-pepper facial hair full but nicely trimmed. Gabby Hayes spruced up for the prom. Since I’d seen him, maybe nine years ago, he’d lost some hair up top and had a sidesaddle comb-over going.

Without asking, he joined me, sliding in across the way in the booth. “Sorry,” he said, almost whispering, and made an “eek” face. “You aren’t on a job, are you?”

I shook my head. “Just a tourist. How you been, Jerry?”

He had very light blue eyes that would have looked great on a sixteen-year-old baby-doll blonde. This assumes the blonde wasn’t a heavy drinker and her baby blues hadn’t gone bleary and spidery red behind granny glasses. His face was pale and splotchy, like he had radiation poisoning, his nose a bulbous vein-shot affair.

“Doin’ okay, Quarry. Hunky fuckin’ dory.” He frowned, apologetic again. “Okay I call you that? Prefer something else?”

“Quarry’s fine. Is ‘Jerry’ okay, here? Are you on a job?”

But I knew he was.

He ignored the last question and answered the first: “Call me anything but late for lunch.” He laughed, pleased with his own wit. His teeth were white, and he had a nice smile, friendly as hell, but the best bet at the Four Jacks right now was that Jerry kept that smile in a glass overnight.

“Speaking of lunch,” I said, “I just had a late one. You want to order something?”

“I do,” he said, “but not lunch.”

He waved the redhead over, and ordered a double Scotch, straight up. She nodded dutifully, and went off in a rustle of fringe.

Jerry having ducked my question, I tried again: “Am I interrupting anything? Last thing I’d want to do is call attention, if you’re working.”

“Naw,” he said, pawing the air with a thick-fingered hand. “It’s fine. My part’s done, anyway.”

That was good to know. That meant Jerry was working the back-up position. When I’d worked for the Broker, the drill had been two-man teams—one of us went in and gathered intel, nailing the target’s pattern; a day or two before the hit was to go down, the other half of the team would come in, get filled in by the back-up guy, and do the deed. At that point, the first guy was just there for back-up, in case anything went south, and to make sure his partner got away clean.

Passive and Active, the Broker called it. We all had a preference, and mine was Active—I preferred coming in for a day or two, and do the dirty work, rather than sit for a couple of weeks watching and taking notes. But the Broker insisted we trade off at least once every four contracts. Jerry here had been one of the first Passive specialists I’d worked with, and I had pretended to get along with him fine, but I hated his ass.

Nothing personal—it’s just that he was a drunk. Or I guess the polite word is alcoholic. The Broker insisted Jerry was a “gentleman drinker,” which was his way of saying the boozing did not seem to have an impact on Jerry’s work. I didn’t like it. I have never cared for drunks, and never been a heavy drinker myself, and I didn’t like having my future in the hands of an alky.

All Jerry knew, however, was that after a handful of successful jobs together, the Broker had split us up, and assigned us new partners. I’d gone on to work with a guy named Boyd, who had his own problems, but that’s another story. I had no idea who Jerry had teamed up with.

Well, maybe not no idea....

“Are you out of the business, Jerry?”

“Not hardly,” he said, followed by a sigh. His Scotch had come. He sipped it. “I wish to hell I could get out. I mean, it’s been a long run. Hell of a ride. But someday it’s got to catch up with you.”

“I hear that.”

He made a sound that mingled a grunt with a chuckle. “Made a small fortune, these ten years or so. If I had invested instead of throwing it away on three fuckin’ wives, and six fuckin’ kids...shit. Child support’s a bitch.”

“So you’re not going to take out your wallet, and show the family photos?”

“Fuck them. Two of those brats I’m not even sure are mine.”

“Shame. Long as you’ve been at it, you could have socked a lot away by now.”

“Tell me about it.” The white smile flashed. “What the hell? Easy come, easy go. And anyway, my new wife isn’t like those other bitches. We got so much in common, it’s ridiculous.”

So she was a drunk, too.

“I always wondered,” I said, and summoned a nostalgic smile, “whatever happened to the guys I worked with, after the Broker bought it.”

“Yeah. I wonder who killed the old bastard?”

You’re looking at him.

“I wonder. Without him, how did you stay in the business? I mean, Broker kept us cut off from clients. We were in limbo.”

A laugh rumbled up out of his barrel chest. “I was fuckin’ lucky, Quarry. Did you ever work with Nick Varnos?”

Nick Varnos was the guy I’d been shadowing in Vegas for the past month.

“Never heard of him,” I said. “But then, how would I? Broker kept us away from the rest of his crew, unless you were working with somebody.”

Jerry nodded his shaggy head. He sipped Scotch. “I been with Nick all these years. Great fuckin’ guy. He gets more tail than Sinatra, that boy, and none of them bitches have ever managed to tie his ass down. Lives like a king. He’s got a boat, and a timeshare in Aspen. You should see the kind of car he drives.”

Varnos drove a 1976 Excalibur sports, modeled on the pre-war Mercedes Benz SSK, but with a Chevy Corvette engine under its old-fashioned hood. That was at home. Right now, on the job, Varnos was driving a ’78 Buick Century, a nothing two-door coupe. Light blue.

There was something I’d been wondering about, and I took a chance and asked, “Where’s Nick live?”

“Just over in Vegas.”

I frowned. “And you’re doing a job here? Just sixty miles down the road?”

Jerry shrugged. “It is close to home for Nick. Does break the don’t-shit-where-you-eat rule, I grant you. But Nick and me, we’ve done this our own way, for a lot of years. The Broker and his rules and ideas, lot of that went out the window a way long time ago for us two.... So—are you still in the trade?”

I shook my head. “After the Broker got himself killed, I took what I’d saved up and bought a little business.”

“Yeah? What kinda business?”

“Used books and records. In Illinois. Little college town —Dekalb?”

None of that was true, of course. Well, Dekalb is a college town.

“That’s the life,” Jerry said, shaking his shaggy head again, loosening a couple tendrils of comb-over, and flashing the expensive grin. “I bet you got yourself hot-and-cold runnin’ coeds.”

“I not only get more tail than Sinatra,” I said, smiling back at him, “I get more than Nick Varnos.”

That had more truth in it than the other stuff I’d told him, but only slightly.

Nevertheless, it made Jerry roar with laughter. The redhead came over to give him a refill, and he frowned and started to raise a reluctant hand, to shoo her away.

“Sorry, sweetie,” he said. “I’m drivin’.”

The thought of him driving made her eyes widen.

“I can take you to your hotel,” I said. “Go on and enjoy yourself....Another round, miss. Please.”

She smiled at me—I think you got in good with her if you just didn’t call her “honey” or “sweetie.” Maybe I could have got lucky with her, but I was playing another game.

As Jerry and I spoke, she brought several more rounds— and of course, my side of that was Coca Cola, one glass to every double Scotch Jerry downed. My sugar high was far outweighed by his alcoholic fog.

“How did Nick keep you guys afloat,” I asked, “with the Broker out of the picture?”

Jerry shrugged, and blinked blearily. “I’m not the business end. I stay out of that shit. What I don’t know can’t hurt me kinda deal. All I know is, Nick has some connections with the goombahs—I mean, he’s lived in Vegas for over twenty years—and I figure that’s the, uh, you know... the con do it.”

Conduit, in non-drunkese.

“Jeez,” I said, and mock-shivered, “handling mob hits, that must make things kind of tense. I don’t scare easy, but any time I had to deal with those boys, it gave me pause.”

Jerry flashed the choppers again. “I don’t know, Quarry. You always seemed like a pretty cool customer to me—I don’t see anything much ever giving you fuckin’ ‘pause.’ ”

“Thanks. But I got out. You stayed in. You and Nick must be made of sturdier stuff. I just buy used books and records from college kids now. Not too many bullets flying.”

His head moved side to side, kind of proud, or maybe it was just trying to stay on. “Well, you know how it is. I’m sure a lot of what the Broker gave us, all of us, came through those kinda channels. I can’t say more than half a dozen of the forty or so hits we’ve done over the years would be what I’d call, you know, mob hits. Mob related.”

He’d had enough Scotch to be pretty loose with his mouth. Our booth was over to one side—like I said before, isolated. The place had filled up a little, which I didn’t love, but the music was loud—more New Wave, The Romantics, “What I Like About You.” At the bar, two guys were side by side playing poker machines embedded in the counter, a little drunk and somewhat loud. So we really could talk freely.

Anyway, I knew what Jerry meant. The Broker himself had told me that superficially straight business types with even a tangential connection to the mob would go to somebody they knew in that left-handed domain and request help with a problem, and that problem would be shifted over to the Broker, and then to people like me. And Jerry and Varnos.

That’s how business partners and business rivals and wives and boyfriends of wives and girlfriends and all sorts of folks in the straight world wound up dead in various puzzling ways, accidental deaths, home invasions gone tragically awry, and so on. It could get fairly exotic.

Anyway, actual mob hits by any of Broker’s string rarely represented one Gotti going after another; that kind of action was kept in-house, soldier to soldier. When a guy like me was called in for a mob job, it was more likely one of those superficially straight business types getting removed. For non-payment, or tying off a crooked loose end, or whatever.

“Like this guy we’re here to do,” Jerry said. Way in the bag now. His speech was only slightly slurry, but his movements were strictly slow-motion. “He’s no mob guy. You know what he is? He’s a film director!”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah—they’re making some kind of Billy Jack rip-off. Some kind of biker movie where a good guy biker kills the shit out of bad guy bikers. This Boot Heel, it’s famous for bikers, you know.”

“I heard. But that was last month.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t real bikers, though they hired a few to do security on the set.” Jerry shrugged elaborately; it took some work. “So what does a movie director do to piss off the mob? But it must figure in somehow. Who knows?”

Mob money funded a lot of movies. And a low-budget biker flick could either be a cash cow, if it were successful, or a money laundry, if it flopped.

“So when does it go down?”

Hitting the director, I meant.

Jerry understood. “Not sure. Soon. But Nick, he doesn’t work like you, you know. He’s a real artist, and I don’t mean to put you down in any way, Quarry, you could take care of business just fine, it’s just...Nick doesn’t do straight, you know...” He made a pointing gun gesture, fairly steady for as blasted as he was.

“What does Nick do?”

He makes the kills look accidental.

“He makes accidents happen. Not vehicular, either, which is, you gotta say, relatively easy shit to pull off. No, I mean, he’s an artist....” Jerry leaned over and his bleary blue eyes widened behind the smudgy granny lenses, and he whispered, as if what we’d been discussing hadn’t already been taboo. “...he sets fires... he fixes balconies to give way...he packs overdoses into ’scription meds...he sends guys down icy stairways...he makes people drown... he even fed a farmer to a fuckin’ wheat thresher.”

“He is an artist. How’s the movie director gonna buy it? I hear film stock catches fire easy.”

Jerry shrugged. “Not my department. Nick and me, we’ll talk, later on—Nick takes a certain pride. Likes to share with his partner. But always after the fact.”

“Sounds like a sweetheart.”

“Great guy. Great guy. Don’t get me wrong, Quarry, I think you and me made a great team, too. Or woulda, if Broker had given us half a chance. But we didn’t have a chance to grow, to get to know each other, really.”

I knew Jerry, all right. He was a drunk and a talker. And it was a wonder he and Nick had lasted this long. As a team. And on Mother Earth. Nick would need to be an artist to survive working with this jackass.

“So is Nick staying here?” I asked, indicating our surroundings, knowing he wasn’t—he was at the Spur Motel.

“No,” he said. He laughed, for some unknown reason, and flecks of spit touched my cheek. I didn’t brush it away till he was focused on his next sip of Scotch. “Nick’s at the same motel as the mark. Handy, if you’re in the accident game.”

I shook my head slowly. “Man, I don’t think I’d have the stones. What are you doing at the Four Jacks? You aren’t staying here, right?”

His face fell. “Right. Nick...Nick’s got a rule.”

“Yeah?”

“He won’t let me stay any place that has a bar. He thinks I have a drinking problem.”

“I think you hold it just fine.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” His expression turned melancholy, the bleary eyes tearing up. “I mean, I have had to hear this shit forever. Every goddamn one of my wives, ’cept the new one, Wanda, has ragged and nagged and fragged me about my drinking. Can’t a guy fuckin’ relax in his own goddamn fuckin’ home?”

“Women can be such bitches.”

“Yes! Yes! And Nick can be such a bitch, too, for a man, let me tell you. Oh, I love the guy. Don’t misunderstand me. But never once, in all these years, has drinking caused me any trouble on the job. You know, I hardly drink at all on the job.”

“Well...aren’t you on the job right now?”

“Naw. I’m not even meeting up with Nick.”

“How do you mean?”

Jerry pawed the air. “He doesn’t want back-up out of me—just surveillance. Background stuff. Mark’s pattern and all. I write it all up. It was waiting for him in a manila folder in his mailbox at the motel when he checked in. That’s how we work it.”

I told you I got lucky.

“So that’s why you’re letting your hair down a little,” I said.

“Yeah. Damn straight. I thought I’d gamble some, maybe have a nice meal, maybe take in Jerry Vale and laugh my ass off at that square shit.”

That wouldn’t attract any attention.

“But now, Quarry...” He put a hand on his plump stomach and rubbed it, like he was trying to summon a genie. “...I don’t know....”

“Change of plans, Jerry?”

“Yeah—I think I better crash. I maybe put away a few too many of these...” He tapped his empty Scotch glass. “Tell you what—why don’t you drive me to my motel, and I’ll have a little nap, and we can get together later? Maybe around...ten-ish? There’s a blues club where the local girls go—they’re not USDA prime, maybe, but they know how to make a guy’s dick go boy howdy.”

“Sounds like a blast. Give me your keys and lead me to your car. What motel are you staying at again?”

Dusk had doused the little casino town purple, a nice shade for neon to glow against. Something cool was blowing in off the desert, but for a guy used to the Midwest, this lack of humidity was flat-out strange. Heat that didn’t feel hot. Nevada was another planet.

His car was a late-model red Mustang—what a brilliant surveillance guy this Jerry was. Who would ever spot a red Mustang? He and Nick had done forty jobs and lived this long? Unreal.

Anyway, the car was in the lot behind the Four Jacks, and Jerry fell asleep in the rider’s seat probably thirty seconds after he managed to fasten his seat belt. Driving north toward Vegas would have put us in Clark County and that meant big city cops maybe taking an interest. Jerry had half a tank of gas, so I drove south a good thirty miles, with the last gorgeous gasps of an orange desert sunset glowing off to my right, like a fire far away. Jerry was snoring.

By the time I pulled off the highway and took the dirt road to nowhere, darkness had fallen. Christ knew what kind of evil critters were out here. Lizards, snakes, coyotes. I decided not to take Jerry off exploring, risking the Mustang on sand, and instead to stay on the dirt strip. I stopped five miles or so off the highway. No lights of houses were visible, just stars and scrubby silhouettes of yucca and cactus against darkness diminished by a fingernail trimming of moon.

I hauled the slumbering Jerry out of the car and dragged him onto the dirt road and let him sleep there. I did crouch to take his wallet from his back jeans pocket and the wad of cash from in front. Otherwise, I didn’t disturb him. He lay sprawled, ripping the night with the z’s he was cutting, blissfully unaware of his circumstances, even the Mustang’s headlights not disturbing him.

When I drove the front right wheel over his head, vehicle barely moving, the crunch made an unsettling sound in the stillness. The back right wheel rolling over him made only the slightest bump and no discernible sound at all. The bad part was I had nowhere to turn around, and had to back up the whole five miles. Had somebody swung down that road, I might have had a problem.

But like I said, I got lucky.

TWO

You’re probably wondering how a nice guy like me could end up killing people for money. A lot of nice guys, particularly young ones, start out their adult lives killing people for money. It’s called being a soldier. In my day, it was also called getting drafted, although with a lottery number breathing down my neck, I enlisted and managed to get into the Marines.

I understand plenty of guys who came back from World War Two spent their post-war years being seriously screwed up, nightmares, drinking, smacking wives and kiddies around, among other diversions. But at least those lucky bastards had a war that meant something. My war— maybe you’ve heard of it...Vietnam?—was a fucked-up bunch of nonsense and the only thing I learned from it was how to kill without giving much of a shit. Maybe I would have turned out different if I’d settled comfortably back into civilian life with the beautiful California girl I’d married before I shipped over. But it didn’t work out that way.

I was eighteen and fresh off the farm. Well, not really —fresh off the tract-house middle-class Midwestern assembly line, the kind of bland background that makes Leave It to Beaver look like a documentary. So when I got thrown into boot camp at Camp Pendleton, I was putty in the hands of a D.I. whose purpose in life was to wipe out any individuality and make us good little killing machines for God and country.

On a weekend pass, I met Joni at Gazzari’s on the Sunset Strip. She was a typical, fresh-faced mini-skirted California girl—not the beach bunny type, more the leggy Cher variety, with dark brown hair straight to her shoulders, and big brown eyes that seemed startling against blue eye shadow. She was about five eight but seemed even taller, though she didn’t wear heels—it was just the shortness of the minis she wore, making her legs go on forever.

She started coming down to visit me at San Diego, whenever I had liberty, and if I had leave, I’d go up and see her. She owned a little house in La Mirada and we would bunker in and drink beer and eat pizza, and listen to music, Beatles, Turtles, Association, watch Star Trek on TV, and fuck like guppies.

Other times, we went to Disneyland and to Grauman’s Chinese and the Santa Monica Pier, the California girl humoring the corn-fed hick with touristy junk, and we did the kind of things young lovers do that in the movies require a montage and syrupy music....Happy together....

I seemed to be able to make her laugh, and she was quiet but very sweet. She would stroke my face a lot. We talked about family, a little—how my mother had died of cancer two years ago, and my father had recently remarried, a woman I didn’t like much, a stone bitch but I wouldn’t have said that then. Joni was from a large family and they didn’t have much and her factory-worker father had been abusive (which I thought meant he hit her, but much later it occurred to me he’d been fucking her).

Frankly most of it is a blur. When I met Joni, I was a near virgin—I’d been with one girl in high school, my senior year—and the heady sex included things I’d heard about but never expected to experience...I said “heady” sex—get it? All of those memories exist in snippets, a parade of still photos interspersed with little movies of sweetness here and sensuality there, as if the films playing in my mind were scratchy old drive-in prints, kind of grainy with missing frames and garbled sound.

I remember only two conversations in some detail. One we had at a drive-in outside La Mirada (she had a little blue Marlin, a pretty slick number for a Rambler) where I was doing my best not to make a mess of a chili dog, and she was having just fries, which was the way girls dieted back then.

“I envy you,” she said.

“What for?”

“You had a normal life. You had a loving family.”

“Not really. Lonely being an only child. My mom was nice but she was sick all the time. And my dad barely spoke to me.”

“Why?”

“He was on the road a lot. In his day, he’d been a real jock. I lettered in swimming, but that wasn’t football. I read books. I liked movies. We got along okay, I guess. But maybe I wasn’t macho enough for him.”

“And now you’re a Marine!”

“He was a Marine, too.”

“So you thought that would impress him? Make him really think you’re a man?”

“Don’t make fun, Joni.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.”

She dipped a fry into the tiny ketchup cup on the drivein tray next to her (she was behind the wheel—her car, after all).

“I still say you’re lucky,” she said. “Everybody thinks it’s glamorous out here. It’s not. It’s all spread out and you live in your own little world and you never go anywhere or get anywhere.”

“You get around.” I meant that in the Beach Boys sense —like, she had a car—and not that she was fast in any other way.

“I get around now.” She meant the car, too. “But until I was old enough to move out and make something of myself, I lived in a smaller world than you ever did, back in Idaho.”

“Ohio.”

“Wherever.” She nibbled another red-tipped fry. “We shopped and ate and went to movies all in about a sixblock radius. Never went anywhere else. That includes school. I teased you about being a typical tourist, Jack, didn’t I?”

Jack was my name then. First name. You won’t get a last one out of me—not a real one. And Quarry isn’t it.

“Yeah,” I said, “you ribbed me pretty good.”

“Well, guess what—I never went to Disneyland before. I never saw a movie on Grauman’s big screen. I never ate cotton candy or rode the carousel at Santa Monica. Not till...” Funny pause. “...till you came along.”

Now, years later, I know why she paused. I’ll fill you in, when the time comes.

Another night, possibly that same week, she drove us to a stretch of beach where, at uneven intervals, yelloworange fires glowed and sparked against the deep blue of the night and deeper blue of the ocean. These were bonfires with kids gathered around and the scene of much partying—beer, dope, sex. All the stuff that you figured happened in those Beach Party movies after the cameras stopped rolling.

We found a nice bed of sand between some big rocks and laid out a blanket. We’d been there before, three or four times; our place, our spot. Neither one of us was into dope but we had a six-pack of Coors. It was one of those warm California nights Leslie Gore sang about, even the wind off the lazy waves was warm. No humidity, though. California was another planet, too....

I loved her so fucking much. She was very beautiful, twenty-two and older than me, darkly tan except where the bikini had protected skin so shockingly white that the dark curls of her pubic triangle screamed for attention. She would lay on her back and those long slender legs would part and glistening pink would beckon and I’d be balls deep before she could finish her initial gasp. Her long legs would pump, like both our hearts, and her head would roll back and her eyes go half-lidded, and almost cross, and each time I’d thrust, her small pert breasts would thrust, too, their long erect points like little scolding fingers, naughty, naughty....

“Marry me,” I said, when we’d finished, but still inside her.

“Oh yes,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, Jack—yes.”

So I’d married her.

From Vietnam, I wrote her love letters on a daily basis for a while, and she did the same with me, until my world got darker and it was all I could do to maybe write once a week and then once a month crawl out of that hole into temporary sunshine to say something to the girl waiting for me, the girl who was the only reason not to give in to despair and either walk into a bullet or go AWOL and maybe get sent stateside to the brig or better yet frag a moronic officer and get sent home to a firing squad or just stick around and maybe join the hardcore Corps who were slamming heroin to escape for now or maybe for good. Me, who didn’t even accept a toke when a doobie was passed, suddenly I was thinking heroin was an option.

Finally I had stopped feeling, which when they made me a sniper was a necessity. If you viewed your target as a flesh-and-blood human, you might upset your balance. You had to understand, in war, that if you weren’t manning the gun shooting this poor bastard, somebody else would be there with a finger on the trigger. So what was the difference? In war, all soldiers are dead men. Sooner you get that, the better off you are. Thinking of yourself as alive only put you at risk—you could get killed that way.

We all knew: You are dead until you are sent home, at which time you will maybe get to be alive again.

I came home a day early. The letters from Joni had become more and more sporadic, just as had mine, but hers were at least loving and encouraging whereas mine were frankly terse and straining to be something akin to pleasant, since hopeful was out of the question. By the end of my tour, I had probably killed thirty men. And I was fine with that. Because I hadn’t really killed them, had I? The war designated them dead long before I came on the scene.

Anyway, I showed up in La Mirada at the little white stucco house (no picket fence) on La Flor Drive. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if that side door had been locked (the front was). I felt odd, because I’d been away going on two years and was not the same guy, even if I was back in civvies; but the sunshine and the smell of flowers did make me feel alive. Not a walking dead man. Which was nice.

Anyway, I went in to surprise Joni, just sort of crept in, sneaky bastard, not yelling her name or any honey-I’mhome shit. I wanted to enter a room and she would be sitting in a comfy chair listening to our song (“No Fair at All”) or maybe at the kitchen table writing me a loving letter, or possibly taking a bubble bath, and in all those instances, her big brown eyes would get even bigger and she would beam and be in my arms and, before you know it, I’d be in her. You think a lot about such things when you are overseas and a walking dead man.

I know you’re way ahead of me. You wouldn’t have bothered looking in every other room first, before trying the bedroom. And maybe I knew before I opened that door. Hell, I did know. The sounds of heavy breathing and bed springs provided a little clue.

She was facing me with big brown eyes, all right, and they did get bigger, though since she was on all fours on the bed, getting it from behind, I’d have to say it’s surprising her eyes had the capacity to get bigger. Maybe he wasn’t in her backdoor. Maybe it was just rear entry. That’s a detail I didn’t explore.

I didn’t know the guy. He had what we call a farmer’s tan back in Ohio, although the paleness of his flesh was blocked out by a lot of hair. Real hairy-chested bastard, about thirty-five I’d say—really old, I thought at the time, old enough to be her father. Now I know my math was way off, but that’s one of the things that popped into my head.

If I’d had a gun on me, I’d have killed them both. In that position, one bullet could have done the trick—a shot through her open mouth could have penetrated his chest, too, and it would have been your classic two-birds-with-one-stone parlay.

“Jack!” she said.

I said nothing.

Also, the guy said nothing—he just looked confused and irritated, pausing in his pumping, his hands on the bikini-white of her ass. I would have preferred that he look embarrassed or maybe scared. I couldn’t even be sure he knew who I was. I mean, we’d never met. And I didn’t see my picture on her bedside table.

I just turned and got out of there. She was screaming my name but not following me or anything. Far as I know his dick was still in her when I slammed the door and shut off the sound.

This was in the afternoon, and I didn’t call her that night. Actually, I never called her at all. I knew of a girlfriend of hers, who had kind of liked me when Joni and I had been dating, and from her I found out the guy’s name was Williams (I’ve forgotten his first name) and that he worked as a mechanic at a garage a couple blocks from Joni’s house. A house I had mistakenly thought of as “our” house.

When I’d shown up unannounced and a day early, the only car in Joni’s drive had been her Marlin. So I figured the guy must have walked over from work, or maybe got picked up by her, but anyway it struck me as odd that a mechanic wouldn’t drive his own goddamn car over when he dropped by to fuck my wife.

I decided to discuss this, and other topics, with him the next day. I felt I’d cooled down enough to have a nice rational conversation with the guy. Explain that I was Joni’s husband, back from Nam, and that I understood people had needs and I was going to try to work things out with her, and would appreciate it if he would back off. In my defense, while I thought I was rational, I was really in a sleep-deprived state—I’d slept not at all on the plane home, and had spent all last night wide awake in my motel room, killing her a dozen ways but finally deciding to be an adult about this.

Why the mechanic’s car hadn’t been at Joni’s became immediately apparent when I went to his crummy little house and found him on his back under a sporty vehicle that most of his money probably went into, jacked up with its back wheels off. His “baby.” Working on its rear end. Kind of like he’d been working on my wife’s rear end.

He looked up at me from under there, upper lip curling in contempt—now he knew who I was. Apparently Joni had got around to filling him in.

Before I could say a word, he said, “I got nothing to say to you, bunghole.”

“Fine,” I said.

And kicked out the fucking jack.

So that got me arrested. A couple of things saved my ass.

For one, my actions had clearly not been premeditated —I made this point in a perhaps not subtle way, telling the cops at the scene, “If I’d planned to kill the prick, I’d have brought a gun along.”

For another, a bunch of things soon emerged about Joni that I hadn’t known. Turned out I was her third husband. And not just any kind of third husband—her third serviceman-serving-in-Vietnam husband.

Remember that pause when she was telling me how she’d never seen the California tourist spots till...I came along? Two of “me” had come along before I had.

When she said she’d left home and made something of herself, it hadn’t been by going to work—it had been by marrying naive young schmucks like me who were about to go over to Vietnam and get dead. She was no polygamist, understand—she married us one at a time, and had been twice a widow.

She got all the military bennies, including insurance and Christ knows what—but enough to buy a Marlin and a nice little house in La Mirada, even before yours truly had come along to sign over my pitiful paychecks to her.

Only, I’d double-crossed her—I lived. If you called this living.

Anyway, there was a lot of media coverage, strictly local, but a good deal of it. I should have got some jail time, manslaughter or something, but they didn’t even try me. The District Attorney wanted no part of it. At one point I sat across the desk from the guy, who wore a puzzled frown and a red bow tie. He was small and mustached and earnest, like a high school guidance counselor.

The D.A. asked, “Is it possible that when you walked up to him, Mr. Williams may have accidentally knocked that jack out himself?”

“Sure,” I said, and shrugged. What did that neighbor know, anyway? The one who’d been cutting his grass next door.

It came out that I’d won some medals, and that further complicated things. The editorial pages were already full of complaints from right-wing columnists who thought returning veterans were being mistreated. If they were really concerned about guys like me being mistreated, they shouldn’t have sent us the fuck over in the first place.

I told you before that I have never been a heavy drinker. But as I look back, I must admit I put it away pretty good for a while, after they cleared me of the murder. I got a little two-room apartment in a shitty section of L.A. and for several months sat around feeling sorry for myself, drinking rum and Coke and eating TV dinners and watching a little black-and-white TV and occasionally sprucing up enough to find a female to hate fuck.

My father tracked me down to the flophouse. We had a fairly pleasant conversation, and he said he sympathized with me, understood what I’d done, and regretted my present situation. But the punchline was that my stepmother was afraid of me now, and I was told in no uncertain terms not to come home.

Maybe Joni and I had something in common—maybe we were both looking for a father figure. The chief difference being she’d been looking for one to fuck her, like Williams, whereas I just needed a strong guiding hand. The Marine Corps wasn’t there to provide one anymore.

Was that why the Broker’s approach had worked so well on me? He had tracked me down, too, imposing figure that he was—a broad-shouldered six two with prematurely white hair and a well-trimmed matching mustache, contrasting with his dark tan; handsome, his face younger than his demeanor, his eyes an icy blue. Tailored suit and a knowing half-smile—the type who used to appear in those “What kind of man reads Playboy?” ads.

He was Madison Avenue smooth, all the way, and had really done his homework. Knew about my wife and Williams and the publicity (even though he did not live in California). We sat at a scarred table in my crap pad and he politely accepted a rum and Coke in a Yogi Bear jelly jar and told me how badly I’d been treated, by my wife, by the media, by my family, by the law.

I thought the law had done fine by me, actually. And what did he know about my family, and how did he know it?

I am good at remembering conversations. I can even recall the nuances, right down to gestures and tone of voice, and I can report everything from the time of day to the weather, including the clothing worn...usually. But as you’ve seen, my memory of conversations with darling Joni is limited. And that first conversation with the Broker —arguably the most important of my life—is similarly vague in my mind.

I do distinctly remember him saying, “I have an unusual opportunity for you, Mr. _____.” He used my real name. “A money-making opportunity.”

He didn’t come right out and say, “Are you interested in killing for hire?” It wasn’t like I’d filled out a truck stop matchbook, answering a question like, Looking for Opportunities in the Murder Trade? Can you draw Winky?

No, but he did say something very similar to “How would you like to make real money at home doing what you did for almost no money overseas?”

There’s no question that he caught me at just the right moment. Maybe I would have pulled out of my tailspin some other way, had I been offered some other, more mainstream opportunity. Still, I knew—just like the Broker knew—that I had only one marketable skill.

I knew how to kill people.

And I knew how to do it dispassionately. Because I understood, when the Broker explained that the individuals I would be asked to remove were already tagged for death.

I believe he put it this way: “Essentially, they are walking around, marking time, until who they are and what they’ve done catches up with them. No one has earned the dubious distinction of being targeted for death without due cause.”

Broker made it sound like all of the targets were bad persons whose transgressions could not be addressed by the legal system. But that was a rationalization designed to draw me in. I soon understood that a given target might be a decent sort who stood in the way of another party’s selfish interests.

Anyway, none of it had anything to do with me. Someone with money enough to have another person killed had decided to do so, and that was that. The decision was made well before I got in the picture. My role was impersonal— clients opened a drawer, stuck in their hand, and I was the weapon they pulled out.

I worked with the Broker for over five years. He described himself as “sort of an agent,” a middleman in the murder game, providing insulation between client and killer. Actually, killers, because the Broker’s system was to use those two-man Passive and Active teams I mentioned.

The details are not important to this narrative, but you need to know that the Broker eventually betrayed me. And after disposing of him, I wound up with what today you’d call a database, but in the mid-’70s was just a list.

A very valuable list, however—over fifty names of guys like me, who had worked for the Broker, with full detailed files on each. Seeing my file with my face in it, as well as detailed info on two dozen kills of mine, I swore I’d never work through a middleman again. Not in the murder business, anyway.

Of course, I could have exited that business—I had some money saved—but an interesting thought presented itself. I saw how I could use the Broker’s list, and keep working, in a new way, and on my own terms.

I would choose a name from the Broker’s file—someone like myself—and travel to where that name lived and stake him out, then follow him to his next job. (I should note that a few of the names were female.) Through further surveillance, I would determine the identity of the target, whom I’d approach, offering to eliminate the threat. For a healthy fee, the hit team would be discreetly removed. For a further fee, I could also look into who had hired the hit, and remove that threat, too.

It was risky. What if a target—approached by a stranger with a crazy story, claiming to be a sort of professional killer himself—called the cops or otherwise wigged out?

But remember—anyone designated for a hit is somebody who almost certainly has done something worth getting killed over. Such an individual tends not to be a sterling model citizen—or, at least, is somebody well aware of a powerful, ruthless adversary, capable of such malfeasance.

My hunch had been that these people would welcome help, especially since the other option was to take a bullet or get run over or fall down icy stairs. The money I could demand of my clients meant that I’d only have to perform this risky task once a year or so.

And so far my thinking had proved valid—Nick Varnos was the sixth name I’d plucked from the Broker’s list. I’d watched him in Vegas for a month, and now I was in Boot Heel, Nevada, where I’d followed him. Admittedly, I’d got a little ahead of myself. But running into my talkative old pardner Jerry had saved me a lot of work.

I already knew who the target was—I just needed a name. Couldn’t be too many movie directors staying at the Spur Motel. Of course, Nick Varnos was staying there as well, and I had to make my pitch to my prospective client before Nick made an accident happen.

What the hell—I needed a place to stay myself.

Maybe the Spur had another room available.

THREE

The Spur Motel was not my first stop, after returning to Boot Heel; in fact, I rolled right past it in the late Jerry’s red Mustang. I had another motel in mind, which required making my way through Main Street’s four-block minicanyon of neon.

Traffic was modest—this was a Thursday night in the little casino town—as I made my way to the northern outskirts where that other motel awaited...the Saddle Up, which I have to say is one of the best names I ever heard for a sleazy little motel.

The Saddle Up certainly fit that shabby bill. The Spur, which I’d only glimpsed, was three stories and quite modern. This was a horizontal strip of rooms with a freestanding office, a light-blue badly cracked and chippedup stucco structure that had been around since Bonnie and Clyde went looking for places to shack up away from the law. Billy the Kid may have attended the grand opening.

Not that there was anything grand about the Saddle Up. Even its neon sign couldn’t deliver, depicting not a saddle but a horseshoe, a red one with yellow nails, several of which had burned out. Yellow neon lettering filled the upside-down U:

COOL AIR

COLOR TV

NO VACANCY

These were shorting in and out. No pool, just a gravel lot. Twelve rooms with only three cars, despite the buzzing No Vacancy notice.

Which I knew to be inaccurate. Jerry had been staying here, and he’d checked out, all right. Maybe not from the Saddle Up, but....

I nosed the Mustang into its stall outside Jerry’s room— number eight—and used the key I’d found in his wallet. I’d considered stopping at my car, which you may recall was parked on Main Street down from the Four Jacks, to get my nine millimeter Browning out of the glove compartment. But I didn’t really see any need for a weapon. Jerry was dead, and his partner Nick had no idea I was in town. It pays to be paranoid in my business, but why go to extremes?

When I flipped on the light switch, I for the first time felt sorry for the late Jerry. That he’d had to live in this dump for the last month or so of his life was a small tragedy. The best that could be said for number eight was that the bed was made; oh, and for a quarter the mattress would vibrate. And the chugging air conditioner indeed delivered the cool air the neon sign promised.

Looming over the bed’s nubby piss-color spread was one of those garishly framed matador prints that every cheap motel room seemed to have, jarring against ancient peeling wallpaper the color of sand dotted with green cartoon cacti. For that Southwestern flavor. The green shag carpeting gave you the feeling a whole realm of dirt and germs existed down in the underbrush, well out of any sweeper’s reach, not that any sweeper had recently gone on safari there.

If some industrious biographer discovered Alfred Hitchcock had been traveling through these parts in the late 1950s, this bathroom with its shower stall might well turn out to have inspired a certain very famous scene. Of course, this was sheer speculation on my part; after all, Hitch couldn’t have fit inside that bathroom unless they’d built it around him.

Beyond number eight’s natural ambiance, Jerry had added his own touches, namely a stack of well-thumbed men’s magazines (Hustler, Club, Gallery) on the junky dresser, which was also home to a bottle of baby oil, a king-size box of Puffs tissues, a boom box with a scattering of audio cassettes (Boston, Foghat, ZZ Top), two bottles of Dewar’s, one unopened, and a bathroom water glass with Scotch traces, adding more circles to the wooden dresser top. Everything a sophisticate like Jerry required for a rewarding night in.

I didn’t touch much of anything. Whether that was to prevent fingerprints or to avoid catching something, I’ll leave for you to decide. But I found what I was looking for: a spiral notebook in a drawer by the bed that had all of Jerry’s surveillance notes. Each day was dated and ran to three pages. Three weeks and a few days worth.

Everybody in the trade took such notes. But hanging on to them was a dangerous practice. On those rare occasions that I took the Passive role, I made sure my notes were cryptic, never including the name or even initials of the target or any secondary subjects.

And by the time the Active half of the team showed up, a month or more of such information would be distilled— “He takes breakfast at the diner on Vermont Place every morning around seven,” “She walks the dog when she gets home from work, between five and five-thirty,” “He smokes a joint in the hot tub on his deck every night at eleven,” and so on. You transferred information along verbally, like the Indians used to pass their lore from generation to generation.

And any notes were disposed of. Burned, usually.

Jerry had names or initials and times and dates. Perfect for my purposes. But also another reason to wonder why he’d lasted as long as he had, or why somebody as skillful as Nick Varnos—staging accidental deaths was maybe the hardest kind of hit to pull off—had for ten fucking years put up with this douchebag.

Part of why I stopped by the Saddle Up was to remove any trace of Jerry. So I packed his suitcase, including everything from his clothes (here at least he did well— they were as bland as mine, a page out of a Sears catalogue) to his stroke books, from his Dewar’s to his boom box with blues-rock cassettes. Toiletries, too. Included among the deceased’s effects were a .38 Colt Super Automatic from his nightstand drawer and the box of slugs that went with it.

I saved out a HENDRIX LIVES t-shirt (Hendrix maybe, not Jerry) and used it to rub away any fingerprints I might have left. Better than going near that box of Puffs.

When the one-room suite was devoid of Jerry’s personality and had been returned to its own natural charming state, I hauled the suitcase out and stuffed it in his trunk. Jerry had another handgun in there—a Colt Diamondback revolver in a little belt holster—and two boxes of ammunition for it. Just sitting there.

Fucking idiot—what if a cop, suspecting a DUI, had stopped him and found this? Or worse, what if just now I’d gone through a stop sign or something, unfamiliar with Boot Heel, and got stopped, and the fuzz checked the trunk when they ran my driver’s license (a phony) and found it didn’t go with a red Mustang?

Shit, if I hadn’t already killed that fuckwad, I’d have gladly done so now. It was all I could do not to drive back to that lonely road and run over him a few more times.

Anyway, I used the Hendrix t-shirt to wipe any potential prints off any surface I touched, then drove the Mustang back into Boot Heel. I found a parking space not far from the Four Jacks in front of the Old West Museum & Gift Emporium—open but doing scant business—and (with some more Hendrix wiping) left the Mustang there.

With the keys in the dash, and the windows rolled down.

I had checked the registration and Jerry’s name wasn’t on it—at least, not any name I knew him by. Probably he’d bought it specifically for this gig, paying cash and using false I.D. Should any cops lay hands on it, there was no reason to think it would lead to Jerry, either the Jerry who lived somewhere with a straight cover story, or the Jerry who lay on a dirt highway with a head looking like a Halloween pumpkin some nasty neighbor kids kicked in.

Might have made one of the more interesting wagers in Boot Heel tonight—betting somebody how long it would take the Mustang to disappear.

Personally I didn’t give a shit where the Mustang wound up. I was just looking to get rid of it and simplify matters in a way that would buy me a day or two. With his skidmark puss, Jerry was unrecognizable, and when (next county over) he was found, whenever he was found, the wheels of justice should grind fairly slowly. At least as slowly as mine had over Jerry.

Identifying the body would take a while, if it ever was identified; and his death—mysterious as it was (had a drunk stumbled out into that road and got run over?)— would hardly make headline news. Jerry had said his part of the job was over, so I didn’t figure Nick would be looking to get in touch with him. If the local paper in a day or two carried a little story about the weird death in the boonies, well, why should Nick think it was about Jerry?

And assuming somebody helped himself to the Mustang, it would either wind up in a Vegas chop shop or be merrily driven off by some lucky winner. Admittedly, that winner would have an eye-popping moment or two, discovering the weapons in the trunk of his new car. Or maybe not. If it was a pro and not an amateur who took the Mustang, the guns might just be something else to fence.

Everybody wins.

With the Mustang dumped, and the Hendrix t-shirt stuffed in a trash bin, I returned to the Four Jacks and found my way through slots and poker machines and bluehaired patrons to the snack bar, which was off to the right. Open onto the busy casino, Jack’s Shack was fashioned after an old-time soda fountain with tables and a few booths, its back wall decorated with cartoon cut-outs of cowboys and Indians and gunfighters. I got myself a sugar cone with Rocky Road ice cream and sat in a booth licking and nibbling it, while I thumbed through the dead man’s notebook.

I could bore you with details, because Jerry had filled almost sixty pages, and there was a lot to piece together. But I won’t. What I learned boiled down to this: the target was Arthur Stockwell, film director.

The first two weeks of Stockwell’s activities proved irrelevant because this period represented something called pre-production. His hours were erratic, as he apparently was spending time at various film locations in Boot Heel, and sometimes checking with production staff who were staying at three hotels (including the Spur but not, you may be shocked to learn, the luxurious Saddle Up). Halfway through the second week, Stockwell began rehearsing with actors in a conference room at the Spur, but the times were all over the place.

For somebody in the murder business, dealing with a target involved in such a constantly shifting activity was your worst fucking nightmare. You want to deal with your mark in his or her daily life, where there’s a routine to discern. Patterns, predictability—so important when you’re planning to kill somebody.

What I didn’t get was why the hit was going down here, and now—why not wait till after the film wrapped? (That was the term, wasn’t it?) Why not wait till the director would be back in Beverly Hills or wherever, living a normal life? Not that people lived normal lives in Beverly Hills. Even so, that life certainly had some order, some structure, not this movie-making chaos.

Speaking of which, why hadn’t Stockwell been snuffed before he came to Boot Heel to shoot a movie for weeks at a time or maybe months? (Jerry’s notes gave me no indication of how long this—or any—movie production might last.)

Last week the film had started shooting. Again, the times were all over the place, with the only common thread the director working very long hours. He would be on the set as early as six a.m. and get back as late as nine or ten or even midnight. The sets ranged from a desert location just outside town to, well, the Four Jacks Hotel & Casino. Apparently they’d shot a scene in this very snack bar.

A local home and an apartment had been used as sets and were (according to Jerry’s notes) “shot out.” Had Jerry ingratiated himself with crew? He seemed to have picked up the jargon.

And it seemed one full day had been spent at the local sheriff’s office. Great place to be shadowing a subject! This seemed more and more like madness....

A dozen names of cast and crew appeared in Jerry’s notes. Either he was a hell of a back-up guy, soaking up information at the scene, or he’d been briefed heavily going in to the job. I could only assume the latter, because as far as I could tell what Jerry really soaked up was Dewar’s.

The names that seemed to matter—the ones that showed up again and again, and figured in Jerry’s surveillance— were (in addition to Arthur Stockwell himself) Tiffany Goodwin, apparently the lead actress, Eric Conrad, lead actor, and J. Kaufmann, producer. Another actress, referred to only as J.S., rated four notations.

I had actually heard of both Tiffany Goodwin and Eric Conrad, and the movie they were making—Hard Wheels 2 —was the sequel to a sleeper hit of a year or so back.

Tiffany Goodwin had been a Playboy Playmate of the Year half a decade ago—I didn’t know she’d gone on to be an actress in the movies. I figured she was probably just hanging out at the Playboy Mansion fucking Hefner.

Eric Conrad had been on a very popular TV show about cops who worked on the beach. Actually, I thought he was still on it, though I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t something I kept up with, despite the beautiful girls in bikinis running on the beach. Even I need some plot.

We were not exactly dealing with Al Pacino and Diane Keaton here. Nor did I figure Bogie and Bacall’s romantic icon status was likely to be challenged by Conrad and Goodwin. And John Ford and Steven Spielberg had little to worry about from Arthur Stockwell.

Clearly the movie being made in Boot Heel was strictly of the drive-in variety, the kind turning up on the shelves of these video stores popping every wherever these days. One of my poker buddies owned such a shop in Lake Geneva.

I have always liked movies but am no film buff. Still, the name Arthur Stockwell rang a bell. That, and the thought of that video store back home, gave birth to an idea....

I got some change at the snack bar counter, and found a row of payphones near the bar. It took a while, as I had to go through directory assistance, but eventually I heard a familiar nasal voice answer, “Lake Geneva Home Video, two tapes, three days, four dollars. This is Bruce, how may I help you?”

“Hey, Bruce,” I said.

Bruce, at thirty, was the only guy in the poker group younger than me.

“Hey, Jack. Ya haven’t been in lately. What’s it take, dude? I don’t even charge you late fees!”

Jack was a first name I used a lot. Mostly it was the last name that shifted.

“I’ve been out of town visiting relatives. Still am, actually. We’re playing one of those silly trivia games, and hell, Brucie, you know more about movies than anybody I know.”

“No argument there.”

“So help me look good, dude.” Yes. I said it. “Tell me who Arthur Stockwell is.”

Bruce did.

Turned out Stockwell was a very well known B-movie director. As a young man in the late ’50s, he had directed a number of films for producer Roger Corman; he broke off on his own and in the ’60s specialized in genre movies of all kinds, mostly for American International—science fiction, horror, biker, “a few hippie flicks, where they drop acid and stuff.” He had worked with Jack Nicholson, Peter Falk and Bruce Dern before they got famous. And, as with Jerry Lewis—who I like, so watch it—he had a favorable reputation among certain influential French film critics.

“Stockwell got a chance to make a movie for Twentieth Century Fox,” Bruce said, “about ten years ago. After one of his cheapies, Acid Trip, unexpectedly broke box office records, he got his shot. Made this big epic about World War One biplanes, The Red Baron. And I don’t mean Snoopy.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“It tanked. El flopperoo. For a while he couldn’t get arrested.”

That’s a bad thing?

“The drive-in market kind of dried up in the ’70s,” Bruce was saying. “Stockwell started directing episodes of TV shows, mostly cop shows, you know, Quinn Martin action crapola. Then last year he made Hard Wheels, a throwback to his classic biker movies. And it was a big hit on home video.”

“Not in theaters?”

“It did all right, in what few drive-ins and grindhouses there are left. But the video stores are changing everything. Hard Wheels is one of the first movies ever to get famous and popular just from people renting it. And playing on cable.”

“Cable.”

“Oh, yeah, man—HBO rules! You need to get a satellite dish, my friend. You really do. And I have a friend who can fix you up.”

“We’ll see. Thanks for this, Bruce.”

“Sorry for yammering on so long, buddy. I gave you a lot more info than you need for a trivia game.”

“No, that’s cool, it’s interesting stuff. You’ll make me look smart.”

“Then I am a genius....Hey, man, I hear Stockwell’s making a sequel. Can you dig it? A sequel to a movie that was a hit on home video. It’s a brave new world, Jack.”

“You’re slipping, Brucie. That was a literary reference.”

“Books serve their purposes. Hell of a lot of good flicks came from ’em....When you gonna be back in town?”

“Probably in time for poker. I’ll let you know if not.”

I went out to the street, where the night had turned sultry but with a teasing breeze, and walked to my car. Not a rental, my own wheels (hard wheels?), which I’d purchased in Vegas, after flying in from Wisconsin. I used phony I.D., of course, and paid in cash. It was nothing special, a ’76 Chevy Nova, dark green, fairly sleek, almost sporty. No red Mustang, though.

The Spur was everything the Saddle Up wasn’t. At night, I couldn’t tell what color the three-story brick building was—light pink?—and in truth it was nondescript and institutional-looking. But the big elaborate boot-shaped neon complete with spinning-neon spur, all green and yellow and orange, had enough flash for four motels.

All I had for a suitcase was a brown vinyl carry-on, slung over my shoulder when I entered the lobby of the motel, which proved to be a mini-casino. Well, that might be an exaggeration—it was just slots that ringed the walls, though the coffee tables around which comfy chairs were arranged were embedded with poker machines. About half a dozen guests were making use of them.

The cowboy trappings were limited here—the lobby was modern and bright, with only a couple of large framed western prints (a rodeo scene, a desert vista) to hint that we were in Boot Heel, Nevada. Behind the long check-in counter were three stations, but only one clerk was working, an attractive big-hair brunette in her midtwenties, with luminous brown eyes and a nice tan and an immediately friendly smile. She was in a green blazer the same startling color as her eye shadow; whether fashion statement or coincidence, I couldn’t say.

Her name tag said tina.

“Hi, Tina,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation.”

“No problem, sir. We have rooms available. Facing the pool, if you like.”

“Cool.” I leaned an elbow on the counter and gave her my friendly, shy smile. Maybe she was just a good clerk, but the vibe I was getting said she didn’t find me repulsive. “I’m here to do some PR for the movie company that’s in town. Art Stockwell is an old friend of mine.”

She got even more pleasant and friendly. “Well, I can put you on his floor, if you like.”

“That would be great. Closer the better.”

She checked her book. “How about...across the hall? Down a little, but real close.”

“Perfect. What room is he in again?”

“Three-thirteen. You’re in three-sixteen. Your room looks out on the pool, but don’t worry. There’s no swimming after ten, so it shouldn’t be noisy.”

“Great. Say, I just got in. Is Art back from the day’s shoot yet?”

“No, Mr. Stockwell is still out.”

We did the check-in stuff, and I gave her a credit card that said JOHN H. REYNOLDS. I had two on that particular name, attached to a legit bank account. She wondered if I’d want the room charged to the Stockwell Production Company account. It was tempting, but that might require some kind of clearing process, so I said no.

“Tina, could you give me a call when Art gets in? Assuming you’re still working.”

“Oh, I’m on night shift. I’ll be here. So should I have Mr. Stockwell call you, then, Mr. Reynolds?”

“No. Please don’t. We’re old pals and I want to surprise him. He isn’t expecting me till the weekend. You call me, please.”

“Glad to, Mr. Reynolds.”

We exchanged smiles that were polite but with promise. My general policy was no sex on the job. Too distracting. Fortunately, I was completely inconsistent on this point.

I went up the elevator to my room. It was surprisingly spacious, nicely modern, nothing western in the appointments beyond another desert vista print and an earthtone color scheme. I unpacked, wishing I could risk a shower, but I didn’t know when the phone might ring announcing Stockwell’s presence.

The nine millimeter, which I’d transferred from the Nova’s glove compartment to the carry-on bag, I rested on the nightstand by the phone. I turned off the lights, stretched out on the bed, propped a couple pillows, and used the remote to check the TV stations on the nice big 21” Sony on the dresser. They had satellite. Bruce would have loved it here.

Enough time passed that I was suddenly watching Johnny Carson. I realized I’d dropped off to sleep a few times, and that was no good. I got up and went out on the little balcony to stretch and let the night breeze wake me up a little.

Someone was swimming down there.

The motel, I now realized, was a squared-off U-shape, the short, flat part of the U representing the lobby wing facing Main Street. Within the U was a courtyard that was mostly swimming pool. Few lights were on down there, but the pool glowed from underneath, making the gracefully swimming figure a near silhouette.

A woman.

What from here, at least, seemed to be a lovely woman ...longish dark hair, long legs, a slender, shapely body in a black bikini against a tan that aided and abetted the silhouette effect. According to Tina at the desk, the pool wasn’t open this late. But who was going to complain about this nymph relaxing with a solitary swim? Not any male guest, anyway.

The balcony I stood on was wrought iron and fairly small and I was wreathed in darkness, as the only light behind me was from The Tonight Show. When she swam on her back, she either couldn’t see me or didn’t care that I was up there leaning at the rail, gazing down admiringly.

Funny. With the pool’s under-lighting and the slice of moon’s grayish ivory, she eventually became somewhat more distinct in my night vision, less of a silhouette, and I’d be damned if she didn’t remind me of Joni. A little. Of the adult woman Joni at thirty-something might have grown up into, if she took decent care of herself and didn’t run to fat or anything.

The phone rang.

FOUR

It was pushing midnight, but I took the time to shower and make myself presentable. You don’t want to drop in unannounced on somebody, with a wild tale of hitmen on the loose, looking like the long day you’d just had.

I even shaved, and took the time to put on my creamcolor sport coat over a rust-color polo and brown jeans. I had put the sport coat in the closet when I unpacked, and it was fairly hung out from its time in the carry-on. It would give me a nice young professional look, and cover the nine millimeter stuffed in my waistband.

Earlier, when Tina down at the desk called, I made sure she hadn’t spoiled my surprise—she hadn’t—and then laughed and said, “Bet Art’s in one of those crazy Hawaiian shirts of his.”

“Uh, no—I think he just had on a t-shirt and jeans.”

Before the confusion in her voice could turn into anything, I said with another laugh, “Must be a little too warm out here in the desert for the Don Ho bit. I tell you, back in L.A., that’s his uniform.”

She managed to laugh at that, and I thanked her for her help and she said not at all, and I didn’t sense anything suspicious in her voice.

I’d just wanted to make sure I knew who I’d be talking to when I knocked on the door of 313. And a good thing, too, because the guy who answered was not wearing t-shirt and jeans.

Whoever-this-was in the doorway had on a pink polo shirt and off-white slacks with a puka necklace and sockless sandals (somebody was doing the Don Ho bit after all). Tall, slender, almost skinny, with a dirty blond early Beatles haircut, he wore aviator glasses whose lenses were tinted a faint rose. The light blue eyes behind rosecolored glasses were wide when the door opened; but they immediately became hooded when he saw a stranger before him.

Till then, he’d been smiling and I’d describe his expression as friendly—a pleasant-looking man in his forties, well-tanned, his boyish features slightly marred by pockmarked cheeks—but seeing me, his demeanor went freezedried.

That made sense, both his answering my knock so easily and then reacting negatively. I figured a movie company was a little world unto itself, with lots of people coming and going, so you wouldn’t think twice about opening a door half-past-midnight.

And that door had opened wide, giving me a glimpse of a guy sitting at a table, with paperwork spread out in front of him. A guy in a white t-shirt and jeans. Then the one in the pink polo narrowed the door to not much more than a crack.

Making three syllables out of it, he said, “Yes?”

“I apologize for the lateness, I just got in. Mr. Stockwell doesn’t know me, but I have an important business matter to discuss with him.”

My reluctant host’s voice was a pleasant baritone with a faint Southern tinge. “And how do you know I’m not Mr. Stockwell?”

“Because you aren’t. I assume you’re a business associate. His producer?”

The way the light-blue eyes unhooded momentarily told me I’d guessed well.

“I’m Mr. Stockwell’s producer, yes.”

“Mr. Kaufmann, it’s vital I have a few minutes with him. I know how valuable Mr. Stockwell’s time is, and I won’t abuse it.”

Despite the lateness of the hour, and people trying to sleep in rooms all around us, I was talking in a normal, even somewhat loud manner. I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious, I just wanted the guy in the t-shirt at the table to get the drift of the conversation I was having with the guard at his gate.

Who was getting openly pissed. Couldn’t blame his producer for wanting to protect the director.

“You need to stop by the production office,” Kaufmann said, starting to close the door again, “and make an appointment.”

But my tactic worked—a hoarse second tenor chimed in from within the motel room: “Jimbo, let the guy in. Let me deal with this.”

Kaufmann twitched a frown, then forced something like a smile, opened the door wide, and gestured for me to enter. His bony hand was adorned with a rough goldennugget ring.

I nodded to the producer and said, “Thanks.”

Arthur Stockwell—assuming that’s who this well-tanned guy in the vintage Harley t-shirt and jeans was—did not rise; he swung his body around and frowned up at me. Not angrily, just with quiet frustration.

I put him at about fifty, about my size and weight, with short black hair suspiciously free of gray; his eyes were dark brown and a little puffy in a conventionally handsome oval. He looked like a slightly gone-to-seed leading man.

His voice was firm if ravaged from too much talk: “If this is about that Teamster matter, I can only say we’ve complied. And you need to ask your guys if they are aware of exactly who Louis Licata is. Because among other things, he’s the executive producer of this picture.”

Poised just inside the door with Kaufmann nearby, I let the director go on with that speech, because I found it interesting, and then I raised a hand, gently, in a stop motion. “I’m not from the Teamsters, Mr. Stockwell. You are Mr. Stockwell?”

“I am.”

I took several steps forward, closing the distance between us. He remained seated. The round table, about the size of the one we used for poker back at Paradise Lake, was littered with paperwork. Much of it was crude cartoonish drawings, on sideways sheets of typing paper, spread out in front of him. Just glancing, my guess was that they were camera angles for scenes he had yet to shoot. A cigarette and a cigar were going in an ashtray and the tobacco smell was fairly thick, though there was no haze.

“Mr. Stockwell, my name is John Reynolds. I understand my request is unusual, and it’s certainly a pain in the ass being bothered this late, particularly when you’re so busy.”

“No argument, Mr. Reynolds.”

I risked a small smile. Very small. “I don’t mean to sound mysterious, but we have a business matter to attend to. This is not a shakedown or a scam. But it is important, private, and pertains to this production. But I have to request that we speak alone.”

Kaufmann stepped up beside me and, before his director could respond, said to me, “If it pertains to the production, then I need to be here.” He smiled at me, almost in my face; nothing friendly about it. “Production, producer, Mr. Reynolds? Understand the connection?”

I did not look at him. Instead I gave Stockwell my most earnest gaze. And I’ve got a pretty good one, when needed.

“Mr. Stockwell,” I said, “if you have business with Mr. Kaufmann that needs immediate attention, I can wait in my room here in the hotel for as long as necessary...”

“Mr. Reynolds,” the director began, looking pained.

“...but we do need to talk. In private. If after we’ve spoken, you want to add Mr. Kaufmann in, that’s your call. I can only stress that this is personal as well as business and possesses a definite urgency.”

Kaufmann had started shaking his head halfway through that, but to his credit he waited for me to hit a stopping place before leaning in with a hand on the table to lock eyes with his director.

“Artie,” the producer said, “this is crazy.” He jerked a thumb at me. “We have no idea who this joker is. You’ve got another hour, easy, going over those storyboards before you can crawl in bed for your pitiful allotment of rest. Give me a fucking break.”

The last seemed a little desperate. I had an idea, though, that this moviemaking business was fairly desperate all the time. They were constantly under the gun. So to speak.

Stockwell smiled up at his producer. “Jimbo, you and I are done for tonight. This storyboard stuff is my concern. You go get some rest yourself—you’ve got another big day ahead of you, putting out fires.”

“Artie, please....”

“No. You’ve run yourself ragged all day, buddy—get some sack time. Meanwhile, I’ll give Mr. Reynolds here five minutes, and if what he says is of any concern to me... to us...I’ll fill you in first chance I get, tomorrow.”

Kaufmann sighed, said, “All right, Bubba. But if this turns out to be something real, something pressing? Go ahead and call me. I’m just one floor down, remember.”

Stockwell nodded and grinned and pushed the air with his palms. “Scoot, Mother. Get some rest.”

“Okay, Artie,” Kaufmann said, and the rumpled smile he gave the director was a friend’s, not a co-worker’s. Then he re-assumed his producer’s role by claiming the cigar from the ashtray, and went quickly out. Fast as a jump cut.

The director stood and stretched—bones popped and he made noise deep in his throat. “Mr. Reynolds, this chair is killing me. You mind if I take the bed while we talk?”

“Not at all.”

“Just grab one of these chairs and haul it over.”

The room was a near clone of mine but with the layout reversed. Where my bed was on the right, his was on the left, and so on. And there was no balcony. His round worktable took the place of my room’s little corner reading area with comfy chair and lamp.

Without comment, he slipped into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, he stood at the sink and shook several pills out of a little medicine bottle and filled a water glass from the tap to take them.

“Percodan,” he said with a shudder, after swallowing them. “I hurt my back skiing fifteen years ago, and now it haunts me. When we’re young we think we can do anything.”

He went over and stretched out on the bed, without using a pillow. He lay there staring at the ceiling. I pulled a chair over from the round table and sat at the foot of his bed, feeling a little like a psychiatrist.

“Make your pitch, Mr. Reynolds,” he said, not looking at me. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Do you know anyone who might want you dead?”

Now he looked at me. Just a lift of his head. “Is this a joke?”

“No. Do you? I heard you mention Louis Licata. He’s tied to the remnants of the old Dragna outfit, right? Loansharking, I believe.”

“You’re a cop.”

“Not even close, Mr. Stockwell.”

“This isn’t going to take five minutes.” With some effort, he sat up and used the headboard of the bed for support. He pointed toward the door. “You need to leave.”

“If I told you that someone had been hired to kill you, would that seem incredible to you?”

When his leading-man face frowned, he looked petulant. “You need to leave now.”

“Would it seem unlikely? Impossible? Improbable? Or are your ties to organized crime such that you can easily wrap your brain around the concept?”

He reached for the bedstand phone.

I got out the nine millimeter. “Don’t.”

Now his face turned pale, or anyway as pale as possible under that deep a tan. He withdrew his hand, and tried to sit straighter. He was shaking a little. You can start shaking real fast when somebody points a gun at you.

“Is that...that why you’re here? To kill me?”

“No.”

He smiled but it was awful; the kind of smile that sometimes precedes tears. “Who sent you? Licata, right? He knows, right? Look, I have money, too...I can—”

I raised my free hand. I wanted to lower the nine millimeter but couldn’t just yet. “I said ‘no,’ Mr. Stockwell. You need to settle down.”

“Said the stranger with the gun.”

“Call me Jack—and I’ll call you Art, or do you prefer Artie?”

He wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at the nine millimeter—specifically into its barrel, the small darkness there that promised a much bigger one. “How...how can you be so cold about this?”

“I prefer to think of it as cool. You aren’t in any danger at this moment unless you do something stupid. Scream, for example, or throw that ashtray at me.”

He was breathing hard. “If you’re not here to...why are you here?”

“I’m here to offer you a service. It’s a genuine service— like I said before, not a shakedown, not a scam. It happens I am in a position to know that a pair of contract killers has been hired...has been sent...to kill you. I am also in a position to do something about it.”

His eyes were wild. Understandably. “This doesn’t make sense...it’s crazy....”

I lowered the nine millimeter until my hand was draped across my lap—the weapon still a presence, but I hoped not as much a distracting threat.

I said, “It doesn’t matter how I came upon the information. I don’t know who hired the killers. I just know they were sent here. One of them has been keeping you under surveillance for weeks. He’s a back-up man, strictly support. The other is planning to kill you, probably in the next several days, and to do so by staging your death as an accident. What kind of accident, I don’t know yet.”

He was shaking his head. The rest of him was motionless, as if he were otherwise paralyzed. “This is insane....You need to leave...you need help....”

“Is your movie financed by mob money?”

“...are you a cop?”

“I said before—no. If I were, that statement alone would make this entrapment, so please answer my question. Is your movie financed by mob money?”

“...Yes.”

“Licata?”

He nodded.

“Art, that mob involvement alone makes it credible that someone could target you for death. But I admit I can’t see why someone financing this film would want to have you killed. It frankly doesn’t make sense. You’re the director of the picture.”

He had a curdled kind of smile going. “You expect me to just discuss this?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to believe that someone wants to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“And that it would be easy for them to do that.”

I raised the gun, shrugged, then lowered it again.

He swallowed. “I...I see your point. You want to know if Louis Licata might have reason to be unhappy with me.”

“Right.”

“He does.”

“What is it?”

He frowned, cocked his head. “Is that what this is about? Are you Licata’s man? And you’re trying to trick me into admitting it?”

“Admitting what? I am not Licata’s man. Do I look fucking Italian? Sorry. Didn’t mean to raise my voice. Art—Artie?”

He was nodding, nodding, nodding. “Art is fine. You’re Jack. I get that. You do not look fucking Italian, I grant you. Do you know what the relationship between Mr. Licata and Miss Goodwin is?”

“Miss Goodwin—the female star of your film?”

“That’s right. This is her first starring role. And I agreed to do it for Mr. Licata, even though she isn’t much of an actress.”

“Does she have to be? I saw the Playboy layout.”

“Actually, she does. When she first read for me, she was wooden. Really lousy. But to get Louie’s backing, I had to agree to cast her. So I began working with her.”

“Oh. You’re fucking her.”

He blinked, surprised by how fast I’d caught up. Then he shrugged with his eyebrows. Nodded. “Yeah. Or I was. Fucking her, I mean. I broke it off before we started shooting. On the shoot, it would be unprofessional, plus... well, there are other concerns.”

“Such as?”

“I have my wife along. She’s an actress, too, and has a supporting role, and out of respect to her...and knowing that if Louie found out, I’d be in a jam...I broke it off with Tiff.”

“How did ‘Tiff’ take that?”

“Obviously she was pissed. But she’s behaving herself. And the important thing is, her acting has improved, gone from pure shit to barely competent, but improved.”

It was swell that he could grasp what was “the important thing.”

I asked, “Could Miss Goodwin be mad at you for dumping her? Mad enough to spill to her boyfriend that she had an affair with you?”

“I would hardly think so. Lou has a notorious temper, even for a mob guy. I can’t imagine she’d risk it.” He shrugged elaborately. “But...who knows with a crazy cunt like her?”

“Is that what she is? A crazy cunt?”

“Oh yeah. But what a bod....Listen, I could use a smoke.”

A pack of Marlboros and a lighter were on the nightstand and I nodded for him to go ahead.

As he got his cigarette going, I was thinking. Then I asked, “What about your wife? Is she a candidate for wanting you dead?”

“J.J.?” He actually laughed. “No, no, that’s crazy. She’s a grown-up. She knows I’ve fooled around from time to time, but that I always come home to her. She’s just about the most grounded, realistic woman you could ever hope to meet. She’s...like a man that way. I love the shit out of her.”

I wasted little time absorbing that romantic sentiment, and pressed on: “Whoever sent these two to kill your ass, Art, it’s not our immediate problem. We can address that, and should address that...but right now I need to stop the guy who’s planning an imminent fatal accident for you.”

He exhaled smoke; his eyes were wide, his forehead furrowed. “Am I crazy?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“I’m believing this. I’m believing you. Who are you?”

“I used to be in the same business.”

“As me?”

“As the pair sent to kill you.”

“And, what? You came over from the dark side? Now you’re a good guy? This is not a script I would buy, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Good guys and bad guys aren’t the issue.”

“What is?”

“Whether you want to hire me to stop you from dying of an accident.”

His eyes flared and nostrils too and he sat sharply up. “Insurance,” he said.

“What?”

“That’s why Licata could afford to have me killed. There’s insurance on the picture. Completion bond, it’s called. Something happens to me, insurance pays off big-time. They can salvage what I shot, and start over later, but in the meantime, the production gets paid for, top to bottom.”

I was nodding. “Okay. That may make Licata the prime suspect. But just now we don’t want to solve your murder, Art—we want to prevent it.”

Suddenly he changed his position, in a couple of senses, including scooching closer to me and sitting like an Indian on the bed, hunkered over conspiratorially. “How will you do that? Is this something you...something you’ve...”

“I have done it before. I have helped people in your situation. Never lost a patient yet. But there’s something you have to come to grips with, before you can hire me.”

His eyes flared again and he gestured with his cigarette in hand, making a smoke trail that vaguely suggested a question mark. “Haven’t you given me enough already? To come to grips with?”

“No. There’s a bigger bump yet you have to weather. Something major you have to grasp, and endorse.”

“What the fuck are you—”

“The way I can help you, right now, is to stop this.”

“Well, sure....”

“To stop this. Understand? I have to remove the problem. Cut out the cancer. Get it?”

“You mean...you have to kill the...killers.”

“Yes.” I shrugged. “Actually, I’ve already killed one of them. Earlier tonight.”

His jaw dropped. Not a figure of speech—it dropped. “What?”

“The surveillance expert. Back-up guy I mentioned? He’s already turned over the info he’s gathered on you to his partner. And as far as the partner knows, the back-up guy has gone home. Which he has. In a big way.”

His eyes were tight; his tone tentative. “You...you killed someone tonight....”

“Yes.”

“Without knowing whether I would...without my....”

“Yes. You know what they say—first one’s free.”

“My God.” He seemed about to throw up, but he handled it. Probably didn’t want to waste the Percodan.

“You all right, Art? We cool?”

His smile was terrible. I’d call it curdled. “What’s your fee, Jack? There’s always a fee in these Faustian scenarios.”

“Hey, I’m not the devil. I don’t want you dead, and I sure as hell have zero interest in your soul. It’s twenty-five grand for removing both hitmen. Two-for-one sale. Can you handle that?”

He swallowed thickly. But then he nodded. “I can. Cash?”

“That would be better. But there are ways for you to pay with a check. Various names and accounts I use. Still, there’s less risk for us both if we can stay with cash. Plus I’d have to charge you more, because of the tax issues. Got to stay straight with Uncle Sugar.”

His eyebrows went up. “Oh yeah. You want to be a good citizen.”

“Art, I’m not the bad guy here. Or let’s put it this way— I’m your bad guy. Now let’s move on to part two.”

“There’s a part two?”

“Aren’t you in the sequel business? For another twentyfive K, I will find out if it’s Licata who took out the contract. If so, I’ll take him out. Same deal if it’s someone else—either way, I’ll remove the threat.”

He scooched back to his former position, legs straight out, back against the headboard. “You would just...kill a mob boss?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Art—mob bosses getting killed is not that unusual.”

A grunty thing came out of him that might have been a laugh. “How can you be so goddamn casual?”

“Why, does it matter? Since I will have to do some poking around, I would need an official capacity with your production. I was thinking of a PR role. That would give me access to just about anywhere and anybody.”

“You’d be on set?”

“Some of the time. This ‘accident’ may be rigged to happen on set. Must be lots of equipment there that could fall over on a guy.”

“...That would work. We don’t have a unit press manager. You could be a PR person I brought in. That would give you an excuse to interview people. I can even make Kaufmann buy into that.”

“Perfect.”

Stockwell was staring past me. “Am I dreaming this? Am I hallucinating?”

“Why, how much Percodan did you take?”

He shook his head. “You have no idea how hard I work, how many hours I put in...”

Actually, thanks to Jerry, I did.

“...how many decisions, small, medium and large, I make in a single long day on set. Right now I am tired beyond imagining and zoned on painkillers and I am talking to a stranger about things that are just...unbelievable. Unreal. Surreal.”

“You have other options.”

“Really?”

“I can leave. I would request you do me the courtesy of waiting till morning, but then you could call the police. You could say you have reason to believe that you are the target of a contract killer. They might be able to help.”

“In this jerkwater?”

“It’s a casino town. You already have a good relationship with the local law—you shot a scene at the sheriff’s office, right? You might get cooperation. You could go to Vegas and talk to the cops there. It’s all Clark County. You do have options.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m not the fucking devil. This is your decision. I don’t do high-pressure sales. It’s undignified.”

He sat there against the headboard, motionless, like a ventriloquist’s dummy that had been propped up. A long time went by. A full minute, maybe. Which is a longer time than you might imagine. Watch the second hand that long and see.

“Is it a trick?” he asked. He sounded like a kid. “If I say no, will you just kill me and go? To cover your tracks?”

“What tracks? You have a phony name on me. Look at me, Art—how distinctive are my looks, would you say?”

“Joe Average.”

“Right. You can say no. You might do okay with the cops.”

His frown was so wrinkly and deep it turned his leading man looks into a kind of monkey face. “What do you really think would happen if I went with the cops and not you?”

“You’ll be dead in forty-eight hours. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t sweat the storyboards.”

He began nodding. He did this for perhaps fifteen seconds (also a long time), then he said, “Do you need any money down?”

“No. But I will report to you what I’ve done, and it won’t be pleasant. You’ll need to know, because people, including the authorities, may throw it at you. You understand? This is harsh shit about to go down.”

He swallowed thickly. “Okay. You passed the audition, Jack. Keep me alive. And...the whole boat.”

“Whoever’s behind it, too?”

“Whoever’s behind it, too.”

He got up to walk me out, giving me some information along the way, including where they’d be shooting tomorrow. We were standing near the door going over that when it opened and a nearly naked beautiful woman entered.

“Oh, I’m interrupting,” she said.

It was the lovely vision in the bikini that I’d seen earlier, coming up from the pool, still in that skimpy bikini, a towel over her arm, her hair damp and ponytailed back. Close up, she looked even more like my ex-wife.

Because she was my ex-wife.

“J.J.,” he said to her, “this is Jack Reynolds. He’s coming on as our unit publicity manager.”

She didn’t a miss a beat. She shook my hand and said something pleasant and polite—exactly what, I couldn’t tell you as I was in momentary cranial gridlock. But my eyes and a tiny head shake sent her a signal that said, Don’t say anything.

Joni smiled just a little and nodded and her eyes held mine, saying, All right. As if to say, I guess I owe you that much.

Then I shook hands with her husband and told him what my room number was, knowing that she’d heard it, too.

FIVE

Hard Wheels 2 was shooting at a location that at first gave me a start—it was outside Boot Heel, going south, which was the direction I’d taken Jerry. In several senses.

But the film company was only a few miles outside town, just enough to put desert everywhere the eye could see, except for the shabby little garage/truck stop they’d taken over for shooting purposes.

I got there about ten a.m., which was well into their work day. Under a fairly relentless sun, a group of maybe a dozen technicians (mostly guys but a few females) in baseball caps, sunglasses, casual shirts (mostly tees) and jeans were moving lights and stands and shiny reflective boards around while others were getting a big wheelmounted movie camera into place.

The vibe was blue-collar and the pace steady, neither laid-back nor frantic. It was all focusing around the gas pumps where two college student types seemed the center of attention. Stand-ins, I figured.

A few real employees were hanging around on the fringes, grease monkeys for the service station half of the place. Whether they were just gawking or were on tap as extras, I couldn’t tell. Nor did I give a shit.

All I cared about was whether I saw a familiar face, either among the crew or the onlookers.

There weren’t many of the latter, because the place was controlled, the evocatively named GAS & EATS closed to the public. When I arrived in my Nova, slowing down and signaling, a girl in a tank top and cut-off jeans stepped fearlessly out into the highway and waved my car into an area where a relative handful of vehicles were parked, maybe half a dozen cars, two vans, a semi-trailer truck and two motor homes, the latter three running off a chugging generator.

Near the vehicles, a few burly guys were seated here and there in deck chairs, doing nothing except snoozing or listening to boom-box music through headphones or reading men’s magazines, all but the snoozing accompanied by drinking beer from picnic coolers; I figured them for Teamsters.

About half a dozen biker types—middle-aged paunchy guys (Wild One had been a long fucking time ago)—were prowling the periphery in jeans and black leather jackets, despite the heat, trying to look ominous and important. Kind of sad, really.

I went over to the tank-top girl for a chat. Armed with a clipboard, she was a freckle-faced redhead who had one of those pulled-down sailor caps that Woody Allen wore and no make-up at all and looked about fifteen. Cute kid, though—tiny perky titties and a round little bottom well served by the cut-offs.

“Do you need to check me off your list?” I asked. “I’m Jack Reynolds. Handling PR for Mr. Stockwell.”

“Good morning, Mr. Reynolds, welcome to Hard Wheels 2 —Mr. Stockwell said to expect you.” She was all-around perky, actually. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Well, I’ve never done PR on a movie set before. Anything I should know?”

“Pretty self-explanatory. You have full access, but stay out of the crew’s way when they’re on the move. And when we’re getting ready to shoot a scene, the assistant director will lock down the set.”

“What does that mean?”

“A lot of production assistants like me will run around screaming, ‘Lock it down!’ ”

“Which means shut up and don’t move.”

“Basically.”

I jerked a thumb toward the semi and the Winnebagos. “What are those for?”

“The bigger one is a honeywagon—bathrooms, small dressing rooms, make-up, wardrobe, special effects. The other two are for the stars—Tiffany and Eric. Even on a low-budget picture like this, the stars need a place to get away and run lines and relax.”

“Anything I should know about the stars? I’ll have to interview them both.”

“Eric’s really sweet. Tiffany’s, uh...interesting. Strong personality. But she’ll love you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to help publicize her.” She leaned in. “I didn’t say that.”

“Where can I find Mr. Stockwell?”

“Right now he’s in the diner. That’s where craft service and catering are, obviously. And it serves as a green room, too.”

“Speaking of green, that’s what I am. What’s craft service?”

“Snacks. You know what catering is.”

“Sure. You’re not just ordering food at the diner?”

“No, we’re using a catering company out of Vegas. They’ll bring the grub fully prepared, but’ll use the kitchen to serve it up. ‘Green room’ is just where actors can relax and hang out between set-ups.”

“Set-ups?”

“Camera set-ups. Shots.”

“You’re very helpful. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Ginger.” She grinned; it was pretty damn cute. “Please, no Mary Ann jokes.”

“Okay, little buddy.”

She liked that—if I’d had time, it might have been interesting to see how far I could get with Gilligan’s Island references.

“So, Ginger, what’s your job, besides helping hapless publicity agents?”

“I’m a P.A. Production assistant.”

“Yeah, I gathered that’s what you’re called. But what’s your job?”

She told me. As it happened, production assistant became about the only crew term I picked up around the set that I really understood. I did vaguely get to know that grips picked up and moved shit, and gaffers had something to do with lighting, and I had zero desire to learn what a best boy did.

Production assistants seemed to be all-purpose, mostly unpaid gofers—college students or recent film school grads (like Ginger) who were starting at the bottom. I wondered how many parents would be thrilled to know that all that college tuition had given their sons and daughters the skills necessary to deliver coffee and drive into town for extra duct tape.

Anyway, I thanked Ginger—who in fact looked more like a red-haired elfin Mary Ann—and let her return to guarding the highway while I headed in to the diner.

My hunch had been that on a low-budget independent production like Hard Wheels 2, I’d find a certain amount of underpaid and unpaid help. And, as Ginger had amply demonstrated, I was not wrong.

Which was why I figured I might spot a familiar face on set: Nick Varnos.

The nice thing was, I would not be a familiar face to Nick. Jerry had known me because we’d worked together, but Varnos? He and I had never met. He was just a face in the Broker’s files, but a face I had memorized like an actor prepping for his big scene.

Still, it did not seem to be a face anybody was wearing on the Hard Wheels 2 film set. Not outside, anyway.

The interior of the diner was as expected—central counter, short-order window, a dozen tables, a dozen booths, soda pop signs, jukebox, a big noisy air conditioner in a cut-out area above the door. Because this was Nevada, there were a couple slot machines spotted around.

But the place had been invaded in a way that jarred against expectation—half of the tables, over to my right coming in the door, had been shoved together to make one long table, offering an array of individually packaged snacks like potato chips and Fritos, plus plastic-wrapped cookies and brownies, and covered veggies. Coolers of pop and bottled water were beneath. Nobody was manning this impressive station, strictly self-serve.

In the booths, groups of what I took to be actors (since one of them was my ex-wife, who had a role on the film), sat smoking and either going over their lines together or just studying their own scripts. To my left, the tables had been taken by production people who—this group included Stockwell and Kaufmann—seemed to be higher up the food chain.

Stockwell, again in jeans and a t-shirt (this one a vintage KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ underground comix design) was deep in conversation with a muscular-looking, bald, bushybearded guy in a gray short-sleeve sweatshirt and faded jeans.

They were going over some of those storyboards from last night, and Stockwell was talking intently, pointing here and there, and occasionally holding up his hands, framing proposed shots. The bald bearded guy was mostly nodding, clearly on the instruction-taking end of things, though he would stop the director for clarifications or to make suggestions, when he felt it necessary.

The director was so intensely involved in this, he did not notice me enter (the bell over the door had its dinger duct-taped silent, I noticed). But Kaufmann, who had commandeered a table all to himself and his own paperwork, saw me right away and got up and came over.

Today his polo shirt was light blue, his slacks one shade darker blue, his sandals again sock-free. I had a polo shirt on myself, a tan one with lighter tan chinos and running shoes (with socks, thank you). But we were dressed similarly enough that I noticed it.

“Artie has asked me to cooperate with you any way I can,” he said. The eyes behind the aviators’ pink lenses were at half-mast again. His tone wasn’t exactly unfriendly but something grudging was there.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “I probably need to talk to your two stars.”

“Yes. Interviews would be good. Are you going to be able to place those yourself? As a publicity agent, you surely have beaucoup media contacts.”

Was he suspicious, or just generally pissy?

“Actually, I stick to the writing,” I said. “I’ll prepare the materials and you’ll have to distribute them yourself, or hire a firm with those kind of connections.”

“Really? And how much are you charging for these limited services of yours?”

“I’m going to pass on answering that, Mr. Kaufmann. I’m dealing directly with Mr. Stockwell.”

The eyes behind the pink lenses flared with distrust. “How is it that ‘Mr. Stockwell’ is so comfortable with somebody he met only last night?”

“I come highly recommended. We have mutual acquaintances that go way back.” I was vamping a little; never a good idea, but I could tell the bones needed some flesh. “Anyway, my impression was he was paying for my services...out of his own pocket, not the production’s.”

Kaufmann’s eyebrows went up over the aviators. “Is that right? Frankly, Artie and I haven’t had the chance to discuss your financial terms yet. If he’s taking this on himself...well, it’s generous of him. And he must believe in you.”

“I think he does.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” He took me by the elbow—a familiarity I didn’t love. Maybe he sensed it, because his hand moved to my shoulder as he walked me to the counter, where he showed me to a stool.

“What are you drinking, Jack? We have Coke products.”

“Coke is fine.”

He came back with a can of Tab for himself and one of Coke for me. The metal was sweaty with cold.

“Cold drinks are important on a set like this,” he said, after a swig.

“Yeah?”

“When we’re shooting out there, that air conditioner goes off. Too noisy for the camera. And it will be a goddamn sweatbox in here.”

“I would never have thought of that.”

He took another swig. “What mutual acquaintances?”

“Pardon?”

“What mutual acquaintances? I know most of Artie’s friends and business associates, going back almost ten years.”

“Well, this goes back a little farther than that.”

He tempered his wide smile with a shrewd gaze. “How far? Y’see, Artie and me, we go back to high school—in Atlanta?”

That explained Kaufmann’s Southern tinge. Stockwell had shed any such accent. But I had put my foot in it, improvising.

I did my best. “You guys go to college together, too?”

“Naw. Artie went off to film school at USC. Is that where he met your ‘mutual acquaintances,’ Jack?”

“They never said. Are you pumping me, Jim? Do we have a problem?”

He touched my arm again—no, he gripped it; there was surprising power in it. “We will have a problem, Jack, if you are scamming my partner. That guy sitting over there is the most talented man I ever met—but that’s not all. He picked me up off the ground when my business went tits up, and gave me a new start.”

“Well, I’m glad to know that. Human interest stories make good PR fodder.”

Disgust colored his expression, and the Southern tinge became a full-blown drawl. “You think that’s why I mention it? To give you ‘PR fodder,’ Jack? You best know that I am watching your ass, Bubba. You do something bad to my boy over there, I will fuck you up. Understand? Fuck you up.”

The voice was cold but the eyes in back of the pink lenses glittered with emotion.

He removed his hand from my arm. He was shaking. I wanted to slap him like an unruly child, but instead I just said, “I wonder if maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

That response blindsided him and he actually laughed a little.

“I have nothing in mind but the best for your friend, Mr. Kaufmann. I am here to help. Not to take advantage. Not to run a scam or anything else. Understood?”

He studied me. I kept my face calm, even smiled a little, not in a threatening way. Then he nodded.

“I’m just here to help out,” I said.

Now he seemed a shade embarrassed. “All right, Jack. All I ask is that you do a businesslike job. You show up at midnight, a stranger, two weeks into the production, and next morning you’re unit publicity manager? And the producer knows next to nothing about you? I’d be a fool not to be concerned.”

“I got that. No problem.”

Glancing over at the director and the bearded guy, I said, “Your pal seems pretty focused.”

He sighed, letting out the last of the emotion from our little confrontation. “Yeah, well, he’s going over a fight scene with Hank—stunt coordinator? Artie essentially has to hand the set over to Hank, and no director loves that. But with stunts or special effects or both, you have to give the reins to the expert.”

“Anything I need to know about your stars?”

“No. Miss Goodwin is a lovely woman, a real free spirit. Eric is a man’s man. Pretty standard stuff for a PR guy to run with. Hope it’s not too boring for you.”

“Do I play up the Playboy thing with Miss Goodwin? Or is she trying to put that in her past?”

“She’s trying to put it in her past.” Kaufmann flashed a grin—first genuinely friendly one he’d offered me. “But you need to play it up.”

“Will there be nude scenes?”

“Frequently. She was not hired because she gets mistaken for Meryl Streep.”

“Why was she hired?”

“You said it yourself. She was the Playmate of the Year, and—”

“Jim—okay I call you Jim?”

“I’ve been calling you Jack.”

“Jim, you and I know the number of Playmates of the Year who have gone on to star in films can be counted on one hand and maybe a dick. What makes Miss Goodwin special?”

That sure didn’t get a grin out of him, friendly or otherwise. “What’s your point?”

“Rumor has it Tiffany got cast because of her relationship with a certain mob figure.”

“Did Artie tell you that? Jesus.” He jabbed a finger at me, damn near thumped me. “Let me tell you what your first job as publicist on this picture is, and I don’t care who pays you, Artie or me or Jesus Fucking Christ—you keep any mention of a certain organized crime figure out of any publicity. Any news hack brings it up, you deny it. You say it’s a scurrilous rumor and that we will fucking sue, if anybody dares print that.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was getting at. I need to know what the negatives are, Jim, before I can highlight the positive.”

He studied me with those half-lidded, behind-rosecolored- lenses blue eyes. Then he grinned. He slapped me on the shoulder. “You just stay on that track, Bubba. You just stay on that track.”

“Do my best, Jim.”

He slid off the stool, saying, “If you’ll excuse me, I have important producer shit that needs attending.”

“Fires to put out?”

“Oh yeah. You hang in there now.”

So were we pals now? No, I didn’t think so, either.

Kaufmann went back to the table that was his current office and I swung toward the counter behind which waitresses usually dwelled. Activity by white-uniformed caterers could be glimpsed through the short-order window. Then, as if summoned by my thoughts, a waitress appeared, not behind the counter, but coming over and sitting next to me.

Joni.

My ex-wife apparently played a diner waitress in the film, because she was wearing a light-green-trimmed white uniform suitable to the species.

Her dark hair was pinned up, probably as part of her characterization, but she had no make-up on, so wasn’t shooting a scene in the immediate future. She was easily thirty-six years of age and yet her face had the smooth, unwrinkled quality of a child. Or sociopath.

This was a feat because she was very well tanned, a habit not friendly to skin over the long haul. Maybe hers came out of a bottle, though the telltale orange tint wasn’t present.

She really hadn’t changed all that much—the big brown eyes dominated her attractive features. There remained a Cher resemblance, even with the hair pinned up. She’d kept her slender figure, as her bikini water ballet last night had told me.

She sipped the can of Tab she’d brought along. Everybody but me around here was watching their figure. Hers was still worth watching.

Without looking at me, she said, “Long time no see.”

I shrugged. “Last night.”

Now her head swiveled toward me and the eyes were, well, not exactly cold...guarded. Unblinking.

“Why are you here?” she asked. I didn’t remember her voice being that low or that sultry. Maybe it changed. Maybe I’d been filtering it through the wishful thinking of nostalgia.

“Your husband hired me to handle publicity.”

“Why are you here?”

“As far as you’re concerned, that’s why.”

She sipped her Tab, looked away. “Why did you come looking for me?”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re saying this is a coincidence.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in coincidences, Jack?”

“No.”

She swiveled her gaze back to me. “Then what the fuck?”

“What the fuck indeed. We need to talk.”

“Really? I thought what we needed was for you to walk away.”

I sipped my Coke. “I did not know you were here. Your husband doesn’t know about our past. Your past. He thinks I’m Jack Reynolds.”

“Who are you, now? What are you?”

“As far as you’re concerned, Jack Reynolds.”

She looked away again. “You thought I would come to your room last night.”

“Kind of.”

“That’s why you mentioned your room number in front of me.”

“You never were dumb. Why does he call you J.J.?”

“That’s my name. Or my initials. Joanne Jennifer. Joni was just a nickname. Jesus, Jack, that’s the name on our marriage license.”

“Oh. I forgot.” I really had.

Something earnest came into her voice. “Jack, are you going to cause trouble for me?”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m doing a job for your husband. We can talk later. More freely. At the hotel, maybe.”

“If you think I’m going to fuck you, you’re wrong.”

“If that’s what you think is going on, you’re wrong. And fucking full of yourself. When did you become an actress, anyway?”

“A long time ago. Didn’t you ever see me on TV?”

“What show were you on?”

“A lot of shows. Streets of San Francisco. The FBI. Cannon. Barnaby Jones. Hawaii Five-O.”

“That explains it. I don’t watch cop shows.”

“I’ve been in twelve movies.”

“For your husband?”

“Mostly.”

“That also explains it—I don’t go to drive-ins. But I’ll check out your stuff at my local video store. I’ll bet you’re great.”

“Is that right?”

“You’ve always been a hell of an actress.”

She slid off the stool. “We are going to talk, Jack. Later.”

“Fine,” I said.

She turned and started off.

I said, “Hey.”

She stopped. Looked back.

I said, “If your husband asks, we were talking, just now, about me doing an interview with you. I’m the unit publicist on this picture. Got it?”

She sighed, nodded crisply, and went back to a booth where she’d been going over her script, alone.

I had just finished my Coke when Stockwell came up. He put a hand on my shoulder but did not take a stool next to me.

“Look,” he said, “we’re getting ready to shoot this stunt. I can’t talk. But I’ve paved the way for you around here. You can circulate freely. I see you were chatting with J.J.”

“Yeah. I’m going to interview her.”

“How did you two get along?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah, she’s a great gal. You’ll love her.”

I watched a little bit of the fight scene. The star, Eric Conrad, was smaller than I’d have imagined, but very muscular, well-toned looking and very bronzed. He wore a get-up that I guessed was his character’s usual costume—a denim vest, no shirt (so the ripple of abs could get proper exposure), tight jeans and moccasins.

He was fighting two stuntmen who were playing the kind of nasty-ass bikers that the biker security boys pictured themselves as—all bulging biceps and scraggly beards and tattoos and leathers and motorcycle boots. The hardest thing for the stuntman was executing the fight with the challenge of the tight clothing. The biker stunt guys had some give in their leather pants, but the star’s tight jeans were a problem.

Thankfully, Conrad only had to do the close-in stuff, throwing punches that didn’t land but seemed to because of the camera angles. And when he had to execute a Billy Jack-style karate kick, he in fact ripped the crotch and leg out of the jeans (they had half a dozen replacement pairs ready).

Most of the star’s action was handled by a stuntman who was a little taller than him but a good match for his build. Also, the stuntman’s jeans were looser.

I was surprised by how slow it moved. It was pretty much one or two punches or kicks at a time. They had to shift the lighting and the reflectors around constantly because the sun had a nasty habit of moving on them. That bald bearded guy Hank was doing the directing, with an anxious Stockwell sitting forward in a director’s chair in back and to one side of the camera, all but biting his nails.

For maybe an hour I watched this shit, then I decided to meet the other star of the picture, for my fake interview. I ran into Ginger, who pointed me to Miss Goodwin’s Winnebago, where I knocked.

And knocked again.

And again.

A voice roared from within: “Fucking what?”

They were between shots so I could yell back, “Miss Goodwin? Jack Reynolds!”

I was on the ground, and the door to the Winnebago was a couple metal steps up, and when it flew open, it damn near slapped my upper torso. Ducking back, I took in the sight of the most popular Playmate of the 1970s in a yellow silk robe, carelessly waist-sashed so that about half of either generous breast was exposed. She hovered over me, pure fantasy fodder, only her face was a contorted mask, nostrils flaring, like a horse that just threw an annoying rider.

“What the fuck! I am resting! Who the fuck are you?”

She was barefoot and actually fairly short, maybe five three, but she seemed bigger than life. Anyway her tits did. Plus she was up in the doorway and I was down below.

“Jack Reynolds,” I said. “I just came on board—I’m the unit publicist.”

Her face softened and a smile appeared. Other than some very red lipstick, she—like Joni—wore no make-up, but as a natural beauty, and one of the least plastic of all Playmates, she didn’t really need it. Her eyes were large and green and wide-set in a lovely heart-shaped face, her enormous lion’s mane of hair, cut in various lengths for a naturally tousled look, was platinum, famously her real color, and under the lipstick her mouth was full, sensuous, pillowy.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, as if I were a long-lost relative or maybe lover, “you’ll have to forgive me. I have a difficult scene coming up this afternoon, and I’m afraid I’m in full diva mode. Can you forgive me?”

She was bending down and this exposed her bosom more fully. And she was famous for those babies—D cups courtesy of God and not medical science.

“Sure,” I said. “Just wanted to schedule an interview. If you’re busy—”

“I have time now. Come on in!”

She backed up and I climbed the little stairs.

The Winnebago was nothing fancy—I mean, it hadn’t been refitted as a star’s dressing room or anything. I found myself in a little sitting area behind the driver’s and rider’s seats—a dark green couch against the wall at left, a matching comfy chair opposite with a writing stand that folded out from the wall. Beyond that was a kitchenette with the expected oak cabinets, and a little hallway.

The only special touch was a small end table between the couch and the kitchenette—its glass top had a mirror on it; traces of white were on the reflective surface. Here’s a hint what Tiffany was doing before I knocked—she wasn’t making powdered doughnuts.

Right now she was standing gesturing toward the refrigerator. She had a breezy, brassy confidence that I kind of dug. “Can I get you something? I like these new wine coolers—come in so many flavors...melon, strawberry, mango.”

“No thanks, Miss Goodwin. Just had some Coke.”

That made her eyebrows lift. Because so had she.

“Please call me Tiffany,” she said, and gestured to the comfy chair.

I took it.

She indicated the writing stand in case I needed it, then sat on the couch, crossing her legs. When she did, the silk robe fluttered open and I caught a glimpse of her famous platinum bush, which she kept nicely trimmed in a heart shape. Or anyway that’s how it had been in her photo layout. For the articles.

“Are you going to take notes, Jack?”

“Next time. Right now I’d just like to get to know you, and get a sense of what you think is the best way for me to tell your story.”

She sat back on the plump sofa with either arm outstretched regally along its upper edge. Did I mention her nails were red? Finger and toe? Those money-color eyes were a little scary; they were big and beautiful, but with so little make-up on, that left her eyebrows almost invisible, natural platinum blonde that she was.

“Well, I’m originally from Chicago,” she began. “Just a little girl from the South Side.”

“Illinois,” I said with a smile and appreciative nod. “The heartland.”

“Yes! Typical Midwestern girl.”

From the South Side of Chicago. Her and Big Bad Leroy Brown.

Tiffany leaned forward, hands folded in her lap. “I think people should understand my background isn’t glamorous. My father worked in a steel mill. My mother raised all six of us girls...and before you ask, there are more like me at home. Almost like me.”

I just smiled at that. She was a cartoon. But I like cartoons.

“I was in college and money was running short—I was studying nursing but I was going to have to drop out. That’s a human interest story, isn’t it? Something people can relate to?”

“Sure,” I said.

“So I got my boyfriend to take some nude photos of me and send them to Playboy. The rest is history.”

“You don’t live in Chicago now, do you?”

She shook her head and platinum locks bounced; she was framed against closed cloth blinds through which sunlight gave her a halo effect.

“I moved to California. I lived at the mansion for a year, but I was never one of Hef’s girls. Not in a major way.”

“Is that where you met Louis Licata?”

She froze. She frowned. Frowns on people with invisible eyebrows look weird no matter how beautiful they are. “Mr. Licata is just a friend.”

I sat forward. “Miss Goodwin—Tiffany—I don’t have any intention of including that in any PR material. It’s the last thing any of us want. But I’ll get calls. People will ask me questions.”

“People magazine?”

“Maybe. But I mean people in general. It would be helpful if I knew what the situation really was, so I knew what to avoid. To protect myself and you. Plus, I’d like to know what the party line is.”

“What does partying have to do with it?”

“Nothing. Just...what’s the situation with Mr. Licata, really? And what should I say—what should anybody with the production say—if asked about it?”

She shrugged, vaguely nervous. Suddenly her voice was tiny, less confident: “We’re friends. He ‘s kind of my... mentor. I’m his protégée. He cou nsels me on career matters. He knows a lot about show business. Has interests in Las Vegas, you know. He’s a very important man. And sweet.”

“What do I say if asked about him?”

“That I never met him.”

Okay.

I pressed on: “Aren’t there pictures of you together? Outside restaurants and, uh, hotels?”

She wasn’t angry or upset. She could tell by my tone that I was trying to be helpful.

“He’s a fan,” s he said. “But don’t b rin g it up!”

“Of course not.” I gave her a concerned look. “We also might have to deal with the rumors about you and your director, you know.”

Her hands were on her knee s. She shook her head firmly, her confidence back. “We’re not an item. He’s married. To another actress in the company. But we have a good working relationship, Arthur and I. He respects me as an actress.”

I scratched my head. “Listen...Tiffany? This is a little delicate, but...do you think Mr. Licata might be jealous of your director? Could that be a problem?”

Big unblinking eyes. “A p roblem how?”

“Business, I guess. I understand Mr. Licata is backing this production.”

She nodded. “He’s what you call an angel.”

Not what I called an angel.

She was studying me now, the way a junior high girl studies a frog she’s been assigned to dissect. Then she slid over to one side of the couch and patted the space next to her.

“Come sit here,” she said.

I did.

She put an arm around me. Nothing nasty in her voice, pure velvet, she asked, “Why are you asking about this downer shit?”

“I just need to know what I’m dealing with. Don’t worry, I’m going to make you look great.”

“I already look great.”

“I noticed.”

She was looking right at me. Very close to me. I felt like I was sitting too close to a stove.

“I took a lot of acting classes,” she said. “I studied with some famous people in New York, and also in California. I want you to emphasize that. I’ll give you their names and you can write about my training.”

“Sure.”

“You can mention Playboy a little. Say I was a Playmate of the Year, ’cause that’s a calling card. Tell about me sending my photos in, because that’s a success story, a whaddya call it, an Alger Hiss story. And people like that.”

I could have told her she meant Horatio Alger, but I didn’t want to be rude. Anyway, she had her hand on my leg.

“Are you a gay?” she asked.

“Definitely not.”

“Because I want you to be my friend, Jack. Don’t be ashamed or afraid to say you’re a gay. Gays like me. They dress up like me.”

“Maybe, but it’s not the same.”

“And you’re not gay.”

“No.”

“We’ll, let’s see.”

She rose, and stood before me, and tugged at the shoulders of her robe and let it slide off her; it opened as it fell, like curtains parting. How can I do her justice? Let’s start with: she looked fucking great.

Large full breasts sitting high on her ribcage, with halfinch erect nipples against pink crescents of aureole; a narrow waist, a supple stomach, flaring hips, full thighs, dimpled knees, flowing calves. And that nicely trimmed pubic heart was as advertised: just as starkly white as her lush head of carefully tousled hair.

She raised a foot as if about to test the temperature of a bath and instead explored my lap with red-nailed toes.

“Not gay,” she said.

Then she got on her knees before me, and undid my pants, taking my shorts along for the ride, and tugged them down around my ankles.

“Nice,” she said, looking at me. A little droplet atop my dick winked at her.

She stroked me, watching the shaft, not its owner, saying, “Jack, you’re going to say wonderful things about me, aren’t you?”

“Wonderful.”

Those pillowy lips took the head in and she sucked a while and then her head began to bob, as she went slowly down, incrementally, but finally making it all the way down.

She paused to look up at me impishly. “You’ll say nice things, Jack?”

“Nice.”

Head bobbing.

Pause.

“Sweet things?”

“Sweet.”

Head bobbing.

Pause.

“Make them know, Jack. That I’m a serious artist.”

“Serious. Artist.”

Head bobbing.

Pause.

“Nothing...nothing bad, Jack....”

“Nothing...nothing...nothing...nothing...nothing bad!”

She stood up, with a mouthful of me, and gave me an impish smile before she trotted over and spit it out in the sink. There was a bottle of mouthwash handy and she used that.

I was just sitting there feeling like a platinum truck had run over me.

She came over and got her robe back on and sat beside me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “No offense, Jack.”

“Huh?”

“That I didn’t swallow. You don’t think I keep my figure not watching my calories, do you?”

SIX

When I came down out of Tiffany’s trailer around noon, I could see that the fight scene over at the diner’s gas pumps —maybe a hundred yards away—was still shooting. The lights, reflectors and camera had all moved considerably, but it was the same fight.

What had I learned this morning? Movie-making was fucking slow. That was one thing. Nick Varnos was not on set posing as an onlooker or infiltrating the crew or pretending to be a Teamster. That was another. Mobster Louis Licata definitely had a more than casual involvement with Tiffany Goodwin. And that was about it.

Still standing there at the bottom of the little Winnebago steps, I had just decided to head over to my car and not waste any more time here, when I realized I’d left out a group when I was considering where Nick Varnos wasn’t.

He wasn’t pretending to be an aging biker.

These guys weren’t pretending either, but their fierce expressions were so ridiculous they might as well have been. They were clinking over my way—the chains and other metal doodads on their black leathers and boots made a little gypsy dance noise—having been...well, somewhere. Walking the periphery performing their idea of security. Ginger was better at it.

They deposited themselves on either side of me, coming to a jingling stop. Both six footers easy, not towering over me, but good-size.

The one on my left, in your regulation black leather jacket, had a bandana over what I would bet was thinning reddish-blond hair; he had a scraggly reddish beard, a bulbous vein-shot nose, tiny dark blue eyes hiding in pouches, and a pale complexion, meaning he spent more time in bars playing at biker than actually riding in the sunshine. Other than a beer belly, he wasn’t fat, exactly, more like beefy.

The one at my left, bony in a black-leather vest, had long greasy salt-and-pepper hair ponytailed back and little black shark eyes that went just fine with a tobacco-stained wolfish grin. Skinny, even skeletal, with a Fu Manchu beard and dark-lensed granny glasses and a gold earring, he smelled like beer. No. He smelled like beer puke.

So the scarecrow was grinning at me, and the beefy bandana fucker was glowering at me. It was the worst rendition of the classic tragedy and comedy masks ever.

“Hi fellas,” I said, wondering which would turn out to be the leader. Traditionally it would be the guy on the right, but I didn’t see much going on in the bandana boy’s bleary blues. So I was betting on the one at my left.

And I was right, because it was the scarecrow who first spoke: “What the fuck you doin’, man?”

“Just standing here. Why?”

Bandana boy said, “What the fuck you doin’ in Miss Goodwin’s trailer, asshole?”

Scarecrow said, “You was in there forty-five minutes, man. That’s a loooong fuckin’ time, man.”

Making no sudden moves, I edged forward and turned, so that I was facing them. No, I was not preparing to execute a Billy Jack karate kick. I was just tired of swinging my head left and right to talk to these dipshits.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

Bandana boy was frowning stupidly. This conversation had taken a bizarre and unexpected turn, as he saw it. “There could be! There could be...ass-hole!”

“Easy, Juke,” the scarecrow said, patting the air with a leather riding gloved hand. “Be polite. We ain’t heard his explanation yet.”

“Okay, Skull, okay—but I don’t like his fuckin’ face.”

I’m afraid I laughed. “Skull,” as a biker nickname, had been so on the nose, it made me smile. And now Juke—as Skull’s bandana-sporting compadre was apparently known—was bitching about other people’s faces. I mean.

Skull’s eyes popped—even so, they still were pretty small—and he got right in my face, the wolfish yellow teeth exposed but no longer smiling. He was shaking, like a Hell’s Angel version of Barney Fife. Maybe a touch scarier.

“Okay, laughing boy—you explain yourself or we stop askin’ and start walin’.”

Waling? Really?

I just looked at him and he backed away and crossed his skinny tattooed arms and jutted his pointy chin.

I summoned as genuine a smile as I could muster. “What’s the problem here, gents? I assume you’re security. I’m Jack Reynolds, unit publicist. Just started today. You can check with any P.A. I’m supposed to grab interviews with the stars for publicity purposes. What was I doing in Miss Goodwin’s trailer? I have been interviewing her. What do you think I was doing? Getting blown?”

They both stood there with slitty eyes, processing that for maybe ten seconds. Naturally the scarecrow’s circuits cleared first, and he said, “You’re a PR guy?”

“Right.”

He took a deep breath, let it out, reassembled himself and his dignity. “Okay. Well. See, we been told to make sure nobody bothers Miss Goodwin.”

“Particularly men,” bandana boy put in.

“I wasn’t bothering her,” I said. “Who are you working for—Mr. Licata?”

They glanced at each other, obviously disturbed that I possessed that information. Even the smarter one wasn’t sure how to respond.

So I saved them the trouble: “Listen, guys, where Miss Goodwin is concerned, I’m no threat to Mr. Licata or anybody else. I’m one of those show biz types you hear about—boys who like boys?”

Bandana boy blurted, “You’re a fuckin’ queer?”

His partner slapped his arm. “Be nice.”

I wondered who they were in their daily lives, when they weren’t out playing road-company Bowery Boys. Nobody was a biker for a living, and they sure didn’t do security work as a fulltime gig. Being an eternal juvie in a biker gang did not pay well, unless they were running dope or something. Which I supposed was possible. Might be the Licata connection at that.

The scarecrow hauled his pal off by the arm, the guy taking it but not liking it, and called back, “Sorry, man! You’re cool. We’re cool....”

I was just standing there, chuckling to myself, when I realized somebody else was standing next to me.

Eric Conrad.

He was so handsome close up, he might have been his own exhibit in a Hollywood Wax Museum—chiseled features, cleft jaw, roman nose, bright brown eyes.

Short, though—I’d give it five seven at best. Close up, that bronze tan had the telltale touch of orange that meant the sun hadn’t had anything thing to do with it. He was in a black dressing gown belted at the waist.

“So you’re Jack Reynolds,” he said.

His voice had that radio-announcer mellowness lots of leading men possess.

“Yeah,” I said. “Did Art mention me? That I’d like to interview you for PR purposes?”

“No, Ginger alerted me you were on set.” He nodded over toward where they were still prepping the next angle on the fight. “Man, I wish they’d let me do my own stunts. Back on my series, the first year, I did all of them. Then I pulled a hamstring and they went ballistic. The star goes down, the whole company goes down.” He shrugged fatalistically. “C’est la vie.”

I nodded toward the two bikers who were stalking along the highway now, trying to look important. “Did you see those jackasses?”

“Yeah. I was in my trailer. I heard it all. I’d have come out and kicked ass if you’d got in a scrape. I liked how you handled those idiots.” He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me half a dazzling grin. “You weren’t afraid at all.”

“No,” I admitted.

He shook his head, smirked over toward the gas-pump sequence about to start shooting again. “That’s one of my big action scenes and I’m barely in it. It’s a crock....I’ll be free for at least an hour. Want to grab that interview?”

“Sure,” I said. “Not an interview, really, just want to get to know you a little. Strictly prelim. I won’t take notes or anything.”

The interior of his Winnebago was near the twin of Tiffany’s—her sofas and comfy chair had been green upholstered, his were brown, though the pattern was the same. I took the comfy chair and he settled on the couch. When he crossed his legs, there was a flash of pubic hair and dick, and I experienced the worst case of déjà vu ever.

“Where should I start?” he asked. “I grew up on the east coast. My dad was a cop. Three brothers. We are big jocks—well, I’m not tall big, but I was a wrestler. Got a full ride scholarship at...”

But I had stopped listening. Just going through the motions. I did not see any way Eric Conrad played a meaningful role in the murder plot against his director. He was not Tiffany Goodwin’s lover, unless he was bisexual. Because, as my old man used to say, this guy was queer as a three-dollar bill.

Eric talked about himself for five minutes straight, or anyway for five minutes, and his eyes were all over my face like a teenage boy’s fingers under his date’s sweater. When he’d got past his acting classes and early film and TV roles, and up to landing his series, I raised a hand.

“This is great stuff,” I said, “good background. We’ll schedule a full interview and I’ll take notes.”

He said, “Fine,” and stood, and dropped the robe.

He was fully erect. And in this physical aspect, he was not short.

“I heard you tell those clowns you were gay,” he said. “That took strength. You don’t know how I wish I could be more open....Just tell me how you like it, Jack.” He gave me the other half of the dazzling grin. “I’m more versatile an actor than you might think—I can catch, I can pitch. You want me on my knees? I’m on my knees....”

I don’t know exactly what I said next. It had something to do with thanking him (thanking him!) but insisting that I needed to maintain professional boundaries, and anyway, I was in a serious relationship with a wonderful guy (wonderful guy!) and he told me if I changed my mind and wanted to see him that he was staying at the Four Jacks and somehow I got out of there.

And down the steps and walked briskly to my car.

Well, that was one more thing I could add to my list of things I’d learned on the Hard Wheels 2 shoot.

Getting blow job action on a B-movie set did not seem to be that tricky.

I had two problems.

First, I didn’t really have a fix on Nick Varnos. Yes, I knew Nick Varnos was checked in at the Spur, but I didn’t know under what name.

Second, if Varnos followed the usual pattern, for a Broker-bred hit team anyway, the kill would go down either today or tomorrow. Generally within forty-eight hours after the back-up man’s work had been done. And Jerry’s work was done, all right.

After several hours on location, I had pretty much ruled out the film set for where the accident would go down. Despite the wealth of ways a fatal accident could occur on set, there’d been no sign of Varnos there. If he’d planned to infiltrate, as I had, he probably would have done it by now. Still possible, but my gut said no.

After all, Nick Varnos had checked into the Spur, where his target was staying. Why? It’s generally risky to maintain that close a proximity to the mark...unless that proximity is key to how you are planning to take that mark out.

It seemed likely that Varnos would provide the director with an accidental death at the hotel. And that it would almost certainly go down in Stockwell’s hotel room. That gave me an odd, unexpected twinge, knowing Joni was possibly at risk as well. An accident that befell Stockwell— a fire in the room, say—would take her out, too.

Joni was a definite factor in this—that she was bunking in with her hubby on this trip meant that if the kill indeed was scheduled to occur in the motel room itself, it would either have to happen when she was away...did she swim every night? (hadn’t been in Jerry’s notes)...or that she would indeed be collateral damage.

Did I care?

Varnos wouldn’t. Generally collateral damage is frowned upon in the murder business, but sometimes it could make a hit seem more like an accident. Less focused. Also, Varnos was a free agent, wasn’t working through a broker. He might not give a shit who got hurt. Not everybody has scruples.

Anyway, trying to avoid Joni as collateral damage really would limit the accidental death options. How did you fake a guy slipping in the bathroom and cracking open his head on the edge of the toilet bowl with his wife in the room? Or tumbling off his balcony, or getting electrocuted in the tub, or going out a suicide?

But what if Joni herself was behind the contract? What if she was an active participant here? Had hired Varnos directly and was abetting him? I’d already established that Nick and Jerry varied from the standard procedures the Broker had laid down.

With Joni onboard as a collaborator, setting up an accidental death in a hotel room would be a snap.

So I had a lot to think about.

Before driving out to the set this morning, I’d gone down to the Spur’s restaurant for breakfast. I’d been up quite early, despite my long day previous, and had started off with a swim.

Swimming relaxes me. It was my sport as a kid and it’s been my salvation as a grown-up. Helps me think, if that’s what I need. Helps me not think, if that is.

My early morning swim had been as solitary as Joni’s the night before. And swimming in that desert clime is special. It has an entirely different flavor—no humidity gives it at once a crisp reality and a dream-like quality.

During the swim, I had decided there was no reason to go out to the set immediately. That my time initially would be better spent sitting in the restaurant, hoping that Nick Varnos would come down for breakfast and that I could then tail him, and get this thing over with.

Even that was dodgy, though—what if I tailed him, and got him off somewhere and disposed of him... when he’d already put the accident in motion? If he’d rigged something to take Stockwell out, killing Varnos without a conversation first would be a bad idea.

This was fairly distasteful, because I am no fucking sadist. Cutting off somebody’s fingers or shooting them in the kneecap, trying to make them talk, it’s messy and it’s inefficient. And you have to keep them alive, in case the first thing they tell you isn’t true, requiring you to go back and cut off another finger or shoot another kneecap or something.

Torture is a whole different arena. Requires training that I never got. You never know when somebody is going to pass out or even die on you. And then where are you?

On the other hand, part of what I liked about using the Broker’s list to find, and protect, clients was the improvisational, on-the-fly, think-on-your feet nature of it. You can get numb in my line of work, and living alone like I do can sort of lull you into a waking sleep. This work was lively. It had a nice edge. Made me feel alive.

Anyway, I had breakfast and several glasses of iced tea and read various newspapers, sitting in a booth situated to see the rest of the modern-looking restaurant, another example of the Spur not bothering with much if any western-style trappings. A couple of framed desert landscapes was all that separated this from a Ramada Inn in Who Farted, West Virginia.

By nine-thirty, Varnos hadn’t shown, and I went out to the film set for a couple of hours. I’ve told you about that. What I haven’t told you is that when I got back to the Spur, the first thing I did was return to that same restaurant for lunch.

Not that the breakfast had been so fabulous that I felt compelled to come back for more; but on the off chance that somebody like Nick, staying in the motel, might just be lazy enough to take lunch there.

Of course, even so, it was a quarter to one and he may well have already eaten. I’d have to get lucky again.

And I was.

He was just sitting down to a table when I was ushered to a booth.

Nick Varnos was a small man, almost as small as Eric Conrad. He was pale and he had dark, dark eyes, dark eyebrows, medium-length well-barbered dark hair with long sideburns and a Tom Selleck mustache. He wore a gray button-down short-sleeve shirt, no sport coat, and a tie with Necco Wafer-colored stripes. His slacks were a darker, dirty gray, very stylish, his belt western-looking. It was an odd combo of casual and dressy.

He ate light—soup and salad.

I ate even lighter, just soup (a hearty chili, though), because I’d put away a good breakfast on my earlier restaurant stakeout.

The guy seemed quite composed. Cool. He was pleasant with the waitress, who was cute enough for flirting, but he didn’t flirt. He was in a good mood, apparently, but selfcontained.

After lunch, I followed him to his room and discovered he was not only on the same floor as Stockwell and me, but the same wing—in 319. Same side of the hall as Stockwell, too, but not next door (the director was in 313, you’ll remember, and I was in 316).

In my room, I pulled up a chair, cracked the door and sat and monitored Stockwell’s room across the way. It seemed endless, but was only maybe an hour, because around three o’clock, Varnos left his room and went down to the lobby. Then he went to the parking lot and got into the blue Buick Century he’d bought specifically for this job.

I followed him in my Nova into downtown Boot Heel. He parked in the Four Jacks lot. So did I. He went into the Four Jacks casino. So did I. He gambled for an hour or so. So did I.

Varnos was a real gambler, though—he played blackjack and roulette, and routinely bet fifty or more dollars. I was strictly a poker-machine amateur, never more than a buck a throw, but I was always able to find a machine in nice view of what Varnos was up to.

Around five, Varnos left the casino, going out one of the half-dozen doors onto Main Street. He walked two blocks to a movie theater that had four films playing: The Gong Show Movie; The Empire Strikes Back; The Shining; and The Long Riders. He bought a ticket for The Long Riders, a western. So did I. He bought no food. I did—Christ, what’s the point, without popcorn and a Coke? This, and that healthy lunch, he was starting to irritate my ass.

Having him in that movie theater, which was underattended (people didn’t go to a casino town like Boot Heel to go to the movies, and anyway this was a five-fifteen show), did provide a potential opportunity to remove him. I had my nine millimeter in my waistband, noise suppressor in my sportcoat pocket. I also had a retractable knife, a stiletto, which I didn’t love using, but there were appropriate times and places for the thing....

But again—what if something was rigged already to take Stockwell out in his room?

I considered putting the gun in Nick’s back on the way out of the theater, after the movie was over, and walking him somewhere for a talk and a bullet; but the lobby was full—it was a Friday night, which kicked the shit out of my nobody-goes-to-the-movies-in-a-casino-town theory.

So I wound up just following him again.

Back to the Four Jacks. It would be just my luck if I ran into Eric Conrad, with him thinking I’d had a change of heart. Or hard. But I didn’t.

Anyway, Varnos gambled another hour. He had lost this afternoon, but this time he cashed in way more chips than he’d bought. He played nothing but blackjack, and seemed to have a nice rapport with a pretty brunette dealer.

Around nine he went out into the parking lot and smoked a cigarette, standing by his Buick. So he wasn’t a complete health nut, then. Fifteen minutes or so passed, and the little brunette dealer came running out and took his hand. Apparently he’d hit it off with her and she was off work, and they got in the Buick and drove back to the Spur.

Here’s when I started to get really pissed at this guy: he takes her to the Spur for a romantic late supper. All the decent places to eat in a casino town like this, and he makes it so that I have to eat in that same boring hotel restaurant again.

They talk quietly. She does most of the talking. First date, but this woman is in her mid-thirties (Varnos is maybe forty) and, like a lot of Boot Heel gals, this is not her first time at the rodeo. He buys her lobster and has a chef’s salad himself, fucking rabbit. I eat a rare filet that is not terrible with a baked potato that also isn’t bad.

By ten he has taken her up to his room.

Back in my room, I try to dope it out. Is this what it seems to be on the face of it? Has Varnos just had a day off, gambling, movies, dining, picking up a babe for the night? Maybe relaxing before the big day tomorrow when he does his thing, and then hits the road?

Or is he setting up an alibi with some local girl, just in case he needs it?

Or has he already rigged that room for a kill?

I went across the hall to Stockwell’s room and knocked. It was ten-thirty and maybe my client was back from the set. Or maybe Joni was. At this point, I’d settle for her. Shit! What an idiot I’d been, not asking the director for a key to his room—I really needed to get in there and look around.

No answer.

So he wasn’t back yet.

Or he was dead in there, having fallen for some trap that Varnos set.

Back in my room, I was frustrated, kicking things, since I wasn’t limber enough to kick myself. Maybe I could figure out a way to scam a room key off the girl at the desk. Maybe it would be that nice kid Tina down there again tonight.

I went out onto the balcony into a balmy desert breeze, to think about it, to come up with some way to con Stockwell’s room key out of whoever was on duty. I leaned against the railing, then backed off, remembering how Varnos liked to make balconies go bye-bye.

That was when I noticed the lovely woman in the bikini swimming below, a silhouette again in the under-lit pool.

I wore my sport coat down there. The night wasn’t cool enough to warrant it—the whisper of wind carried warmth—but I was taking the nine millimeter with me, in my waistband, and I didn’t want it showing.

She was swimming lengths, her long dark hair streaming free, her bikini tonight a red skimpy thing. I pulled up a deck chair and sat near the shallow end. Again it was past legal pool hours and we had no company. Few lights were on in the windows facing the courtyard—this was Friday night in Boot Heel. Nobody was in their hotel room.

She stood in the shallow to catch her breath, water lapping at her hips, the light from the pool’s floor highlighting the edges of her, but most of her in shadow. Then she noticed me and looked up. Eyes wide, the whites popping out of the darkness.

“Jack,” she said.

“You suggested we talk. We probably should.”

She pushed through the water, and it sloshed gently around her tan body. She leaned against the edge of the pool, just a tiny bit out of breath, face beautifully pearled. “Water’s nice, Jack. Cool but not cold. You still like to swim?”

“Yeah. But no beaches near where I live.”

“Where do you live?”

“Where it gets cold.”

She didn’t press for more. She gestured to the expanse of water. “Care to join me?”

“I already swam today.”

She smiled. “Don’t pout. Go on up and get your trunks and come back down.”

I stood. I unbuttoned the sport coat and took the gun out of my waistband. Her eyes grew large and she seemed to be trying to decide whether to be afraid or not. I wasn’t leveling it at her, but it was there.

“What are you doing, Jack?”

“Making a point.”

Part of me wanted her to think I’d come to kill her. The rest just wanted her to understand that she was in the middle of something serious. Really, deadly serious.

“Your husband is in trouble,” I said, “and I’m helping him.”

“Because of me?”

“For money.”

“Are you some kind of...security person now? Rent-acop? Bodyguard?”

“There’s no word for it. But it’s life or death.” I put the nine mil back in my waistband and buttoned the sport coat over it. “Still want me to join you?”

“Yes.”

“I show you a gun and you still want me to go get my swimsuit?”

“You had your chance to kill me, Jack, a long time ago.”

So I went up and got my suit.

We swam together, not racing, just doing lengths, easy, gliding freestyle under the sky with its slightly more generous slice of moon tonight and enough stars to matter.

In the shallow end, we sat on the edge of the pool together, dripping.

“That was pretty melodramatic,” she said. When I said nothing, she prompted me: “Before? The gun?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

“There have been threats against your husband’s life. I’m looking into it.”

“So I was right about what you are.”

“Joni, what I do is way off the radar. Nothing near legal, understand?”

“More melodrama, Jack?”

“No. It’s real and it’s rough. That’s part of why I waved that gun at you.”

“You didn’t wave it at me. You pointed it down. I wasn’t scared.”

“Really? Because the other part of why I waved it was to scare you.”

“To get back at me?”

Yes.

“No,” I said. “Just warning you about what you’re in the middle of. Watch yourself. Don’t trust anybody you don’t know. And maybe some you do know.”

“Should I trust you?”

“Sure. Joni, we really do need to talk. I need to ask you some things.”

“All right. Give me a second.” She got up and dripped over and got her towel and dried her hair and face off a little. Then she trotted back and sat next to me, feet and most of her legs in the water. Like mine were.

I asked, “Is there anybody you can think of who’d want your husband dead?”

Her response was immediate and damn near casual: “Sure. You know who Lou Licata is?”

“I know who he is.”

“Well, that bimbo Tiffany is Licata’s girlfriend. Never mind that the Godfather has a wife and four kids, Miss Goodwin is his property.” She shrugged. “And Art was fucking her for a while. How’s that for stupid? Fucking a mob boss’ mistress.”

“It’s not smart. How did that make you feel?”

“It didn’t. Art’s fooled around before. He’ll fool around again.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“No. I was his ‘this year’s model’ a long, long time ago. Enough of one to get a wedding ring out of him. Any love or passion is long gone. We’re still friendly. We like each other. Let me answer the question in your eyes, Jack—yes we still have sex. Once or twice a month.”

“You’re okay with this.”

“Fine with it. Jack, you know what kind of background I come from. Now I live in the Hollywood Hills. In a house that’s damn near a mansion. With a pool bigger than this.”

“Your husband isn’t exactly the hottest ticket in Tinsel Town.”

“No. Some would say he’s on the way down. But on the way up, he made a lot of money, and invested well. He likes to work, so he takes gigs wherever he can—TV mostly. And that pays just fine. Me, I’ve had a good career, too, but I’m almost over the hill. Thirty-six, Jack. Two, three more years, I’m an unemployable hag in Hollywood terms. Meantime, it’s a comfortable life. And will continue to be.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“And this silly picture we’re making? The first Hard Wheels was enough of a minor success to put Art back on the map, at least as a genre filmmaker.”

“What does that mean, genre filmmaker?”

“Action stuff. Sex and violence. Horror. Sci-fi. He’ll keep working. And he’ll use me in his movies, and he’ll never leave me for anybody, because he’s not looking for a new wife, just an occasional starlet to bang. Don’t you dare look at me like you feel sorry for me, Jack. I am happy. I have everything I want.”

Which of us was she trying to convince?

“Joni...none of my business, but...how the hell did you become an actress, anyway?”

“Oh, it was Art. Art my husband, not art the pursuit of which. He discovered me. I was working at Disneyland... not in one of those fucking suits! You should see them pour the sweat out of those things at the end of the day....I was a waitress in a German-theme joint and I guess he liked the way I looked in a peasant blouse. Gave me a screen test.”

“And you passed the audition.”

She was kicking in the water. “You ever think about me, Jack?”

I didn’t lie. “Sometimes.”

“I loved you in my way, Jack. I didn’t want you to die over there. I really didn’t want any of you boys to die.”

“All three of us?”

She shook her head, smirking humorlessly. “So I married three times. And got the benefits. If you feel like looking at me like you feel sorry for me, do it because of that. Do it because my life was such a hopeless dead-end that the best I could come up with was to go after a serviceman’s crappy monthly check.”

And benefits. Three times. But I didn’t rub it in.

Her gaze was at once sweet and patronizing. “Jack, you were a nice kid. Naive. You didn’t understand that sometimes people do things, to survive, that look crazy or immoral to other people. Maybe you can understand better now, how a young girl could get fucked-up enough to—”

I held a hand up. Shook my head. “You don’t owe me explanations. It was a long time ago. We’re different people now.”

“Jack, maybe it helps to finally air this out....”

This shit was getting old. I flat out asked her, hoping maybe, just maybe, her eyes would tell me something. “Do you want your husband dead?”

“What?”

“If you had a choice between me stopping something fatal happening to your husband, and—”

She gripped my arm. Other than when we shook hands, it was the first time she’d touched me.

“No,” she said. “Help him.”

“Did you sign a prenup?”

“What?”

“Do you stand to benefit if he dies?”

She just looked at me. “I don’t remember you being such a prick.”

“Do you benefit? It’s not like it’s a foreign concept to you. Maybe you’re taking it to a new level.”

“That’s fucking cruel...”

I put a hand on her shoulder. Tight but not enough to hurt. “I don’t like being near you, Joni. It stirs things up in me, none of it good. You need to understand something—you need to believe me: if you are behind this, I don’t give a shit.”

“What?”

“If you want him dead, I’ll walk away. I wouldn’t kill him for you, but I’d walk away.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m fairly well-balanced, considering. I’m giving you an out. Tell me to go and I’ll go. If I stay, I can probably save him.”

“Stay! Stay.” She stroked my face. It was like pleasant razor blades. “Please. If you have even one tiny memory of me that you cherish...stay.”

“You didn’t answer me. Would you benefit if he died?”

She sighed. Turned away from me and stared into the gentle ripple of the pool where she’d been absently kicking. “There was no prenup. But, Jack—we live in California. Community property. I get half anyway, if I ever decide to bail on him.”

“Maybe you want it all.”

She set those big brown eyes loose on my face. “All I want is the life I have right now, Jack. It’s the kind of life I dreamed about as a young woman—a really nice house, swimming pool and everything, no kids, plenty of money, a husband who is nice to me but gives me lots of space. I was never looking for a white knight, Jack. Just a life of comfort. A life that didn’t suck. And I fought to get that life.”

“Tell me about it.”

Her upper lip curled a little. “You know what your problem is, Jack? You don’t know whether you want to fuck me or kill me.”

I got out of the pool. To dry off a little, I had to dump the nine millimeter out of the towel, and it bounced on the deck chair webbing. Got her attention.

“Is there an all-of-the-above?” I asked her.

And I gathered my gun and went up to my room.

SEVEN

After my evening swim, I got dressed and made my way down to the Spur’s lobby, taking along a western paperback I’d been reading, Valdez Is Coming, to pass the time while I waited for Stockwell to get back from the film shoot.

With the lobby’s slots and poker machines making their ringing whirring music, concentrating on the book wasn’t easy. But I only had to sit forty minutes before Stockwell showed, around a quarter past midnight, with his producer Kaufmann striding at his side, a supportive hand on his friend’s shoulder.

The director seemed beat, his eyes so puffy they got lost in the folds of flesh; he was smoking and—for all his tiredness—moving fast, in the midst of a jocular conversation with the producer, who appeared far less frazzled, even energetic. Kaufmann’s light polo shirt and darker blue slacks looked comparatively fresh next to Stockwell’s sweated-out t-shirt and dirt-smudged jeans.

My sense was that Kaufmann was bucking up his pal, providing encouragement after a hard day’s shoot.

I could understand the need for that—even based on my brief visit to the set, I could see that the burden of pressure was on the director, who had to keep moving and working and handling this problem and that, while a producer was mostly dealing with paperwork, phone calls and personnel.

I managed to catch up with them before they got to the elevators.

“Mr. Stockwell!” I called, and when both men turned, I said, “Art, I need a moment please.”

Kaufmann threw me a mildly irritated glance, then nodded at the director and, resigned to being excluded, stepped onto a waiting elevator.

We moved through a doorway into the swimming pool courtyard. No one else was out there—Joni had long since gone up to their room, apparently—but the underlighting of the pool was still going and it cast glimmering otherworldly blue-green on us as we took two deck chairs near the pool.

Stockwell said, “You weren’t around the set long. Did you find anything out?”

“That would be overstating it,” I admitted, “but I’m convinced the attempt won’t be made on location.”

Stockwell shivered, though it wasn’t remotely cold out. The watery reflection on his face was kind, taking some years off his gone-to-seed leading-man looks, like a softfocus camera lens. “At least it’s an ‘attempt’ now—my murder. Not a foregone conclusion.”

“I followed our man around this afternoon,” I said. “He wasn’t doing anything overt that might have been connected to the job he’s here to do. More like killing time.”

“Than like killing me, you mean? What’s the hell is he up to?”

“I believe he plans to create an accident for you here at the hotel.”

Stockwell frowned, as frustrated as he was fearful.

“Where in the hotel?”

“Very likely your room.”

“Shit. What about J.J.?”

I shrugged. “He might not take her out as collateral damage, but he could.”

“Collateral damage. Christ, what a term.”

“File it away. Might make a decent movie title. Look, I need to check your hotel room. I mean, now. Right now.”

He frowned again. “J.J. may be asleep.”

“Wake her up. We spoke at the set, and she thinks I’m some kind of troubleshooter trying to protect you from death threats. So she’ll understand. Art, we have to go up, so I can have a look around.”

He sighed. “Okay.”

“And there’s one other thing.”

“What?”

“I need a key to your room. Go to the desk right now and get me one.”

“All right.” He was past arguing, but he did ask, “What’s the point of that?”

“If I don’t find anything in your room now, our man will probably rig whatever he’s rigging tomorrow, while you’re at the shoot. I assume your wife won’t be in the room, during the day—she’ll be on set, too?”

“Yes. Her big scene’s tomorrow.” He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Gonna be a big day, very elaborate, and challenging conditions.”

“How so?”

“We’re shooting on the casino floor at the Four Jacks.”

All roads seemed to lead there. Was that significant?

“Well, I’m going to spend tomorrow in your room,” I told him.

This confused him. “All day tomorrow?”

“How long, I have no way of knowing. My hope is that, at that some point or other, our man will enter to do his thing...and I’ll do mine instead.”

Stockwell looked out at the shimmer of underlit water. “I don’t want to know anything about what you do or how you do it.” Now he risked a glance at me, so quick he might have feared becoming a pillar of salt. “Are you okay with that, Jack?”

“I am...if you understand that you may hear about something nasty that happened at the hotel, and if so, you’ll need to react with the correct indifference. You know—‘isn’t that something,’ or ‘what a shame.’ As opposed to, ‘Oh my fucking God—what happened?’... Are we cool?”

He sighed. “We’re cool. I’m not going to come back to a...mess in my room am I?”

“Not my intention. But this isn’t scripted, Art. I’m improvising here. Have to run with what I get.”

“I know. I get that.”

The director went to the front desk while I waited at the elevator. We went up together—no reason not to, since I was the unit publicist. At his room, I let him go in first, to warn his wife of my presence and needs. Less than a minute later, he came out and nodded me in.

Joni was in a white dressing gown, semi-sheer, over some kind of matching nightie, her long hair brushing her shoulders, tousled; under layers of wispy fabric, nipples and pubic triangle were vaguely visible, but I didn’t stare. I’d seen them before. If this interruption threw her, she didn’t show it. Her arms were folded but her attitude wasn’t negative. More neutral, I’d say.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I really wasn’t. But I checked every electrical outlet in the place. Checked the light fixtures and the air conditioner. The most elaborate thing I did was remove the bedding on the big kingsize number—could have been a poisonous spider or scorpion in the sheets or blankets, something fatal and indigenous to the region. Joni actually gave me a hand with this process, and when I started putting the bedding back in place, she said she’d take care of it.

Special attention was given to the bathroom, since that’s where most accidents occur at home, and this hotel room was home for them right now. But I found nothing. The Percodan bottle was in there, and I noted that it was prescription. Not that you had to buy shit like that from a drug dealer in Hollywood, not with a Dr. Feelgood at every strip mall.

I apologized as I looked through the dresser drawers and their suitcases, finding nothing but clothing. No drugs or anything embarrassing, unless you count the Jackie Collins paperback.

At the door, I said, “I apologize for the intrusion.”

“No problem,” Stockwell said. He looked hangdog as hell. He was a fifty-something guy in the midst of an incredibly draining project that would have been plenty to handle without the threat of murder hanging over him.

“We appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Joni said to me with wifely warmth. Not ex-wifely. Current wifely. It was his side she was at, not mine.

“Tonight and tomorrow morning,” I said to them, “don’t answer this door for anybody but me. Not even for anybody on the production—talk through the door and make an excuse—and certainly not housekeeping or room service or anybody from the desk with a message.”

Stockwell nodded. So did Joni, who had her arm through his now. I’d forgotten how beautiful her eyes were. Big. Brown.

“I know you haven’t been taking breakfast at the restaurant here,” I said. According to Jerry’s notes, anyway. “But tomorrow morning’s no time to make an exception. Get up, shower, get dressed, get the fuck out.”

“There’s a light breakfast on set,” Stockwell said absently.

Joni asked, “What about our car?”

“That’s a good point,” I said. “It’s possible your car could be tampered with, yes. Art, you usually drive yourself and your wife to the shoot. Tomorrow, can you go with somebody else instead? Travel with other crew in one of those vans, maybe?”

“No problem,” he said.

“Do you have an extra set of car keys?”

“No.”

“Give me yours. I’ll go down now and check it out. I used to be a mechanic.”

That made Joni wince, just faintly, no doubt because of the memory it stirred.

Her late boyfriend Williams had been a mechanic, too. That was something that had irritated me at the time, in addition to the cuckold thing. And when, after the publicity, I’d been unable to find work as a mechanic, all I could think of was, Well, there’s one position at least that needs filling....

Anyway, Stockwell handed over the keys and I went down to the parking lot.

Stockwell was driving a rental Buick LeSabre. An argument could be made for me spending the night in its back seat, waiting to see if Varnos showed up to fuck with it. But according to the Broker’s file, Varnos was strictly a specialist in accidental death, at home and on the job; to my knowledge, he had never done a vehicular homicide.

So I would not camp out in that backseat. What I would do instead is check the interior and under the hood. Which I did, and found nothing. Since the parking lot was at the rear of the building—beyond some shrubbery at the open part of the hotel’s U—there was little risk of being seen by Varnos.

Then I went up to room 313, knocked and said, “It’s Reynolds,” and Stockwell peeked out. He was in brown pajamas now. There were men who still wore pajamas? Fucking kidding me?

I stepped in, closed the door and said, “Car seems fine. Doesn’t mean some tampering couldn’t happen in the wee hours. I still don’t want you driving it to the set.”

Joni was in bed, nightstand light on. Reading the Jackie Collins. She’d always had questionable taste.

I went on: “It’s also possible an accident has been planned that involves running you off the road or something. Strikes me as a thin possibility, but you never know. I doubt with you in a different vehicle—particularly a van with a bunch of other people in it—that our guy would carry such a plan out.”

Stockwell gave me a weary smirk. “I thought you said this was all improv.”

“Oh no—I’m improv. This guy is on script. We just don’t know what that script is....Get some sleep.”

“I still have a little work too. My goddamn job never lets up.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

The next morning my wake-up call came in right at six; when I said I wanted to order breakfast, the operator transferred me to room service. I showered, shaved and got dressed, then the little breakfast arrived—scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice—and by six-thirty I was standing at my cracked door, watching Mr. and Mrs. Stockwell depart for work.

The director was in jeans and a black t-shirt with the supporting player in jeans and a frilly cream-color blouse. He had a clipboard and notebook, but she carried only a little purse. If they saw me watching, they were sensible enough not to acknowledge it.

I knew that housekeeping would start its run at eight a.m., and that my room would come before the director’s, and that mine would come before Varnos’—at least based on the end of the hall they’d started at yesterday.

So I stretched out on my bed and watched game shows at very low volume, waiting for housekeeping to interrupt me, which I knew they would, since I hadn’t put a do not disturb on my door.

The heavyset Hispanic maid barged in just before nine a.m., and I went over and said, “Perdoneme,” and she backed out saying the same thing, over and over, while I belatedly hung that do not disturb sign on the knob.

I finished my game show, since I knew it would take the maid a good fifteen minutes to clean Stockwell’s room, and she was conscientious and spent twenty on it. I was no expert on staging accidental deaths in hotel rooms, but I knew that Varnos would not want housekeeping coming in on him in room 313, and even a do not disturb sign was no guarantee, since you never knew when some brat or smart-ass would steal it or reverse it with make up room now facing out.

When the maid and her cart were safely down the hall and around the corner, I slipped across the hall and used the key Stockwell had provided, entering freshly cleaned room 313. I did not put a do not disturb sign on the door—I wanted to be disturbed...

...but not by housekeeping.

I was wearing a polo shirt with my sport coat over it plus jeans and running shoes, looking very much like Jack Reynolds, publicist. But I carried with me a rolled-up towel that had in it my nine millimeter, with sound suppressor attached; and the stiletto was in my jacket pocket. Also, the western paperback was in my back jeans pocket—might be a long day, and there’d be no turning on the TV in here.

In fact—and here’s the unpleasant part—I would have to camp out in the john. Had there been a coat closet with some kind of door, sliding or folding or anything really, I would have had some place to slip into, and momentarily hide.

But there was no door on the closet—it was just an open recessed space with a horizontal pole and clothes hangers with a little shelf where extra blankets and pillows lived.

So the shitter it was.

I kept the door ajar enough to hear, and keeping the light on wasn’t suspicious—a lot of people leave bathroom lights on—so I sat on the toilet, lid down, of course, reading Valdez Is Coming, wondering when Varnos was coming.

Well, I finished it in two hours and—after another hour passed of me staring at white tile walls and yellow-andwhite floor tiles and the nubby glass of the shower stall— I got almost desperate enough to risk going out there and looking for that Jackie Collins.

Almost.

Then, fifteen minutes later, the sound of a key in the lock snapped me to my feet. My silenced Browning was on the counter next to a hair dryer, a brush, and a glass with toothbrushes in it. I had the gun in my hand by the time Varnos was all the way into 313, before he’d even shut the door behind him. I knew the bathroom would not be his first stop—and if it was, he wouldn’t likely have a gun in hand.

Varnos did exactly what I thought he’d do: take the time to put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outer door-knob. So when he closed himself in, and I came out of the bathroom, right on top of him, his back was to me.

He didn’t even see it coming. The extended barrel of the nine mil slapped him on the back of his head and sent him down, hard, in an ungainly pile, slumped against the door he’d just closed.

This was the dodgy part—I wasn’t trying to kill him. I needed him knocked out. But a blow to the head, with any power in it at all, can do one of three things: knock you out; kill you; or not knock you out.

If Nick was down there playing possum, I might have a rough time of it, even with a gun on him.

There was no blood on the back of his head—that was a lucky break—so I turned him over gently with my left hand, the silenced weapon poised to do what was necessary. The mustached hitman’s eyes were half-lidded, unblinking and glassy, and he was either knocked cold or a much better actor than Stockwell could have afforded on Hard Wheels 2.

I gambled on the former.

As I’ve said, Nick Varnos wasn’t a big man. He was wearing a sport coat today, a rust-color polyester one, over a yellow sportshirt, with tan jeans. I patted him down and found no weapon. That did not surprise me—what he’d come here to do wouldn’t require one. If he’d been caught by a hotel employee in the wrong room, the last thing Varnos would want to have on him was a weapon.

What he did have was a key to room 313—I had no idea where Varnos got it; possibly he finagled it out of the desk pretending to be Stockwell. But this was an actual room key, not a dupe or a passkey or a skeleton job. That was interesting but I was too busy to give it much thought.

He had another room key, of course—his own.

And something else, something very interesting, and most telling: a small sealed envelope, about thank-you note size; but its bumpy surface told my fingers what it contained, and I knew at once how Jerry’s partner had intended to stage Stockwell’s accidental death.

So there would be no need for conversation.

Varnos must not have weighed more than 140, because I had surprisingly little trouble hauling him to his feet with just my left arm around his waist. I’m not saying it wasn’t awkward, but I was able to hold his limp frame alongside me as I opened the door and—finding the coast clear—dragged him, sort of drunk-walked him, to his own room, just a short trip down, on the same side of the hall.

The hardest part was keeping one arm around his waist, to keep him from falling to the floor, while I worked his room key in its slot. If he was faking, I could well be fucked here....

But Varnos still seemed to be out when I hauled him into his room and from there into the bathroom, where I dumped him gently on the floor.

I felt like leaning against something to catch my breath, but even though I would have a chance to tidy up after, leaving fingerprints remained a concern. Why make work for myself? So I just stood there heaving, hands on my hips, the nine millimeter in my waistband.

That was when he woke up.

Varnos had no idea what was going on. He had never seen me before. He had no clue what had happened, his lights had gone out, and now they were back on, and he was on a bathroom floor, as far as he knew the bathroom in Stockwell’s room, but that was irrelevant, it was all irrelevant, because he was a killer for hire who had just woken up.

And that meant he would be up and on me before I could even draw my weapon, and anyway I didn’t want to use my weapon on him, this needed to go down a whole other way.

So when he tackled me, I had to take it. Then he was on top of me, halfway out in the room’s entryway, and his hands were on my throat, which is where I would have put my hands in his place, but as badly as he wanted to be alert, he was still groggy, and as much as he wanted the advantage, I still had thirty pounds on him, and when my right fist jabbed him in the nuts, reflex made his hands loosen, and it was my turn to drive him back, through the open doorway into the bathroom, where I was on top of him and he was flailing, the punched-in-the-nuts pain an impossible thing to shrug off, and his eyes were wide, not with hate or hysteria, but with the knowledge that he was about to die, as I grabbed his head like it was a melon with ears and bashed his skull into the rim of the porcelain crapper with as much force as I could muster.

The crack of bone was unmistakable and the life went out of his eyes almost instantly—at least his ball-sack pain was over, hell, everything was over now that you mention it, and I rose and let him slide to the floor naturally, leaving a smeary dripping red trail along the edge of the bowl till the porcelain downslope gave way.

He lay on his back with lifeless eyes staring up into death but without recognition, his arms spread Christlike, which I would bet was about the only Christ-like thing about the bastard.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath again, then I took a damp towel from where it had been hung on a metal rod to dry and I put it under his feet, giving the reasonable impression that the moist towel had been down there on the bathroom floor where he’d slipped on it and—tragically—fell backward and hit his head. More accidental deaths in the bathroom than anywhere else, I hear.

I regarded the scene with some satisfaction. Staging accidental deaths was hardly my specialty, but I’d pulled this one off under fairly difficult circumstances. I hadn’t touched much at all, but used a handkerchief I’d brought along to wipe anything it seemed remotely possible my fingers had met.

Such as the key to room 319 that I’d taken off him, which I put back in his pocket. And the inside knob, which I then turned with the hanky-in-hand to crack the door.

Lady Luck—alive and well in Boot Heel, it seemed—dealt me an empty hallway.

I had to take the time to wipe down the outer knob as well, of course. Varnos had already hung a DO NOT DISTURB card there, and that would aid in his body not being found right away. Although when it was found didn’t concern me much. No need to wipe the little plastic hanger of my prints because I had never touched the thing.

Anyway, I slipped down to my own room, just catty-corner across the way, and ducked inside, where the first thing I did was open the little envelope I’d liberated from the late Nick Varnos.

Its contents looked like Percodan. Very possibly the twenty or so little tablets were Percodan, but if so, they were either poisoned or bore a much higher dosage than Stockwell could have handled.

Swap these out for whatever pills remained in the director’s prescription bottle, and my ex’s current hubby would ease his back pain once and for all. Just another Hollywood type, dead of a drug overdose.

Which struck me as pretty slick work on the part of the late Nick Varnos, if some pretty cold-blooded shit.

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. Licata 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...protégée 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 and 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.”

So Licata thought I was gay, too. Skull and Juke must have told him. That might be bad—mob guys weren’t known for being super understanding about alternate lifestyles. But in view of the “jealousy issue,” maybe I better stay gay....

He sensed my anxiety and raised the hand with the wedding ring, as if in benediction. “Listen, Jack—I don’t make judgments. I would be out of business if people all over this great country didn’t make certain lifestyle choices that were not approved by the powers that be. My grandfather made our fortune in beer when that was illegal. Since then, gambling, narcotics, sex...it’s all entertainment, isn’t it? Loaning people money to help them realize their dreams, isn’t that the American way? And so is making money out of it.” He shrugged elaborately. “Legislation of morality has made my family rich, and never mind what my grandfather and father would have thought... your tastes, your interests, your peccadillos, don’t matter a damn to me.”

“That’s very open-minded of you, sir.”

“Skip the ‘sir’ shit. All I look for in my partners is honesty. We traffic in dishonesty, in a way, so it makes it difficult to find people you can really trust. It’s true in any business. That’s why a guy like Stockwell reaches out to an old friend like Kaufmann—trust. It’s key.”

“I agree.”

“Can I trust you, Jack?”

“Sure.”

“There’s nothing casual about this, Jack.”

“You can trust me, Lou.”

“You understand that I’m not just an investor in this project, I am the investor. The money man. The angel. It’s all out of my pocket book.”

“I get that.”

“So if I ask you to do something that contradicts instructions from the producer or even the director, will you follow my lead?”

I shifted in the booth. “That puts me in a tough position. Art and I have mutual friends, and that’s how I was able to hire on here. I owe the guy. He’s paying me personally.”

“I respect that. But this is an unusual situation. You see, they think I don’t want people knowing that Tiff and I are an item. I’m a married man with children. I’m a ‘mob’ guy, right? Notorious organized criminal and such shit. So of course they assume I want my name out of the press, and anything about Tiff and me squelched.”

“You...you just asked me to squelch such things yourself.”

“Yes. Because that’s what Kaufmann expects me to ask. But let’s get back to that word ‘exploitation.’ You’re a PR guy, Jack. You understand. So keep me and Tiff out of People and Us and off the wire services. But slip some photos of us on set to rags like the Enquirer and to the Rona Barretts of the world.”

“Why?”

“Because it interests people, Jack. It sells movie tickets and sells video tapes. Curiosity, prurient interest, sells.”

“What about your family?”

“Which one? Annette and the kids? Or the family business I run that I inherited from guys who ran with Jack Dragna and Ben Siegel?”

“Lou...Mr. Licata...you have me thoroughly confused.”

“My wife knows about Tiff. My wife lost interest in sex maybe two kids ago. She’s fine with me tending to my needs. She also understands I have an image to maintain, to build. I’m a Hollywood animal, Jack. I have to be a star. My guys have to see me sleeping with today’s version of Marilyn Monroe...capeesh?” The last word was delivered with considerable irony. “Rivals of mine need to see that. Flamboyant. A star, a fucking superstar. Like Gotti in New York. If you help me with my image, Jack, I will give you a bonus that...what’s Art paying you, anyway?”

“Fifty grand.”

“Generous,” Licata admitted. “How would you like another fifty?”

“Yes.”

“Then no matter how much shit you get from Stockwell and Kaufmann over it, leak photos of me and Tiff on the set of this flick to the right rags. You okay with that?”

“I’m okay with that.”

The very white smile flashed under the dark mustache. “By the way, these rumors that Eric and Tiff are having an affair behind my back? Don’t deny those with the sleazier media types, either. It’s bullshit, but any ink is good ink. Exploitation, Jack. Exploitation.”

We shook hands on it, then we went back out to the set, Lou’s arm around my shoulder like we were old buddies; he smelled good—some fancy designer cologne, no doubt. The crew was getting ready to move the camera to the other side of the roulette table as we approached.

When Tiffany in her white Marilyn dress spotted Lou, she practically ran into his arms. They didn’t kiss, but they were openly affectionate. He did not seem like an uncle greeting a favorite niece, either, unless it was the kind of uncle Marilyn herself used to run into, time to time. Licata certainly made no pretense of separating himself from her. Some local photographers were catching shots of them, before Ginger and several P.A.’s chased them off.

I made sure Licata saw me approach one of the photogs and ask for a card.

Ginger had told me that the change of camera set-ups meant at least half an hour, and I got to Stockwell’s side and said I needed a moment. The director seemed anxious to get some fresh air—the smoke-laced air conditioning was nothing human lungs had been designed for —and out back we leaned against somebody’s Mercedes Benz and talked.

In the t-shirt and jeans, with his short unbrushed hair, his leading-man features puffier than ever, he looked like anybody but the general of the small movie army carrying out his orders indoors. He lit up a cigarette, which defeated the purpose of fresh air, but the director was tense and tired, and I would hardly deny him any small relaxation.

“We’re halfway there,” I said.

“How so?”

“I caught our guy in your room trying to switch your Percodan with his own.”

“Christ. Poison?”

“Or a concentrated overdose.” I shrugged. “Same difference. Point is, the two guys sent to take you out are out of it themselves.”

“What do I need to know?”

“About what I did today? A guy down the hall from you had an accident in his bathroom. Fatal one. I don’t look for the hotel or the cops to make much of a fuss.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a casino town. Resort town. Dead guests aren’t good for business. You have any idea, Art, how many people die in hotels in this country every year? Neither do I, because the hotels quietly haul the stiffs out the back way. The local cops are goodwill ambassadors for Boot Heel, too, so knocking on a lot of doors asking guests questions isn’t very likely.”

“You take this so...so dispassionately.”

“Do you jerk off when you’re shooting a nude scene? I plan to stick around a day or two, and try to figure out who was behind this—okay?”

“Yes! Christ, yes. Do you think it’s Licata?”

“Maybe. I just had an interesting conversation with him. I’m happy to say he seems to like me. We hit it off.”

“Lou is a likable guy. But I never forget who he is and where he came from.”

“That’s good. Because we had an in-depth talk about Tiffany Goodwin. He actually doesn’t mind that people know he’s banging a Playboy playmate. Including the missus. He’s kind of proud of it, and he even asked me, strictly sub rosa, to feed photos and leak info to the Enquirer and other shit rags.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

“Not the way he explains it. What’s most interesting, I think, is that he referenced the rumors that Eric Conrad is having an affair with Tiff, but not about you and her.”

“Eric? He’s queer as a two-dollar bill.”

“That’s a dollar less queer than I was thinking, but yeah, tell me about it. Why wasn’t Licata concerned about you and his mistress? You really did have an affair with her.”

“Maybe...maybe he doesn’t know....”

“Maybe he does know,” I said. “And that’s why he didn’t mention it.”

“Because...he’s the one who wants me gone?”

“Maybe. I have a hunch to play out, and then we’ll see.” I gestured around the parking lot. “Where’s your honeywagon and the two Winnebagos?”

He sighed cigarette smoke and gestured with his cigarette-in-hand. “We don’t need them here. Eric and Tiffany are staying at the Four Jacks, and have suites far nicer than their Winnebagos. And there’s restroom facilities and anything we else we might need on site.”

“How’d you wrangle the run of the place?”

“I thought you knew, Jack—Licata is one of the owners of the Four Jacks. How do you think we got to shoot in a casino? That’s a notoriously hard location to secure. Nobody in charge of a casino likes anybody hauling cameras in. Privacy issues if nothing else. We were able to clear some press photographers today, but...why do you ask?”

“It’s helpful information.”

“Helpful how?”

“Helpful for playing my hunch. You better get back on set. You go deal with your melodrama, and I’ll deal with mine.”

NINE

I hung around the casino watching them shoot for several hours. I overheard the director tell Eric Conrad and Tiffany Goodwin that a major camera move was required for what would be the last shot of the day, and they might want to go up to their suites until they were needed.

Tiffany, however, hung around signing autographs for fans and being attended by Licata. The smooth, mustached mobster from California continued to show no signs of wanting to distance himself from his protégée, much less the prying eyes of onlookers.

Meanwhile, Eric Conrad was escorted to the elevators by a pair of the biker boys, who kept autograph seekers back while Eric nodded and smiled and promised fans he’d sign for them at the end of the shooting day.

I didn’t follow him up, not immediately. I waited until I saw the bikers come back down and resume their security posts. Then I sought Ginger out and got the actor’s room number from her.

Eric was in a suite on the top floor, but fortunately this was not one of those hotels where you needed a special elevator key to reach the heavens, and the stars dwelling therein. His room was 1201, off the elevator to the left and down a short private hallway of its own—a small scrolly gold plaque identified this as THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE.

It was so fancy it had a buzzer, which I utilized. I had to be a little bit persistent, but finally I heard Conrad’s radioannouncer voice behind the door, slightly irritated. “Yes?”

“Mr. Conrad—Eric? It’s Jack Reynolds. The publicist?”

The door opened a crack. The diminutive, bronzed, buff actor was in the jeans but not the denim vest of his costume. He smiled up at me, any irritation vanished. It was a shy smile.

“Well, this is a nice surprise, Jack.”

“Can I come in for a second?”

“Sure.”

He showed me in with a generous sweeping gesture, indicating the living room of the Presidential Suite, with its Early San Francisco Whorehouse decor. Lots of plush red with gold trimmings—couch, drapes, brocade wallpaper, all about as subtle as a velvet whoopee cushion. A door was open onto the bedroom where the decor was similar but with red trimming gold. For variety.

“Can I get you something?” he asked. He indicated a red faux-leather wet bar. He was looking at me with a handsome smile and eyes that were a little too eager. Now I knew how Little Red Riding Hood had felt.

“No thanks,” I said.

On a small antiqued gold-and-light-pink table just inside the door a few things had been deposited—rental-car keys, sunglasses in a soft case, a pack of Marlboros, and a room key. I put myself between him and the little table.

“It’s just...I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” I said. “After yesterday morning. I couldn’t help but think you were...that you might be interested in me.”

This wild speculation was based upon him dropping his robe and waving his hard-on at me.

He shrugged. “You aren’t wrong. I felt a real connection between us yesterday. I’d love to get together.”

“Great.”

Now the eagerness went out of his expression as something occurred to him. “But, Jack—this is awkward. Not a good time. I could get called down to the set any second now, and well...I am seeing somebody right now, and while it’s more an understanding than a relationship, I just can’t....Let’s just say I have a date tonight and leave it at that.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “But there’s weeks to go on this shoot, and you’ll be around that whole time, right?”

“Right,” I lied.

“I promise you we’ll get together.” He leaned in and gave me a tender kiss on the lips. “I promise, Jack.”

I touched his face and smiled. “You just name the time.”

And he let me out.

In the hall I pocketed the room key I’d lifted.

After the film crew had wrapped for the day (the last shot being called the “martini,” why the fuck I have no idea), Tiffany made a beeline for Licata, and the couple caught the elevator arm in arm. Again, the elegant mobster was making zero effort to avoid anyone’s eyes, although the media was gone now and unapproved cameras were a nono, as more than occasional signs with big screaming letters informed the tourists who were the casino’s customer base.

The Four Jacks had a steak house, Bronco’s, that was as close to fine dining as the resort offered. The only dress code was that men had to wear jackets and women dresses. I was fine with the male requirement, because the nine millimeter was in my waistband now.

It was early enough to get right in, and I dined alone, at a corner table, and ate light—a salad and steak sandwich. I drank Coke on ice, no beer or mixed drink.

The decor was again San Francisco Whorehouse, lots of red-and-gold brocade wallpaper, only with brass trimmings and smoky etched glass panels. I was playing a hunch—call it a small hunch inside a larger one—and the smaller one paid off just about when I had given up on it.

Licata, still in the white sport coat, black t-shirt and white slacks, strolled into the restaurant with Tiffany on his sleeve. Despite a number of parties who were ahead of them, they were immediately swept to a private booth. Tiffany was in a low-cut black mini-dress, similar to the white Marilyn one but much shorter, and couldn’t have displayed her Playboy credentials more openly unless she’d been nude with staples.

Since they were just getting here and I’d already had my meal, I ordered some cherry cheesecake and poked at it endlessly, irritating people waiting for a table. Thankfully Tiff and Lou did not linger over dinner, and when (forty minutes later) they left, I left, too, signing my dinner to Eric Conrad’s room.

Surreptitiously, I watched them step into the elevator, and then I moved back into the casino where I bumped into Ginger.

“Hi Jack,” the little redhead said. She had nice blue eyes that went well with the freckles. “We’re torn down and ready to go. Some of us are going out to a little blues bar tonight. You wanna join the fun?”

“Prior commitment, Ginger,” I said. “Rain check?”

“Sure,” she said. She looked a little disappointed. It was one of those moments when I wished I was someone else.

I took a few minutes to watch her go, because that well-shaped behind in a pair of jeans was enough to make me believe in God again. For a few seconds, anyway. Then I found my way to a poker machine that had an angled view on the elevators. I wasn’t really expecting to see a familiar face, but my hunch was just a hunch, and any intel at all that I could gather might prove helpful.

About half an hour later, Tiffany exited the elevator. Alone. She was very much dressed down—white hair ponytailed back, zip make-up, a loose yellow blouse that downplayed her formidable chest, and jeans that weren’t loose but neither did they allow bystanders to make a visual gynecological exam, like other jeans I’d seen her in.

This provided just enough corroborating evidence to make me feel like I was on to something. Another twenty minutes should do it, and it was a good thing I waited, because just when I was getting ready to ditch the poker machine and head upstairs, I hit a royal flush and made $85.

By the time I’d cashed in my quarters for folding money, half an hour had passed since Tiffany exited that elevator and gone wherever the hell she’d gone. Maybe to join Ginger and the gang at the blues club.

Half an hour passing might be just fine for my sketchy purposes. This was something of a crapshoot, but what the hell? It was a casino wasn’t it?

I took the elevator up to the twelfth floor, Top of the Mark where the Four Jacks was concerned, and took out the key to Eric Conrad’s room and got the nine millimeter into my hand—my left hand, while with my right I worked the key in the lock, quietly—and I slipped into the Presidential Suite.

Nobody was in the living room with its red plush sofa and red-and-gold drapes, but sound was coming from the ajar door to the bedroom. Make that sounds: two voices, both grunting, but in different ways. One grunting forcefully, the other mingling pleasure and pain.

Here’s the funny part. Funny ironic, I mean.

Eric was up on the brass bed on his hands and knees facing me, and Licata was behind him, delivering the male shall we say, both naked, their position a direct echo of that moment when I entered Joni’s bedroom back in La Mirada and found her getting her bottom pounded by that mechanic, Williams.

There was no significance to the similarity, just an odd resonance. I guess I’m not experienced enough to know whether that’s standard for rear-entry fun-and-games, but in my experience, my partners and I (females all, I’ll have you know) were on the bed facing the headboard. But Joni and Williams, and now Eric and Licata, had their backs to the headboard, conveniently facing the doorway.

Which was fine with me, because I would rather look them in the eye, anyway.

Both froze, Licata in mid-thrust.

Eric’s shocked expression was almost comical, but there was nothing funny about the sneering anger on the mobster’s face.

Then, when I raised the hand with the nine millimeter in it, letting it point at them like a scolding finger, their expressions changed respectively to abject fear and cold hatred.

“Fellas,” I said, “disengage.”

They did so and the actor, as chagrined as he was frightened, scrambled back and got the covers over him with just his handsome head popping up. Licata, his chest black with hair, remained on his knees, as defiant as his erect member.

“Let’s get something straight,” I said, and immediately regretted putting it that way, “I don’t give a fuck what you boys do to each other. You are neither one of you in danger.”

Licata, despite having a gun on him, said, “You are.”

But his dick had started to wilt.

I said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Eric, you just stay here in the bedroom and relax. Don’t use that phone. Don’t call for security or anybody else—just think how embarrassing this could be. How damaging.”

Eric nodded. In fact, he nodded about half a dozen times.

“Lou,” I said to the proud little mobster, “I need a word with you in the other room. This gun is no threat to you as long as you cooperate. I’m only holding it on you for my protection, because I understand that you’re a powerful man. And, yes, I understand, too, that I’m potentially the one in danger here. On the other hand, I do have the gun.”

Licata growled, “What do you want from me?”

“First, relax. You don’t need to be defensive. Your secret is safe with me.”

Eric said to the mobster, “Jack’s gay, too.”

Licata snapped, “No he isn’t, you dumb cunt!...What, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Put on your pants and join me in the other room.”

He took time to put on his boxers and his white slacks, but when I waved the nine mil, he understood that the rest of his wardrobe was to remain behind.

I let him out of the bedroom, and shut the door on Eric. Then I motioned the barefoot mobster to the red plush couch; when he’d perched himself on its edge, poised for just the right moment to take the gun away from me, I pulled up a matching red chair and sat across from him.

“Sit back,” I said.

He did. His hands were in his lap. His trigger finger was twitching.

“If you behave,” I said, “everything’s going to be peachy keen. If you make a try for me, then you just enjoyed your last cornhole...capeesh?”

He sighed heavily—contempt was in it. Understandably. But he nodded. His eyes were hooded and he was so very fucking pissed.

I asked him, “Do you have any reason to want Arthur Stockwell dead?”

His frown of confusion could not have been more complete. And I saw nothing fake in it. But there was real indignation.

He blurted, “What the fuck...? Artie’s directing the picture! Why would I want that?”

“Well, somebody wants him dead. And you were the prime candidate because, just before this production started, Stockwell had a fling with Tiffany. You remember her—your girlfriend? Main squeeze? Love of your life?”

“Why would I give a fuck about him fucking her?”

I was studying him. “That’s what I’m trying to figure. The only way it plays is if you are so intent to portray that bimbo as your mistress, you feel it necessary to prove the point by getting rid of somebody who really did fuck her.”

“Stupid,” he muttered.

“I mean, I caught on this afternoon—when we spoke, and when I saw how you and Tiff behaved on set—that she was your beard. Why else would you want your PR man to spread pictures of such a forbidden relationship? Unless you were in another relationship even more taboo. No whisper of your real sexual proclivities can be allowed, right, Lou? So you have a wife and kids, and a mistress, a Playboy playmate that the goombah crowd can envy you over with their mouths wide open and watering.”

“Like Don Rickles says,” Licata said nastily, “you win a cookie. But no fucking way would I want Artie dead. He’s too useful to me.”

“Sure. If his movies make money, well, hell, that’s money. If they lose money, then you have the perfect laundry. But there’s another possibility.”

The mustache emphasized his sneer. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

“My understanding is that Art is insured. That if he went down, something called a ‘completion bond’ would kick in. An insurance company would write you a big fat check to cover production costs of a film that never got finished.”

He folded his arms. “Why would that be a good idea? The money would come in, and everybody would get paid off. So what? How do I stand to benefit?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that.”

“Well, don’t sprain yourself. Anyway, if I needed to shut the production down, I’d get rid of somebody above the line who’s more easy to replace, like that kiss-ass producer or...” His next words were sotto voce. “...one of the stars.”

I leaned forward, still pointing the gun at him, but not as threateningly. “Lou, somebody took a contract out on Art.”

“Says who?”

“Says the two assholes I iced since I got here. One today, one day before yesterday.”

“The fuck.”

“The fuck, Lou. The first guy was doing back-up, the second was arranging an accidental death for Art. I saw the doctored pills he was planning to switch with Art’s Percodan. That guy, the second guy? He had an accident this morning at the Spur in his own bathroom. Probably won’t be found for a while, since he has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ on his door.”

“...Who are you?”

“I used to work for the Broker out of the Quad Cities.”

“...Shit you say. Somebody killed him.”

“He was in a dangerous business.”

“What’s your business, Reynolds? What’s a guy who hits people doing hitting other guys who hit people?”

“Like you said, Lou—it’s my business. I’m working for Art, making sure he survives this film shoot. Call me a bodyguard or a troubleshooter, but however you put it, I’ve taken the immediate threat away...but do I have to tell you, Lou, that if somebody has marked Art for murder, another team won’t be far behind?”

He huffed a laugh. “So you think I’m the guy who wants him dead? Well, you’re fuckin’ nuts!...So what now, kill me and that innocent kid in the other room? You are one sick fuck.”

I sat looking at him. The nine millimeter, unsilenced, might bring attention. There was a pillow on the couch I could grab and use. And maybe just stuffing the snout in his gut would muffle the sound enough to get by. All that hair on him might help.

But then his honeybunch would come running in or maybe just start screaming, and then what? Collateral Damage starring Eric Conrad. Playing a hunch, doing things on the fly, it had its drawbacks.

“I don’t think you’re the guy who wants Art dead, Lou.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m not.”

“Not interfering with me, and my work, would benefit you. In fact, any theories you might have about who stands to gain from Art’s death, I’d like to hear.”

He shrugged. “Probably that wife of his. Art has money. Nice house in the Hills. She’d get it all. And he fucks around on her with other women, like you said. Kill her ass, why don’t you? And leave me the fuck alone.”

“Do I need to kill you, Lou?”

“What?”

“Convince me I don’t need to kill you. Maybe we can be allies.”

“I already helped you, didn’t I? With my theory?”

“If you really don’t want your director dead—and to have your movie hit a real bad speed bump—just forget we had this conversation, and we’ll go our separate ways. You forget I barged in on you waving a gun, and I’ll forget you were playing slap and tickle with Billy Jack.”

He didn’t even have to think about it. “I can do that.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“...Are you the one they call Quarry?”

“I might be.”

“I won’t lie to you.”

I stood. “Good. I can’t hang around forever, because even in a casino town, suspicious deaths attract attention.”

“What did you do with the surveillance bozo?”

“I smacked him with a hunk of rubber.”

“Why would that kill him?”

“It was on a car at the time.”

I put the nine mil in my waistband. I buttoned the sport coat over it. I stared at the seated mobster for a while, my expression telling him he was free to make a try for me. It was no Wild West stunt. The guy was unarmed and smaller than me. He didn’t make a move.

But if I said I wasn’t shaking a little when I shut the door on the Presidential Suite and headed for the elevators, I’d be lying.

TEN

Just off the lobby of the Spur was a little bar, where I sat in a back booth with the director of Hard Wheels 2.

I’d run into Stockwell in the hotel parking lot, a little surprised we were getting back around the same time, the day’s shoot having wrapped well before I’d gone up to the Presidential Suite for my threesome with Conrad and Licata.

I told the director we needed to talk, and now we sat across from each other in the bar’s underlit little world, our conversation granted a certain privacy by the blaring, thudding disco music (“I Will Survive!”). I was allowing myself a rum and Coke and my friend Art was drinking rye and ginger ale.

Not surprisingly, he again looked beat, his eyes droopy, his face puffy, though he was handsome enough a guy to carry it well. His black t-shirt said, HARD WHEELS —Where the Rubber Meets the Road, with a butch-looking Eric Conrad astride a Harley. An artifact from the first movie, I assumed.

I asked, “Why are you just getting back?”

“Just having an end-of-day confab with Jimmy,” he said.

“Where is Kaufmann? You two are usually joined at the hip.”

“On his way to Vegas to pick up the rushes from the film lab. That’s the stuff we shot yesterday, or anyway the takes I marked for processing.”

“You look at the footage as you go along?”

“Sure.” He savored a sip of his drink. “That way we know before we’re too far down the road whether we have some technical problem or a scratch on the film or some shit, and need a re-shoot.”

“You do this every day?”

“Every night. There’s kind of a frustrating lag, because we don’t get the dailies from that Vegas lab in time to look at them in the morning before we start the next day’s work. Like, tonight we’re looking at the footage of the gas station fight yesterday. We’ve already struck that set...moved on, I mean...and if we find a fuck-up, it will be a giant hassle re-doing it.”

That explained the late nights for Stockwell and his producer—after each day’s shoot, they had to watch the dailies.

“The weekend’s a real pain in the ass,” the director said. “The local cinema complex can’t spare a theater for us until after their nine o’clock show. So we can’t screen the shit till sometime after eleven.”

Poor bastard. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, or anyway the weight of this production, but maybe that was a good thing. With so much on his mind, he didn’t have time to sweat the small stuff—like who wanted his ass dead.

“You may be relieved to know,” I said, “that I’ve eliminated Licata.”

His dark eyes flared. “What? Jesus, Jack, what the hell have you—”

“No, no. Not that kind of eliminate. Lou’s alive and well.”

Stockwell heaved a relieved sigh.

“What I mean is,” I continued, “I’ve determined to my satisfaction that your mob angel is not the party responsible for your problem.”

The eyes in the pouches burned bright. “So Licata doesn’t know about Tiff and me?”

“He does, but he doesn’t give a shit.”

Stockwell frowned in confusion. “How is that possible?”

“Art, there are some things it’s better you not know. Safer that way. Leave it that Lou likes being seen as a guy who’s banging a Playmate of the Year. Good for his image.”

“But he has no...no emotional investment in Tiffany?”

“None.” I squinted at him, and it wasn’t just the smoky bar. “Do you really think anybody but Tiffany could ever have an emotional investment in Tiffany?”

A big-hair brunette waitress in a fringe vest, denim miniskirt and a little less make-up than a circus clown came over and asked if we wanted refills. Stockwell said yes to a refill, but I was still working on my first one.

“The problem is,” I said, when the waitress had gone, “I was fairly confident Licata was our guy. With him ruled out, I’m not sure where to turn.”

Stockwell leaned forward. Despite the disco (“Le Freak!”), his whisper was not hard to hear: “But I’m still on the spot. I’m still marked for...what? An accident?”

“For something,” I said with a little shrug. “I need to know who benefits from you not being around. How about your wife?”

“Please. We’ve been down that road. J.J. and me, we love each other. Love each other in our way, but love each other. She has half of everything even if she walks out on me. Why would be she want me...” He whispered again. “...gone?”

“For both halves of everything?”

He shook his head firmly. “No. Not J.J. Never J.J. She’s just not that kind of person.”

My experience indicated otherwise, but I didn’t think now was the time to fill the director in on—what was the movie term? Backstory? The backstory of his wife and my ex-wife and how they were the same chick.

So I just said, “There’s only a limited amount of time here where I can be helpful. I have disposed of two pieces of shit for you...” I had to be euphemistic, because even with the loud disco (“Knock On Wood”), we were after all in a public place. “...and that could mean ramifications.”

His eyes narrowed. Again, not just the smoky bar. “Authorities getting interested?”

I nodded. “I frankly think it’s a long shot, but I didn’t make it past thirty by taking needless risks. I can give you maybe two more days.”

“Christ—then what?”

“Well,” I said with a shrug, “I would advise taking on security, and I don’t mean more Hell’s Angels retreads. I’d go to the baddest-ass P.I. agency in Vegas, hire some bodyguards through them, and tell their boss that you have reason to believe a contract has been taken out on you.”

“He’ll want to know why, won’t he?”

“Not if you give him enough money. You can point out that one of your film backers is Louis Licata, and he’ll understand the kind of waters you’re swimming in. Steer him away from Licata, though.”

“Christ on a fucking crutch. That’s my best option?”

“There’s Licata himself. He’s the money man behind your picture, and I don’t think he wants you dead. He has the resources to help.”

“Should I go to him now?”

I shook my head. My response was only partly based on my desire for a second twenty-five grand. “Our pal Lou, uh...he probably needs a day or two to cool off. He may not be thinking with a clear head just yet. Had to rattle his cage pretty hard, before I could figure out what was up.”

Specifically, his dick up Eric’s ass.

Stockwell rubbed his forehead. “How soon will another...team be brought in?”

“That’s the only advantage we have. Whoever hired this done probably doesn’t know yet that the first team has been permanently benched. There is usually a buffer involved. Professionals in my business are protected by layers.”

“I don’t follow...”

“Whoever hired this did not deal directly with the team. Probably he or she talked to someone in Licata’s world—not Licata’s family, just some organized crime contact—and this thing was put in motion.”

He was swirling what was left of his second drink in its glass, looking in at the liquid like it might have better answers than mine for him. “But eventually somebody’s going to figure out that something went wrong, Jack, since I’m still around.”

“No argument. We might have forty-eight hours. Let me ask you something—this completion bond thing. How does it work?”

He shrugged. “It pays off the production. Pays the salaries. Pays the bills.”

“If something happened today, to shut this production down—how easy would it be to complete the movie?”

“Not easy. We aren’t nearly halfway. It’s vaguely feasible another director could be brought in, but one director picking up immediately for another...very tough. And if you shut the production down even for a week or two, to allow the second guy to do even a little prep, you can lose cast and crew to other commitments.”

“What if this were, say, two weeks from now?”

“More feasible. Bulk of the film would be in the can. Some of the actors would be shot out, including Tiffany, though not Eric, who is run-of-the-picture.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you often shoot your name talent out. By that I mean, you shoot all of their scenes. We don’t shoot this shit in order, you know. So let’s say I have a name player—at the Four Jacks this afternoon, you must have recognized the guy playing our villain, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I only have him for four days. Only way we could afford him. Today was his first day with the company. Once all his scenes are shot, he’s gone. Back to Hollywood.” The director gave me a frowny smile. “Why do you want know this technical stuff, Jack?”

“I don’t give two shits about the technical side, Art. It’s just that...if this completion bond money is the motive behind taking you out, then that means any accident you have needs to happen soon.”

“Is that bad for us? Or good?”

“Neither. It just is. It does give me a glimmer of who might be responsible.”

“Who are you thinking?”

I told him, and he just laughed. He waved that off, saying, “You’re crazy. That’s impossible. You can’t be serious. Don’t waste any time going there.”

“All right,” I lied. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

I was hoping that the kiddies would be out of the pool by ten—that was the Spur’s supposed cut-off for swimming, as you may recall—and I got my wish. A young married couple was in the hot tub for the first ten minutes, but otherwise I had the pool to myself.

The water had just enough coolness to contrast nicely with the humidity-free warmth of an evening enjoying a sultry breeze. The sky was like a special effect that the Hard Wheels 2 budget couldn’t manage—a Cheshire Cat smile of a moon and a scattering of sparkly stars. Desert night sky had a look of its own, faintly surreal, even from a hotel swimming pool.

I’d been swimming easy laps and was floating on my back, looking up at that phony sky, when somebody dove in. Somehow I knew it was Joni.

It was.

She had her long dark hair rubber-banded back and was in the skimpy red bikini. She began treading water. I treaded water, too, and went over near her and said, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“What is this about, Jack?”

“Your husband hasn’t told you?”

“No.”

“Then it isn’t my place to.”

I swam over to the side of the pool and climbed up and sat there dripping. She swam over and treaded water some more. Looking up at me with big lovely brown eyes.

“You were...telling the truth the other night?”

“About what, Joni?”

“About my husband being in danger. Death threats?”

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t just some...some head trip you were pulling? To get even with me?”

“Putting you through a ‘head trip’ wouldn’t quite do it.”

Her hands moved in the water as if she were hiking through high brush. “Art hasn’t said anything. I keep asking him what’s bothering him, and he just says it’s a tough shoot. That’s all. Not sharing anything.”

“His prerogative.”

Breathing fairly hard, she said, “I want to know what’s going on, Jack. Am I in danger, too?”

Collateral damage again.

“I don’t think so. Maybe. I don’t want to see you die or anything.”

That made her smile. Bitterly, but she smiled, still treading, spitting a little water now and then. “What about what you said the other night? About ‘all of the above?’ ”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“That’s almost like...almost like hearing you say still love me, Jack.”

“I don’t remember saying I ever stopped.”

She treaded water some more.

“Listen,” I said, “if you want him dead, just say so.”

She frowned. “Are you kidding? What a terrible thing to say.”

“Yeah, well...maybe I was just kidding.” I got up, trunks dripping heavily onto the concrete like a hard lazy rain. “Good night, Joni. Enjoy the rest of your swim.”

From off the nearby deck chair, I got my towel—it had the nine millimeter wrapped in it again, not to impress my ex, just because I thought the shit on this job was getting deep enough that maybe having a weapon handy wasn’t a bad thing.

I went up to my room, took a hot shower, and put on my jockey shorts to sleep in. I felt relaxed physically, no kinks in my shoulders or neck, but my mind was twitching in a way I didn’t much care for.

I put the nine millimeter on the nightstand and got under between the sheets and played with the remote a while. Johnny Carson was a rerun and I had just about settled on an old Randolph Scott western (well, hell, all Randolph Scott westerns were old, weren’t they?) when somebody knocked on the door.

I got out of bed, nine mil in hand, and used the little peephole.

You’re ahead of me again, right?

Joni.

She was in a short white terrycloth robe and her hair was still damp from the swim. The darkness of her tan sharply contrasted with the white of the robe.

I let her in.

Shut and night-latched the door. The only light on was the TV, but the volume was muted. It threw a shifting, shimmering light on the room not unlike the effect of the under-lighting down at the pool.

She took the gun from my hand and set it gently on the nightstand, like she knew where it went, then undid the belt at her waist and dropped the robe to the floor, leaving just the skimpy damp bikini and all that tan flesh.

“Was there something you wanted?” I asked.

“Fuck you, Jack.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The first kiss was passionate but not exactly loving, more like angry and demanding and she was making noises that sounded like tears being held back, or maybe it was rage. The next kiss was yearning and youthful, a real flashback right down to her searching, darting tongue. Then she let me take the bikini top off her and her breasts were larger and not as pert as before, but I recognized them all right, and stroked them and plumped them and kissed them, their dark nipples stark against white flesh untouched by the sun that had darkened the rest of her. Almost the rest of her, because as her long legs stepped up and out of the bikini bottoms, the thatch of tangled brown against the white, white flesh made a contrast that resonated in my memory.

I kissed her neck, I kissed her ears, I kissed her face, here, there, then she dropped down and tugged down my shorts, leaving them around my feet in rumpled confusion, and she moved her mouth down the shaft of me in one long smooth move until her nose was getting tickled by the short and curlies and I thought I would pass out or at least lose my balance. She lavished attention on the old acquaintance standing at attention for her, with her mouth and her hands, kisses and licks and strokes and suckles and when she had me on the verge, she knew to stop and led me by the dick to the bed where she deposited me on my back and climbed on and I was sucked up into that tight familiar warmth and she ground slowly at first, her beautiful features caught in a dreamy, half-lidded state of realized desire, her damp hair dangling in dark tendrils at her shoulders, her slender body, still slender fifteen years later, moving serpentine with a dancer’s fluid grace, and when she came it was a shuddering thing, beaming and crying and whimpering and laughing. I didn’t think I was doing anything but fucking her, and didn’t realize that some of the tears on my face were my own.

She was beside me then, against me, head where my arm and shoulder met, her cheek wet against my chest. She said nothing for endless seconds. I thought she was sleeping, but then she said, “Did you come looking for me?”

“No. It was a coincidence.”

“I don’t know if I believe in those.”

“Well they do happen. Or maybe it was fate. It sure wasn’t God.”

“Jack...Jack. I did love you. I didn’t want you to die over there. I wanted you to come home.”

“You knew I was coming home.”

“I did. But you came home a day early.”

“Really? I’d forgotten.”

“Jack, I was ready to take you back into my life. That afternoon...when everything went wrong...it wasn’t how it looked.”

“Wow. Really?”

“I was just...just saying goodbye to somebody.”

“You know what the Beatles say.”

“All you need is love?”

“You say goodbye and I say hello.”

“...You’re still angry.”

“No. I just didn’t...nothing.”

“What, Jack?”

“Feelings. I thought were dead. Never expected...come back. I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean.”

For maybe a minute we just lay there. I could feel our hearts beating in sync.

Then, very quietly, she asked, “Why did you ask me...?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. Say it.”

“What made you think I wanted Art dead?”

“Because somebody does. And you stand to benefit.”

“You think I could be capable of that?”

“What would ever make me think so?”

“...Jack, that was a long, long time ago. We were both kids. I was a fucked-up kid from a rough goddamn place. I just wanted a better life, Jack. And I never, never, never, never wanted you to die over there.”

“Like your first two husbands, you mean.”

“I didn’t want them to die, either. I didn’t love them like I loved you, but—”

“Please! No.”

“All I wanted was to make you...all three of you...but especially you, Jack...feel alive for a while, have a good time, experience a little joy, before you went over there where...where the odds were so stacked against you.”

“And all you got out of it was monthly paychecks followed by death bennies?”

“What do you want me to say? I gave you something to live for, Jack—can you deny it? Something to come home for? And you came home, didn’t you? You came home.”

“I came home.”

“And we finally had it, didn’t we?”

“What?”

“Our proper homecoming.”

I laughed at that shit and pushed her away.

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” I said, off the bed and onto my feet. “You better go back to your room. Art’ll be back from viewing his dailies before long.”

She looked hurt. Wordlessly, she got out of bed and climbed into the bikini, then sashed the little white robe around herself.

Naked, I escorted her to the door. She was halfway into the hall when she looked back with mournful brown eyes and said, “You’ve changed, Jack.”

“You haven’t,” I said. “Still fucking around on your husband.”

And shut the door on her.

ELEVEN

The phone roused me to darkness, the hotel operator saying, “It’s your wake-up call,” and I thanked her and hung up before glancing at the nightstand clock and saying to myself, It’s four-thirty A.M., what fucking wake-up call?

But that stirred me up enough to realize I had to piss, and on my way to the bathroom, I noticed the white sheet of paper that had been slipped under my door. I picked it up and looked at it with my free hand while I urinated—it was today’s call sheet. For several days I’d been getting these single sheets of paper with a grid of names and other production info, breaking down times for actors and crew members—everybody on the shoot did.

This was Sunday and Hard Wheels 2 normally wouldn’t be shooting, but to accommodate the short schedule of the name actor playing the villain, the production would not have its day off until Wednesday, when he was gone.

On a bigger-budget shoot, this would be an expensive proposition, but I gathered only the name actors and the Teamsters were union, so crew and secondary talent got their normal rates. Working when God rested would allow for a proper “turnaround” so that Stockwell could begin several days of night shooting. All-night shooting.

Anyway, Hard Wheels 2 would be shooting at gas & eats again today, inside this time, the interior turned back into a functioning diner, or the approximation of one. That was the plan, as I understood it. But I’d expected the morning call to be eight a.m., which was typical. And I’d had no intention of going out there till nine or even ten.

The person I wanted to talk to often didn’t show up till fairly deep into the day, and I could use a nice relaxing morning swim and figured I’d have some breakfast and develop a strategy for how I intended to handle what yet needed to be done. I had a feeling that I could arrange for my role on this shoot to wrap today.

The call, however, was for six a.m., not eight or even seven, and a handwritten note to me at the bottom said: “Need to talk right away. Meet me at g & e at five-fifteen. A.S.” g & e was gas & eats, of course, and A.S. was Art Stockwell, so I took a shower and got dressed, another polo shirt and chinos and running shoes.

I won’t say the call sheet struck me as overly suspicious, but this endeavor—my endeavor, not Hard Wheels 2 —was at a stage where I was not about to throw caution to the wind. I didn’t feel I could walk around the set with a nine millimeter in my waistband, even with a sport coat over it; so I took a precaution.

In the bathroom, very carefully, soaping the skin up good, I shaved the hair on my inner thigh with my safety razor. Then I used adhesive tape to strap the knife, actually the handle of the knife (four inches long; the blade lived inside), to the inside of my now smooth-as-a-baby’sbottom inner thigh. Right up next to the old nut sack.

Not that the retractable knife would be anything I could get to quickly. More like a last line of emergency defense. But it was better than going out naked.

I did take the nine millimeter along for the ride, but stowed it in the glove compartment, as I drove out of Boot Heel into a desert enjoying the kind of sunrise where a blob of bright yellow and a horizon of brilliant orange blazed under a purple sky.

I was running early, as I intended. I didn’t even bother to stop for a McMuffin. If there was anything hinky about this invite—I was not familiar with Stockwell’s handwriting, and couldn’t be sure he’d left me the note—I wanted to get there before anybody else, friendly or otherwise, and have a good look around.

The sun was climbing when I got to the isolated world of gas & eats, but mine was the only car. I’d beat everybody here. Hooray—now what? I parked in the usual area, as if Ginger had been here to direct me, and just walked over and prowled around the place, looking in windows—diner unoccupied, the garage side too—and headed around back. I was fifteen minutes ahead of when “A.S.” had asked me to be here.

I tried the back door to what I presumed was the kitchen, but somebody on the other side opened it first, hard, pushing me back, and two familiar bearded faces stepped out, Skull first, followed by Juke, both in their biker leathers and denims.

To their standard ensemble had been added guns in their fists and they wore the wild eyes of guys whose courage came from uppers. They were on me before I could do a fucking thing, one on either side, and they hauled me through the grease-smelling kitchen and around the counter into the diner.

The tables had been swept aside onto the borders of the room and a single chair—chrome and worn padded plastic, sparkle-red—was waiting.

Juke gave me a pat-down but did not go anywhere near my balls. Which meant I had a chance at getting out of this mess. I wasted no time berating myself, because I don’t think under any circumstances I could have seen exactly this coming. No cars had been out front because they’d arrived on their cycles, and I’d glimpsed those at kick-stand ease in the kitchen when I was dragged through.

And why in hell would anybody hold me captive on a movie set that was maybe half an hour away from a film crew showing up?

They shoved me into the chair and Juke did a little maypole dance with duct tape, tying me into the chair, binding me tight. Some of the tape was on the flesh of my arms. Just a couple of trips around my chest. Nothing around my legs. I began wondering how much I could accomplish tied into a chair with just my legs free.

Probably not much, considering they both had little snubby .38s. Matched pair—S & W Model 15 Combat Masterpieces. Two-inch barrel, full-size grips. Somebody bought those for these clowns, or anyway provided them with the weapons, which were too fucking good for them.

Right now skinny Skull, the smarter and more dangerous of the two, was horse-laughing, showing off yellow teeth and a missing incisor in the midst of his scraggly Fu Manchu facial hair. Laughing so hard his leather vest was flapping over his hairy, bony torso. He had a broken, blood-weeping heart tattoo, by the way—on the wrong side of his chest.

So not that smart.

“You got a bogus call sheet, sweetcheeks,” Skull chortled, ponytail swinging. “Today’s shoot got canceled.”

Bandana-headed Juke saw an opening for a funny. “Like maybe your ass gonna get canceled!”

Both of them laughed at that. Higher than fucking kites.

Now I did start to blame myself—any time you’re bested by dipshit trash like this, who else is there to blame?

“What do you boys want?” I asked.

Skull slapped me. He had some rings on—one a skull ring, I’d wager—and it cut the corner of my mouth. I tasted blood.

“Speak when you’re the fuck spoken to,” he said, with a curl of the upper lip that I might have found comical in other circumstances. I chose not to point out that they had in fact been speaking to me.

Then they did something I found odd.

They let me sit there.

They went over to a booth and put the guns on the tabletop—they were seated by the window just to my left and over a ways, near the door—and they played cards for pills.

Each biker had little piles of what I figured were amphetamines. Like poker chips, the colors varied—pale shades of purple, orange, green. Those were the pills. Mixed in were bright orange capsules. I wasn’t paying close enough attention to determine if any of these were worth more for betting purposes. I did figure out they were playing draw poker.

In addition they were drinking cans of beer—Miller, champagne of beers, nothing too good for my hosts—and it didn’t take me long to realize they were holding me for somebody. I had a hunch I knew who that somebody was, but the way they had dug in—cards, smokes, beers, ignoring me—made me figure they weren’t expecting my real host for a while yet.

So there I sat with a stiletto strapped to my thigh and my arms pinned to me. I could almost reach my waistband with either hand, but I was in full view, and that knife was well below where I could reach.

“Guys,” I said.

“Shut-up,” Skull said.

“I gotta piss.”

“Go ahead and piss.”

“Just piss myself you mean.”

Juke said, “Don’t bother us! We’re busy!...Two kings.”

Skull said, “Three tens.”

“Aw, fuck you, Skull! Nobody’s that fuckin’ lucky.”

Skull took no offense, shuffling what looked to me like greasy cards. “I am that fucking lucky. You are looking at the lucky fucker who is that fucking lucky.”

I said, “I piss myself, fellas, it’s gonna smell in here. Worse than you two already do.”

That at least got their attention.

Both ugly faces turned my way. I had a better view of Juke than Skull, not that that was a privilege. But I did sort of enjoy how his face turned bright red under the wispy carrot-color beard and the way his little eyes popped in their pouches.

Then they turned back to their game, not mad enough to come over and cuff me or anything.

Absently, Skull said to me, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” Then to Juke: “Wanna cut?”

“Bet your ass I wanna cut,” Juke said. “These all the cards we got?”

“These are all the cards we got. Hell, man, they’re your cards!”

“My cards maybe. But not my fuckin’ morning.”

I said, “You think the guy you’re holding me for wants to have to talk to somebody who smells like ten kinds of piss? Let me use the fucking can already.”

Skull sighed grandly and threw the cards on the table. “Jesus! You are more fucking trouble than you are worth.” He swiveled in the booth and glared at me. “You know the cans in here aren’t working. Water’s shut off. You were here the other day. You see a honeywagon out there? Not fuckin’ hardly. Hold your goddamn water....Aces and fours.”

“Fuck you, Skull! Shit! Jesus.”

Skull was laughing and hauling in pills.

“Then walk me outside,” I said. “Look, you want me to piss myself? I’ll piss myself. That’ll get you in solid with your boss.”

Juke said, “He’s gettin’ on my fuckin’ nerves, man.”

“You wanna walk him out for a piss,” Skull said reasonably, “walk him out for a piss. But he’s all yours. You gotta unwrap the Christmas present, and wrap it the fuck back up. Whole enchilada.”

“No biggie,” Juke said, and got up and came over quickly, saying back to his partner, “Anyway, I gotta piss, too. You know what they say about beer. You can’t buy it, y’can only rent the sumbitch.”

So Juke leaned over me, smelling like beer and weed and body odor, picking at the edge of where the duct tape had left off, like it was a scab. He found the place, and got the tape going and unwrapped me. Gun in one hand, he yanked me up off the chair by an arm and hauled me back through the kitchen and into the warmth of the outdoors.

Day now.

Sunny sky.

Warm, dry.

Behind the diner, scrubby desert stretched endlessly with the occasional cactus popping up like a hitchhiker thumb.

We stood side by side and he said, “First me,” and—his back to the diner—pissed a yellow stream with admirable arching trajectory. He was on my left, the .38 in his right hand, and was aiming his dick with his left. Ambidextrous pisser, Juke was.

“Now you,” he said.

And I was afraid he was going to stand there next to me, and make it hard if not impossible for me to get at the weapon.

But like most men, he felt uncomfortable watching another man relieve himself, and took several respectful steps back. Juke was just that kind of guy. I could hear him zipping up back there and I unzipped and reached my hand deep through my fly and what I brought back was not my penis.

The click of the retracted blade coming out to smile in the sun was a very small sound in a very large desert, but it might have been a cannon shot. Even Juke heard it, but he did not have time to raise the gun-in-hand before I swung around and jammed the knife point deep into his throat, right under the adam’s apple.

He froze there, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, if that deer were a dunce, anyway, and I moved behind him, the handle of the knife still tight in my fist, and I brought that blade around like I was carving a lid in a jack o’ lantern, getting myself behind him, so that when I finally released the blade from his throat, the arterial spray wouldn’t get on me. Instead, it cut a wide glittery scarlet stream in the sunlight, little diamonds winking off it, making the brief life of that spray a thing of beauty.

Not Juke’s fuckin’ morning.

I didn’t fuck around with Skull.

With the revolver in hand, I moved quickly through the kitchen and into the diner, the pathway putting me behind the counter like I was about to deliver an order. Skull glanced up from shuffling, with eyes that could not have been dimmer if the bullet had already crashed through his skull.

Well, maybe those eyes were a little dimmer, in the aftermath of the gun’s crack, the bullet thudding into the wood wall, and he slammed his head sideways onto the tabletop, looking like a schoolboy napping at his desk, spilling blood onto the pills and the cards. Dying, he shit himself.

He would.

I decided to leave him there. I didn’t see any percentage in moving Juke, either. Nobody was around, and the blood would still be seeping for a while. Not a long while, but a while. We were far enough out of town that my gunshot was about as notable as a coyote howl.

All I did by way of clean-up, or for that matter preparation for my upcoming guest, was go out where I’d dropped the stiletto near Juke and wipe its blade off on his bandana. Some spatter on my hand, from holding the knife, I wiped off on his t-shirt. Then I got my nine millimeter from the car, if only to know where it was, with no intention of shifting from the .38 to my more familiar weapon.

The .38 was nice. Might be worth keeping as a souvenir, or maybe I would take Skull’s, since Juke’s had been used in a killing.

So I just sat in the booth to the right of the door—Skull was in the booth to its left, not at all talkative—and waited, doing my best to ignore the shit stench. I did not partake of the beers that the bikers had brought along—a cooler was in back of the counter—because the last thing I wanted was to really have to piss.

A little before six-thirty, a key worked in the locked front door.

Then James Kaufmann entered, and frowned at the empty chair. His nose twitched at the strong foul odor. It sent his gaze toward Skull, and the producer seemed about to duck out when I rose and got into his view and displayed the .38.

“Have a seat, Bubba,” I said.

“What the hell happened here, Jack?” he asked. “I was just coming out to—”

“We’re going to skip the bullshit.”

With the snubby, I indicated the chair in the middle of an otherwise empty floor, where the abandoned strapstrands of duct tape lay near the chair legs like the Invisible Man had undressed himself and gone for a stroll.

Slowly the producer moved to the chair. I shut the door for him. He sat. He was in a light-blue polo shirt, darker blue slacks, and Italian loafers with no socks. He wore the puka necklace again and the pink-tinted aviators.

I sat on one of the diner stools, facing him. I told him to turn the chair so I could look at him, and added, “Take the fucking sunglasses off. I want to see your eyes.”

They were light blue, attractive but badly spider-webbed red.

“Where...” he began. “Where’s the other one?”

“Juke? Out back. With his throat cut.”

Here’s the funny part. Whether funny ha ha or funny ironic, I will leave to you and your individual tastes. He pissed himself.

And he started crying. Tears ran down his pockmarked cheeks. I figured he was probably a sociopath or at least a very, very selfish prick, and was fairly sure this was the only kind of instance that might summon real tears from him.

“I’m gonna make this quick,” I said, “because it stinks in here. Between you pissing yourself, and Skull over there shitting himself...well, I don’t figure the health inspector’s going to approve this place without some major effort.”

He swallowed. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he snuffled snot. “Who...who sent you?”

“That’s the question you wanted to ask me, isn’t it, Jimbo? Well, you don’t get it answered. You’re afraid maybe Licata got wind of your scheme, and sent me, right? Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know.”

“Why...why not tell me?”

“Why give you the satisfaction?” I shook my head. “He told you, didn’t he? Stockwell told you about me. Not in detail, just that somebody was trying to kill him and I was here to help. Right?”

Swallowed. Snuffled. Nodded.

“When—last night?”

Swallowed. Snuffled. Nodded.

I grunted a laugh. “Right after I told the bastard that I suspected you. I should leave here right now and let you hire somebody new and just kill the motherfucker. He could use a lesson in reality.”

“Artie...Artie didn’t believe I could do such a thing.”

“Because you went to school together. Because you were best friends, all these years. Best man at his wedding.”

More nodding. No more tears. “We were tight...we were like brothers. I was closer to him than...than his goddamn wife ever was. He never thought...never thought I could do that to him.”

“Most poor boobs never think the person they love would ever cheat on them,” I said. “Artie Baby just joined the biggest fucking club in the world.”

“...Are you going to tell him?”

I nodded over at Skull. “You should be more concerned about whether I’m going to kill your sorry ass.”

Now he looked like more tears might come. “Why... why did you do that? Why would you kill them?”

“They grabbed me at gunpoint and tied me to a chair. I would have killed them for just one of those. And you were the one who told them to do it.”

This time he swallowed very slow and hard. Then he held his head up high. Proud. “So just kill me. You might as well kill me. I’m finished anyway.”

“I’m not sure you are. Weasels like you always find a way. Some new sucker to befriend and fool. You’ve got a pretty smooth line. When I ruled out Licata, and played process of elimination, I got to thinking about who might have been able to provide a contract killer with a key to Stockwell’s hotel room...and you came to mind. You’re the producer, who booked all the rooms and pays for them. Just a little clue, but suggestive.”

Kaufmann said nothing.

“But here’s what I don’t get. The completion bond—that’s a risky proposition. It’s possible that before an insurance company paid off, another director would be brought in to finish the picture.”

He shrugged. “Possible. Not likely.”

“You used to be in insurance, Jimbo. What’s the rest of the scam? What else have you set up?”

His smile was small but oddly proud. “We’re business partners, Artie and me. He has a quarter million-dollar policy on my life, I have a quarter-million policy on his.”

“Double indemnity for accidental death?”

He nodded. His hands were in his lap. I don’t need no stinking duct tape.

“So...what? You’re in charge of the money, and you’ve embezzled? The director dies and the completion bond pays the bills. But wouldn’t what you took show up anyway?”

“Give me a little credit. I’m the accountant, too, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Please. We’re past that, Jimbo. Make it Jack. Hell, make it Jacko.”

“I only...only took what I had coming to me.”

“Explain.”

He shrugged. “Both Art and me, we took a very small part of our salaries up front. The rest is back-end. Paid only out of profits. But with a sequel to a hit picture, that should be lucrative. Only...we would run out of production money first, because of...you know.”

“Because of what you stole. How much back-end money was coming to you, Jimbo?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“You were going to have your best friend killed, for two hundred thousand?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s the other policy.”

“That’s right! Half a million. Well, that’s different. Snuffing your best friend for seven-hundred thou. Who wouldn’t do that?”

He lowered his head. His eyes looked sleepy now. Defeated. “...Are you going to kill me?”

“Where did the money go, Jimbo?”

He snuffled. Then he tapped his nose.

And it finally made sense: drug addicts will sell anybody out for their needs. Mom, Dad, Sis. Best friends? In a heartbeat. An accelerated heartbeat.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said with a sigh, sliding off the stool, revolver in hand. “You have a busy afternoon ahead of you. You are going to go buy yourself a shovel, and some cleaning products, and you are going to clean up my mess. Which is to say, your mess.”

“I don’t...I...”

“A shovel, some Lysol, some Brillo pads and maybe some rubber gloves. Pretty much all you’ll need. Drive these dead assholes into the desert, dig a nice deep hole— you’ll need six feet, minimum, or the predators will make a buffet out of ’em, but still leaving enough behind to make it risky. These boys worked for you on your movie, and if even table scraps of them turn up, questions will be asked.”

He was astounded. Horrified. He almost had the nerve to get up out of the chair. “We’re going to bury the bodies?”

“No!” I had a good laugh at the thought of that. “No, you’re going to bury the bodies. And clean up the blood and the shit. The blood out back, on the ground—buckets of soapy water maybe? To dilute it down to nothing?”

“You’re...not to going to kill me?”

“Not unless your friend Art wants me to. I’m going to tell him you embezzled...two hundred K? Better come clean if it’s more.”

“No. That’s all.”

“Fine. I’m going to tell him you weren’t responsible for the hit team being sent in. That somebody you owed money did that, and that I have killed that somebody’s ass. He won’t want to know any more than that. That will satisfy him.”

Kaufmann almost smiled—he could hardly believe his good luck, running into a decent guy like me.

I opened the door for him. He zombie-walked out.

“You really gonna leave that open?” I asked, and he gave me a dazed look.

“What’s the term you movie people use?” I said. “It’s a hot set. We don’t need anybody blundering in and fucking with it, do we?”

He got my drift, and locked the diner door.

Couldn’t have any weary traveler stopping by thinking GAS & EATS was open for business, and stumble upon Skull in his booth, where the blood pooled on the playing cards was getting all black and crusty and nasty.

Kaufmann walked to his rental Lincoln, and I headed over to my lowly Nova. No wonder the production’s money was running through his fingers—a Lincoln!

But before he got in his car, he found the guts to turn and ask me something.

Called out, “Why...why would do this for me?”

“Not for you. For my client. For the director of this picture. Somebody he loved fucked him over. I been there. Now go buy yourself a shovel.”

TWELVE

By the time I got back to the Spur, it was late morning. I found Arthur Stockwell in his hotel room, spending his unexpected day off sitting at that table where I first saw him, again going over storyboards, also making notes off his script, which was in a hardshell notebook.

His wife was down at the pool, having a swim, he said, so the timing was good for a private talk.

Again he wore a t-shirt—this one black with a Good, the Bad and the Ugly image on it—and jeans. He looked like he’d had more sleep than had been his recent habit, and less puffy, the leading man appearance back, his general aura one of feeling better. But I would take care of that.

I sat at the table and told him the bullshit story as I’d outlined it to Kaufmann—his old friend had embezzled, someone bad who Jimbo owed money hired the hit team, and I took care of that someone. Pretty much that vague.

“So I’m finished here,” I said matter of factly. “Unless you’re mad enough at your old buddy to have me do something about him.”

Stockwell had been sitting there, hangdog, staring into nothing but disappointment and near despair, but my suggestion brought his face up sharply. “No! No. For Christ’s sake, no. I couldn’t live with that.”

“I could.”

“I couldn’t.” He shook his head; his eyes were welling. “Jim’s my best friend. Or was my friend. I...I don’t know now. It’s not just childhood days together...or him standing up with me and Joni. It’s also...Jack, I’d have never made it in the independent movie business without his help...his support. He must have some terrible problem to sink so low.”

“Sure. He snorts coke.”

“Yes, but why does he snort coke? What demons drove him to it? What could make him betray his best friend?”

I would leave it to him to chase the cause and effect of that down whatever touchy-feely rabbit holes he chose.

We spoke briefly about how my payment would be made, and then I asked him, “Surely you’re going to fire his ass.”

But the director shook his head. “No. I’m going to sit down with him. I’m going to give him a chance to explain this thing. And then I’m going to let him know that no matter what he’s done, I am still his friend.”

I shrugged. “Your choice.” I stood. “Good luck with the picture.”

It took Stockwell a couple of seconds to realize I was standing, but he got to his feet somehow and shook hands with me. He was a zombie. Like Kaufmann had been, walking out of that diner.

“Say goodbye to your wife for me,” I said.

“Uh...will do.”

I was almost out the door when he called, “Jack!... Jack, what am I thinking? Thanks! I mean, after all, you...you did save my life.”

“You’re welcome. Get that money to me, as we agreed, or you’ll have a problem worse than the one I solved for you.”

For some reason that made him smile. “You’re not as bad as you pretend to be.”

I smiled back at him. “Art, you’re the one in the business of make-believe.”

I’d had enough of a morning to justify another shower. I made it a long, hot one. Then I got into my one remaining fresh change of clothes, a gray t-shirt and gray jeans. Since my running shoes were gray, I looked like a man with a plan.

In a way, I had one.

I knew—even if I had told Arthur Stockwell the real truth about poor troubled Jimmy Kaufmann—that the director would not have the stones to let me rid the world of that evil scumbag.

And I also knew that me short-circuiting Kaufmann’s attempt to have his “best friend” eliminated didn’t necessarily mean no further tries would be made. Maybe not on this movie, but on the next, or the next. That life insurance on Stockwell hadn’t been taken out for Kaufmann not to cash it in....

Very soon I would contact my new best friend Louis Licata and let him know every dirty detail of Kaufmann’s plan. Licata would not put up with a producer on a picture he was backing embezzling, much less planning to kill that picture’s director in a murder-for-insurance payoff scheme.

I didn’t have to kill Kaufmann because Licata would see to that happening when I was happily somewhere else. He had the resources. And I, of course, would suggest that another accidental death specialist, like Nick Varnos but maybe a little better, be brought in. I liked the street justice of Stockwell benefitting from Kaufmann’s demise.

I packed and soon was stowing my carry-on bag in the backseat of the Nova. Damn near climbed in front and drove off. But I guess I needed one last little fix.

She was in the hot tub, by herself. The half-dozen kids in the pool were too much for her.

I knelt beside her and she looked up at me, curious.

“Everything’s fine,” I said.

“You took care of the threat?”

I nodded.

“Did you see the paper today?” she asked.

“No.”

“Two men died. One right here in the hotel, just yesterday. The other one got run over out on some lonely road.”

All roads were lonely when you got run over on them.

She was saying, “They’re being called suspicious deaths. Do you know anything about them, Jack?”

“Why would I?”

“Does it have anything to do with the threat to Art?”

“What if it did?”

“Jack...Jack, who are you, anyway?”

I grinned at her. “Why, just your ever-loving ex.”

That made her laugh. “It was good to see you again. Maybe...maybe we settled a few things.”

“I don’t want to kill you anymore, if that’s progress.”

“What about...the other?”

“We did that already. It was okay.”

She laughed gently. “It was more than okay, Jack. It showed me what...what might have been.”

“Don’t go all sentimental on me, Joni. It spoils your image.”

Her dark wet hair, that deep tan, those big beautiful eyes, that slender shape, the long legs...just like on the beach, when we were babies....

“You saved my husband’s life, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why, Jack? Why would you do that for me?”

“Who said it was for you? I did it for money.”

“You did it for money, huh?” Her wet hand reached up and grasped my dry forearm and clasped. “Why really, Jack?”

I plucked her hand off, kissed it, then stood.

I was walking away when I paused just long enough to glance back at her.

“Let’s just say I owed you one,” I said.

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Sample Chapter From

THE FIRST QUARRY!

ONE

The night after Christmas and all through the house, it was colder than fuck.

The home was new, brand-new, with the various smells of paint, plastic and disinfectant you might expect. Even the carpet I was sitting on, next to a window onto the quiet street, had a chemical odor. No Christmas decorations lingered here, because the split-level four-bedroom affair was as empty as the boxes littering curbsides across America.

And this was America, all right—Iowa City, Iowa, the heartland, the street out front not really a street at all, but a former county road recently renamed Country Vista, which was ironic because the builders who’d invaded this stretch of farmland-bordered real estate had nothing so much in mind as blotting out a country vista.

Two houses sat on corners on either side of a brandnew lane that made a T with Country Vista, and I sat in one of those houses, the beige split-level on the left as you faced the renamed county road. This new lane had no name yet, just as its dozen split-levels (so far) had no inhabitants; the waiting dwellings squatted on sloping future lawns—snow-pocked dirt right now—with room for an entire development to develop beyond.

This must have pissed off the people across the way no end. The houses opposite had plenty of breathing room, big yards for little cottages, no two alike—from log to stone to brick—with only three visible from my window, even if I craned my neck either direction. Country Vista had once been quiet, even secluded, with trees and bushes and privacy. Right now it still was, though any non-evergreen trees and bushes were skeletal with clumps of white from last week’s snowfall.

On the other hand, the people in those varied cottages might not have minded as much as you’d think. I knew the cobblestone cottage almost directly across from my split-level was owned by the university and provided as a perk to a visiting professor, and my best guess was the not-too-nearby neighbors were similarly academics making a temporary home of Iowa City. Or anyway five miles from Iowa City, which is what Country Vista was. So the residents of these cottages were just passing through, and people just passing through can only get so indignant.

The house, my split-level, was indeed cold, but I wasn’t, particularly. I’d known that though the electricity was on, the heat wasn’t, and that I dared not turn it on or the lights either, nor was hauling in furniture a good idea. In fact, I wasn’t even sleeping here—I was making use of a Holiday Inn just four miles away. But I had brought in a space heater and that was keeping things nice and toasty. I had thermal underwear from JC Penney and a thermos of hot chocolate filled at a 7-Eleven (coffee is for grownups) where I’d also purchased some plastic-wrapped sandwiches, turkey and cheese, ham and cheese.

Not a bad set-up.

I wondered what cops did, when they had to do surveillance this time of year. Maybe in a big city it wouldn’t be a big deal, sitting in a car with the engine going; but in a college town like Iowa City, and particularly on a quiet country lane like Country Vista, you would stick out like some asshole sitting in his car doing surveillance.

As far as Iowa City itself went, I didn’t stick out at all. I certainly didn’t look like a guy who’d come to town to take out a college professor. And by “take out,” I don’t mean invite to dinner—I was here to put a bullet in the brain (or heart, my option) of a supposedly fairly well-known writer called K.J. Byron. This was a contract kill, and I was the contract killer, even if I looked like just another college kid.

My hair wasn’t as long as most of the guys in this town, but it was longer than it had been, not so long ago. You see while the kids in Iowa City were going to college, I had gone to Vietnam, where I had unwittingly learned a trade. I’d been a sniper, but this job would require closeup work, which was fine. Dead is dead.

Funny thing, the only kids wearing Army khaki or camouflage were hippies, sometimes painting peace symbols on their back or whatever. Any returning vets going to school on Uncle Sugar wouldn’t be caught dead in military gear, although plenty had been caught wounded in it. Certainly my hair wasn’t long enough to pass as one of the Make Love Not War crowd, so I probably looked more preppie or frat boy in my sweaters and blue jeans and corduroy jacket. Only the heavy boots might have given me away, but in Iowa this time of year, not really.

No one, including you, would have made me for any kind of killer, not even one recently back from Nam. The brown hair, long enough to touch my ears, the baby face, the one-hundred-fifty-five pounds on a five-ten frame, were nothing threatening, and mine was a face in the crowd.

Of course there wasn’t much of a crowd in a college town during Christmas break. Only local kids right now, and foreign students, and the handful who for whatever reason hadn’t gone home for mistletoe and holly, by gosh by golly. Older students with apartments might spend a handful of holiday days with Mom and Dad, and would be home soon. But a downtown hopping with bars and boutiques and record stores and head shops that was usually crawling with college kids wasn’t.

I’m not what you’d call a people person, so that didn’t bother me, other than wishing I had additional nonentities around to blend in with. I could have used more hair on my face—these hirsute hippies at least had an excuse in this cold—but if I stopped in for a beer and a burger somewhere, I fit in fine. A university is big enough that nobody, not even a bartender, wonders why they haven’t seen you before.

I had arrived this morning, having flown into Cedar Rapids where I rented a car, a little dark blue Ford Maverick. Iowa City was a half hour drive. I’d checked into the Holiday Inn and had purchased a few things, including the space heater, at a nearby Kmart. I already knew I’d be squatting in that split-level; I even had a key to the place.

Parking in the driveway or pulling into the garage might have aroused suspicion, right across from the target’s residence. The Broker—more about him later —had provided me with a second set of keys that had allowed me to park in the garage of the empty finished home behind mine. I’d been told I could risk camping out in either house, if I didn’t mind the cold. Well, I minded the cold; even a Holiday Inn is preferable to cold.

But I did find it interesting that the Broker had all these keys. He knew things, all sorts of things, and my surveillance was only designed for the most basic fact-finding—specifically, what pattern did Professor Byron maintain over the Christmas break.

Establishing the pattern of a target is key, particularly if collateral damage is undesirable, and let me be frank: collateral damage is where I draw the line. I was willing to protect myself with the death of an innocent bystander, if my survival was at stake; but going around killing people willy-nilly was for psychopaths, not professionals.

Collateral Damage, oddly enough, was the name of a book Professor Byron had written, a so-called non-fiction novel about death by friendly fire in Vietnam. I hadn’t read the book or heard of it, either, but the Broker said it was a bestseller and a pretty big deal. Supposedly the professor had written several critically acclaimed novels that had stiffed but was now making a new name for himself with this non-fiction novel dodge, and I say dodge because I never went to college but I know novels aren’t non-fiction.

Before I had taken this job—not the job of taking out the prof, but the job itself, of killing people for money—I had done a certain amount of soul searching. I had learned to kill in the jungle of Vietnam and figured I could kill in the zoo of America just as easily. When you take somebody out with a sniper scope, though, or you return fire in a rice paddy fire fight, that’s self-defense, even if a sniper represents a preemptive kind of self-defense.

A professional killer taking out a target isn’t self-defense, obviously; but I didn’t figure killing somebody who was already dead was anything I couldn’t live with. Because anybody that somebody else had decided needed to be killed was already dead, at least when that somebody else was powerful enough and determined enough to go the extra yard and hire a killer.

And yet I wouldn’t be the killer, not really. I’d just be the mechanism. The killer had hired the job. And if it wasn’t me, it would be somebody else getting paid. And fuck somebody else, anyway.

Now the Broker had provided the target’s pattern. Somebody had been in before me to do surveillance, and had taken it all down, and I’d been provided with the data. But it was pretty worthless—the Broker knew that—and I’d been told I’d have to basically start from scratch. The hope was that the prof’s life during the uncharted territory of his Christmas break would be leisurely. Maybe he’d burrow in and write a book or something.

No such luck.

I had taken a chance and got started at dusk, parking the Maverick in the garage of the split-level behind my surveillance post (as per instruction), and I had barely settled in at the window, my thermos nearby, a little portable radio quietly playing an FM station that mixed hits with album cuts, when the first female showed up at the cobblestone cottage.

She was driving a little red Fiat and was small and fair and pretty in a Breck Girl kind of way. I took her for a blonde but truth be told she had on a rabbit-fur hat that looked like a beehive hairdo gone wacky (wackier) and I couldn’t see any hair except for dark eyebrows. Her coat was light-green corduroy with a rabbit collar like the hat and she had similarly fur-trimmed tan suede boots with heels. Her legs were black, or that is, her leggings were.

I shut off the radio and cranked the window open enough to let in the cold and some outside sound.

The way she slammed the car door, you just knew she was pissed off. Then she tromped up the graduated cement sidewalk with similar irritated determination; up on the little stoop, she opened the storm door and then her tan-gloved right fist hammered the dark wood of the front door like she was driving a nail. There was a brass knocker, but she apparently preferred hammering.

She paused, waited for ten seconds, then hammered some more.

Nothing.

I knew the prof was in there—I’d seen him moving around through the front room windows, whose curtains were open.

Then the girl—and she was a girl, maybe nineteen—noticed those windows herself and came down off the stoop to tippy-toe at the evergreen bushes to peek in. She seemed to see nothing. Then she strode across the front yard, arms pistoning, pretty little jaw firm, stopped to look in a window of the little free-standing cobblestone garage where the prof kept his Volvo, then disappeared around the house.

I heard some more hammering. I took a bite of turkey and Swiss—pretty bad. Thin slices of would-be meat and processed cheese that took more chewing than cheese really should. I swigged at a Coke—I’d brought a few cans along, for the caffeine, and they stayed cold outside of space heater range—and let its sweetness wash away the bad sandwich. Some more hammering.

Then she came marching around the house on the other side, looking like a soldier in a high school operetta with that high furry hat—you could thank Doctor Zhivago for this shit, I supposed—and she made her way up onto the porch.

She did not hammer.

She screamed: “I know you’re in there, you prick!”

I smiled to myself. Nibbled some more sandwich. With a show to watch, it went down better.

“You fucking, cock-sucking prick!”

I laughed a little. I liked her. But I had a feeling she wasn’t a major player in the melodrama I’d just been inserted into. This was the tail end of her performance, I figured, based upon the surveillance info the Broker gave me.

I was right.

“You mother-fucking, dick-licking son of a fucking bitch!”

I recalled how much trouble a girl I’d known in junior high had got into when she told a friend of hers, who’d moved in on her guy, to go to hell between classes. A week of detention, and lucky not to be expelled. Things had changed in a very few years in this country.

The door opened, not at all tentatively, in fact with a suddenness that showed the novelist had a non-fictional way of making a point. He was tall and he was skinny, a handsome Ichabod Crane, his face narrow and wellcarved with a hawkish nose the dominant feature, his hair dark blonde and shaggy but not hippie-length, his eyebrows unruly. He was wearing a maroon terry-cloth bathrobe, belt knotted at the waist, with a white t-shirt peeking out, and his legs were bare, his feet in slippers.

He looked side to side, perhaps to see if any neighbors were observing this little scene, but his neighbors were well away from him and of course he had no idea I was spying.

He said, “Is this really necessary, Alice? Haven’t we said our goodbyes?”

I think that was what he said. He was speaking at a normal level, and I was across the street, but the clear cold air carried well, and he had a lecture-room baritone.

“You bastard!” she said, and she started pounding on his chest with both gloved fists, at least as hard as she’d hammered the door.

He took her by the shoulders and held her out away from him like an archeologist appraising a find. His arms were long and she was petite. She was screaming at him, no words, not even obscenities, and he shook her, hard, the way you might a child, if you were a sucky parent, anyway.

Turned out I was right, she was a blonde: he shook that rabbit-fur hat right off her head. She had lots of blonde hair, long and flowing, and from my perch she seemed a real doll. But from my perch I knew the prof had already moved on: advance surveillance info indicated Byron’s latest conquest as being a brunette on the tall side, specifically a grad student in his creative writing class name of Annette Girard.

“What we did I’ll never forget,” he told her, clasping her by the arms, working in compassion and regret the way a cook might sprinkle paprika. “But I’m a married man and twice your age. Let’s cherish what we have, and go back to our lives.”

She said something that I couldn’t quite make out; more a whimper than speech, really, but I got the feeling she said she wanted to come in.

That was her best card—she had to play it. If she could get the prof inside that house, then inside her, she was back in the game. I wondered if she knew about the brunette.

“What do you see in that cunt, anyway? She’s a stick! She’s a skinny fucking stick!”

Apparently she knew about the brunette.

“I’m Annette’s faculty advisor,” he said, “and her teacher. She is also my teaching assistant. What we had, you and I, Alice...was special. Unique. My relationship with Annette is strictly...teacher-pupil.”

“Right! Cocksucking 101!”

“That’s enough.” He took her by the arm and he marched her down the stoop’s stairs and the sidewalk, practically dragging her, his bathrobe flapping, belt coming undone, skinny bare legs showing. Her eyes were like a raccoon’s, black-ringed hysteria, the mascara wet and running. Her lips were trembling.

Now she was saying, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” how many times I lost count.

At her car, he looked to his left but not to his right—this I took not to be checking on the neighbors but seeing if anybody was coming from the main drag half a mile or so down. I got the impression this scene with Alice was not one he would like Annette to come in on.

Then it occurred to me that Alice and Annette were both A’s, and were in alphabetical order, at that. Maybe Professor Hefner was working his way through his female students. If so, he was using the second semester list, and starting over. This stud would have covered more ground in the first semester than just a couple of damn A’s.

He deposited her in the car, though the driver’s side door remained open. “Can you drive?”

She responded, behind the wheel, but I couldn’t hear it.

“I tell you what. At the end of the school year, when you’ve graduated, when seeing each other would be more appropriate...we’ll talk again.”

Her body straightened as hope sprung. This I could hear: “Really? Really, my darling?”

My darling motherfucking, dick-licking son of a fucking bitch?

“Yes. It will be hard for us...”

Right. This prick was always hard.

“...but we’ll wait, until you’re twenty-one, and a college graduate. And if you go on for your MFA? Perhaps I’ll need a new teaching assistant....”

This seemed to please her, and he leaned in and gave her a kiss. At least I think that’s what he did—couldn’t quite make it out, though it lasted a while and was not just a peck. I could only wonder why Alice hadn’t realized he was tacitly admitting that he boinked his teaching assistants, but logic was never that big in Wonderland.

He shut her in the little red car and she drove off, and he watched, and waved, and smiled, and then the smile drooped and he shivered, not with the cold I didn’t think, and he stooped his shoulders and trod back up and inside his cobblestone cottage.

Killing this fucker wouldn’t lose me any sleep. I finished my Coke and leaned back against the rolled-up sleeping bag I’d brought with me. Like I said, I didn’t figure to spend any of the nights here, but that option was good to have and, anyway, the sleeping bag rolled up made a nice soft object to rest against.

Twilight turned to honest-to-shit night and a couple of street lamps—well-spaced—came on. Though I sat in a split-level, the world across the way was woodsy and rustic with those quaint-looking cottages like something out of another era.

Around seven, “American Woman” was on the radio, throbbing despite the low volume, when the white Corvette pulled up. I turned the sound down to zero and watched, impressed, as the tall brunette unfolded from a vehicle that should have been splashed with winter grue but was showroom shiny. She’d taken time to run it through a car wash, I’d bet, as careful with her wheels as with her own appearance.

And she was careful with her appearance, all right. Her coat was white leather with a white fur collar, her long legs in black-and-white geometrically patterned bell bottoms, her boots white leather with heels. Her long dark hair went halfway down her back, straight as a waterfall, the mane of a lanky lioness. Her complexion was olive, almost tan, whether from some vacation she’d grabbed or just her natural state, I couldn’t say.

Alice had been cute, perky, if psychotic. Annette was a different animal, and not the short, plump Italian Mouseketeer Frankie Avalon had tried to beach ball. This was a fashion-model type, her oval face, her full dark-lipsticked mouth, her big brown eyes, her well-shaped dark eyebrows, a study in symmetry.

Teaching assistant my ass.

He came down out of the cottage to meet her, and the bathrobe had been replaced by a tan leisure suit with a brown shirt with one of those collars that could put an eye out. Both eyes.

He came down, his breath pluming in the cold—the temperature had dropped some—and slipped an arm around her shoulders and led her up and inside. She had a little brown briefcase with her, so perhaps they were just going to work.

Three hours later they were still in there.

I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I was getting bored. Surveillance was not what I’d bargained for, though the Broker had made it clear sitting watch would come into play from time to time in this line of work. Anyway, I was getting bored and itchy and frankly curious.

So I stuffed the nine millimeter in my waistband, zipped the cord jacket over it, and went out the back way and cut through some undeveloped wooded property until I could cross the street a quarter of a mile away, and come up behind the cobblestone house and peek in a window or two.

Which is exactly what I did.

They were in a small room that I would best describe as a study—lots of books on shelves, and a big rolltop desk littered with more books and manuscript pages and a typewriter with a ream of white typing paper next to it. That’s where he was sitting.

So maybe they were working, right?

Well, she was anyway. She was in pink panties on her knees, blowing the guy, his leisure suit pants around his ankles.

Fuck, I would have killed this lucky prick for free.

Table of Contents

Cover

Raves for the Work of Max Allan Collins!

Excerpt

Some Other Hard Case Crime Books You Will Enjoy

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

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