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
