like his eyes, if that made any sense.
“When are you going to ask me for his autograph?” Bernie said.
Luxton laughed again. “Already got it,” he said.
NINE
I’d been in a lot of bars-comes with the territory in our business-but never one quite like this. Yes, it was Old West-style, our favorite, mine and Bernie’s: rough wooden floor, long bar with a few tough-looking dudes hunched over their shot glasses, rows of dusty bottles, a wagon wheel leaning in a corner. But this bar had no ceiling; the shot glasses were filled with tea-no putting a switcheroo like that past me; and there were bright lights all over the place, plus microphones dangling down here and there, and a big camera in the middle of things. A dandruffy guy-a real easy smell to pick up-dressed in torn jeans and smoking a big cigar was peering into the camera eyepiece. Everything about him said perp to me, but I was sitting quietly, on my best behavior or even better: Bernie had been very clear about that.
He was right beside me now, in one of those movie-set chairs. Hey! A connection! Beside Bernie were Nan and Jiggs. On my other side sat Felicity. And on her lap was Brando, which is maybe where I should have started all this, but it’s hard to keep so many details organized, kind of like-what’s that expression? herding cats? Whoa. Another connection, and so soon. Was I cooking or what? Brando was sleeping, or possibly dozing, in a very annoying way, hard to explain.
Nan leaned toward Bernie and spoke in a low voice. “He’s brilliant,” she said. “IQ of one seventy-two.”
“Thad?” Bernie said, his eyebrows rising. Bernie has great eyebrows, if I haven’t mentioned that already-and eyebrows like his, beautifully thick and heavy, are worth mentioning again-with a language all their own. Right now they were saying he was real surprised. About what? No idea.
“Thad’s brilliant, too, of course,” Nan said. “Goes without saying. But I’m talking about Lars Karlsbaad, the director.”
“With the cigar?” said Bernie.
Nan nodded.
Bernie watched Lars Karlsbaad. So did I. He turned from the camera and nodded to a man standing beside him, who now took Lars’s place at the eyepiece. A woman with a clipboard said, “Places, everybody. Quiet on the set.”
At that moment, Brando opened his eyes and stared right at me. His eyes were gold and narrow, like edgewise gold coins, very unpleasant. I stared back-what choice did I have? — and missed a bit of what followed. When the staring came to an end-Brando turning away first-I noticed that the swinging doors of the bar were opening and a man with a gun on his belt and a rifle over his shoulder was walking in. His spurs-I’d had a run-in with spurs once, the only perp whose pant leg I’d ever had trouble with, a story for another time-went jingle-jangle, a sharp, clear sound that sends a pleasant little shiver down my back. He wore a black cowboy hat pulled down low, kind of hiding his face, but I knew it was Thad Perry from his smell, although it was almost completely hidden by the scent of makeup; he had to be wearing more than Leda on her most dressed-up day.
Thad took a few slow steps, turning toward the dudes at the bar. He stopped near one of those dangling microphones and raised his face a little. He was mad about something but had it under control. Bernie had that same look, exactly! For a moment he seemed something like Bernie-strong and tough and nice-even though I knew he didn’t come close to Bernie in any of those things. Wow.
The dudes at the bar turned to him, real slow. All the movements going on were like that, real slow. It made me want to do something real fast, and soon, not sure why. The dudes at the bar were nasty-looking-with sweaty, hairy faces-and reeked of makeup. The one with the eye patch said, “Lookin’ for somethin’, cowboy?”
Thad gave him a long stony look. It went on and on. Then he said, “Lars? That line kind of sucks.”
Someone yelled, “Cut.”
The cowpokes at the bar got up and stretched, and there was some milling around in general. Lars went over to Thad and said, “Sucks in what way, Thad?”
Thad shrugged. “I just don’t like it.”
“But you don’t say it. Sam says it.”
“What the hell?” Thad said. “I have to work off it, don’t I? If I don’t know what I can work off and what I can’t, who does?”
Lars puffed on his cigar as though thinking things over and nodded. He was standing in a way humans stand sometimes, hands behind the back. I only mention that because I noticed that at the same time Lars was puffing on his cigar and nodding, his hands had balled themselves into fists.
“Get Arn,” he said, speaking around his cigar. The clipboard woman went running out of the bar, returned with a guy who reminded me of this hopeless junkie we’d saved from getting beaten up by some gangbangers in South Pedroia. Just like the junkie, this guy was skinny and pale, with messy hair and bad breath: I could smell it from across the room.
“Shot forty-three, Sam’s dialogue, top of the page,” Lars said. “Thad has some concerns. Met Thad yet, by the way?”
“No,” said the skinny guy.
“Thad, this is Arn Linsky, wrote the script.”
Arn Linsky’s arm moved, like maybe he thought handshaking was about to happen, but it did not.
“Hear it’s great,” Thad said. “Only read my lines so far, but I plan to go over the whole thing when I get some time.”
“Thanks,” said Arn. “Can’t tell you how happy I am to be working with you. Loved what you did in There and Back, and also-”
“Arn?” Lars said. “We’re hoping to clear this up on the fly and get back to the scene ASAP.” He handed the script to Arn, more shoved it at him, really.
Arn glanced at it, spoke to Thad. “These, um, concerns. They’re yours? Or Sam’s?”
“Interesting point, but we’ve moved beyond it,” Lars said. “This is more a question of Thad’s internal response to the line.”
“Can’t work off it,” Thad said.
“What, uh, part, if you don’t mind my…?” Arn said. “The ‘lookin’ for someone’ part? The word ‘cowboy’?”
Thad shrugged, turned to Lars. “Back in a jiff,” he said. “Gotta take a piss.”
Thad walked out.
“Actually serendipitous,” Lars said, or something like that. The movie business-if that’s what this was-turned out to be confusing. “Get makeup.”
The clipboard woman went running off. Bernie spoke in this small voice he sometimes uses for talking to himself; himself and me, of course. “Jiff?” he said. Where was he going with that? Before I’d gotten to square one, the clipboard woman came back, now trailing an older woman who wore a white smock.
“Lars?” said the older woman. “You wanted to see me?”
Lars put his hand on her shoulder, kind of maneuvered her to the side. Very quietly-but not so quietly I didn’t hear-he said, “What’s with his nose today?”
“I did what I could,” the older woman said.
“But what’s the problem?”
“Allergies. He says he forgot to take his medication.”
“Christ,” said Lars.
Arn stepped forward. “How’s this?” He handed Lars a scrap of paper. Lars eyed it, nodded his head.
“Quiet on the set,” the clipboard woman said again. “Take two.”
The saloon doors swung open again. Jingle-jangle. Thad came in, his movements real slow, maybe even slower than before. He stopped below the hanging microphone, mad again but under control, the expression on his face exactly the same as one Bernie had. Was he even standing like Bernie, too, and looking like Bernie in general? I started getting upset, not sure why, the kind of upset where I need to pant. But panting would be bad now, so I hardly did it at all.
