'While Jumbo's on camera,' Quirk said.
I nodded.
'Might work,' Quirk said. 'Unless Zebulon bounces you on his own.'
'Maybe he can't,' I said.
'Maybe,' Quirk said.
He tossed back the rest of his scotch, put on his hat and coat, and left.
10
IN THE MORNING, after breakfast, I called the Film Bureau and they told me that Jumbo Nelson's movie was shooting all day today at the Park Street Station on Boston Common.
'What's the name of the movie?' I said.
'Working title is
'Perfect,' I said.
So, showered, shaved, and splashed with a bouquet of aftershave, I put on jeans and sneakers, a gray T-shirt, a .38 revolver, a leather jacket and a tweed scally cap, and headed out to confront Zebulon Sixkill. I was so clean and sweet-smelling that I decided to up my fee.
It was April 2, and it wasn't raining, but it looked like it would, as I walked across the Public Garden and across Charles Street and through the Common. At the intersection of Park and Tremont Streets, across from the Park Street Church, a block from the State House, the Park Street Station area looked like the staging site for the invasion of Normandy. There were equipment trucks, lights, trailers, honey wagons, mobile homes, a craft-services truck, some cars, extras, grips, best boys, script girls, assistant directors, production assistants, a detail cop, and a mare's nest of cables. Some spectators had gathered behind the barriers, and as I walked down into that scene, a limousine pulled up onto the corner of Tremont Street, and Jumbo Nelson, dressed like a street person, got out and walked slowly into the subway. A director yelled, 'Cut!' Jumbo came back out. Got back into the limo. Shepherded by the detail cop, it backed up out of sight. Somebody held up a clacker board in front of the camera.
'Scene eighteen, take two,' she said.
Somebody else, probably an assistant director, said something that sounded like 'Speed?'
'Quiet on the set.'
'Rolling for picture.'
'And action.'
The limo slid into view again as the camera tracked it. The director was looking at a small monitor as it rolled. The car stopped. Jumbo got out. An airplane went past overhead.
'Cut.'
'Scene eighteen, take three.'
Shepherded by the detail cop, the limo backed up out of sight. I'd been around movie sets before. They'd do this all morning. I asked a production assistant with a clipboard where I could find Zebulon Sixkill.
'He's over there,' she said. 'By the camera. He likes to watch the shot in the monitor.'
She had blond streaks in her hair and looked to be about twenty-three. I thanked her and started over.
'Z's got kind of a short fuse.'
'I'll be careful,' I said.
I walked over by the camera and stood silently beside Zebulon Sixkill while Jumbo did his walk for the fifth time.
When he disappeared into the subway entrance, the director said, 'Cut. It's a keeper.'
Jumbo came back out.
'For crissake, Vaughn, it was five takes to get a fucking walk?'
'Want to get it right, Jumbo,' the director said.
Jumbo looked at the spectators.
'Fucking directors,' he said, with a lot of projection. 'Won't do one take when five are almost as good.'
A few spectators tittered. The director ignored him. He was already conferring with the first assistant director about the next shot.
'I'm going to craft services,' Jumbo said. 'Z?'
Zebulon Sixkill started after Jumbo. I went with him. As he had in Wellesley, he walked carefully, as if the ground was slippery.
'Zebulon?' I said.
He was watching Jumbo, in case some crazed fan jumped out and assaulted him for his autograph.
He said, 'Call me Z.'
'Okay, Z, can we talk for a few minutes?'
