project: Fflytte Films really did not need a homicide on its hands.
“They need to eat together.”
Hale was startled, not having noticed the cat-like Samuel at his side. “Oh, a great idea – let them sink the cutlery into each other’s throats.”
“They are boys. Boys wrestle, then become friends.”
“They’re grown men.”
“Not in their hearts.”
“You can’t guarantee me that your … boys wouldn’t lose control.”
“I can.”
Hale looked at the big man, and after a moment admitted, “You probably could. Well, if you want to try, I’ll have a talk with my men. Maybe I can convince them that if they get into a serious fight, they’ll never work for Fflytte Films again.”
So they broke for lunch and trooped in two separate groups to a nearby restaurant. The men sat at opposite sides. Once they were seated, Samuel went around and lifted every other man up by his collar, pirates and constables alike, rearranging them until the tables were mixed. While the diners glared at each other with hackles raised, he went to the back of the restaurant, and returned with a waiter carrying a large tray covered with bottles of beer.
“Hey,” protested Hale, but Samuel just held up a hand and went through the tables, placing a bottle before each man.
One bottle, each.
They ate, in silence. The cutlery remained in the vicinity of the plates.
When they left, they resumed their separate groups. Hale, following behind, could not decide if the additional degree of relaxation was a good thing.
Apparently, neither could Samuel, because when they got back to the grove where they had been practising, he lined up the men and walked along, hand held out to every third or fourth one – and not just the pirates. The first few turned innocent faces on him, but when his great forefinger pointed to a pocket, an ankle, or in one case the back of a collar, the man would sheepishly retrieve the weapon he had kept back and hand it over.
Nine more knives.
Then he turned them loose.
Ten minutes later, Hale was sure it was a severe miscalculation. Five minutes after that, his heart climbed into his throat, and he pulled two flailing men off of each other. Three minutes more, and a dogfight erupted. A tangle of enraged males threw themselves body and soul into the struggle, roaring and cursing in many languages – only to break apart when tall, handsome Adam, contorted into such a furious knot with the gargoyle-faced Donald that it was impossible to tell which leg was linked to which arm, gave a shout of laughter. In seconds, a dozen separate struggles-to-the-death broke apart, leaving the men filthy and dotted with scrapes, bruises, and future black eyes, but also leaning back on their hands, laughing until the tears came.
Samuel looked sideways at Hale. “Boys.”
Not one of them needed to be carted off to the morgue, or even the hospital. And after that, they were indeed like lads who had tried each other’s muscles and found friendship.
On Thursday, with Will stuck in Cintra because of a flower-loving goat, Fflytte tore himself away from his ship long enough to help Hale and Artie film the pirate-constable battle scenes. The pirates and the police had no need for Maude-the-Make-up, although their groans may have been due more to the drinking they’d done together during the night than from the previous day’s brawl. Fflytte sat in his folding chair. Artie, bursting with pride, turned his hat-brim back and cranked the second-best camera. Hale did everything else: checking the costumes and adjusting the reflectors and reminding the director of what the men had rehearsed.
The practised motions of the fighters intertwined perfectly. La Rocha and Samuel stood and scowled and gestured photogenically. Pessoa translated excitedly. And at the end of the day, no actual blood had been spilt – or, so little it hardly mattered.
Once the scenes were finished, Fflytte and La Rocha hurried away to check on the day’s progress down at the docks, leaving behind a sense of anticlimax after this, the first day of actual filming. Hale watched the mismatched pair scurry off, and muttered to Pessoa,
“Sorry?” the poet asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just, the ship.”
“I begin to regret my part, in introducing Mr Fflytte to the vessel.”
Little late for that, Hale thought. “Call the men together, would you?”
He watched Pessoa move over to the tired actors. Over the past week, the translator had become his shadow. Standing at his side and effortlessly mouthing his words in Portuguese, then the pirates’ responses in English, Pessoa was gratifyingly invisible. Despite his earlier irritation, Hale was sorry the fellow had chosen not to come to Morocco with them.
When the men were gathered around, Hale climbed onto a stump and gave them the most paternal smile he could muster.
“I have to say, what you’ve done is remarkable. You men work together marvellously. If you can do half as well before the cameras in Morocco as you’ve done here, you’ll all be film stars, and Hollywood will be fighting over you.”
As always, the response came in two pulses – one among those who understood his English, the other a beat later when Pessoa had finished. Hale started to say that their week’s pay would be distributed early, in the event they wanted to spend some of it here before they left, but broke off to let Pessoa finish his translation of a remark from young Jack.
“-doesn’t matter if we’re not going to be actually ma-”
Out of nowhere, Samuel’s fist smashed Jack to the ground. Pessoa stuttered to a halt; Artie gave a girlish squeal; Adam took one angry step forward and then stopped; all the other men, pirates and police alike, reared back, looking as stunned as the lad in the dirt.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Hale demanded.
Samuel watched the boy climb to his feet, rubbing the back of his head and shooting Adam a quick glance before turning his gaze to the ground. “Do not interrupt Mr Hale,” the big man growled.
“Jesus Christ, you didn’t have to hit the boy,” Hale protested.
Samuel’s gaze drilled into Jack until the lad’s eyes came up. The two looked at each other for a long minute, and when Jack dropped his eyes again, Hale was left with the impression that a whole lot had been said, of which he’d understood not a word.
Samuel turned an unreadable face to Hale – who, when no further explanation was forthcoming, tried to recall what he’d been about to say.
The news that their pay would be available at the hotel the following morning cheered the men, but they left the gardens with more haste than they would have had that final incident not taken place. The last one away was Samuel. Hale stood and watched the big man go.
“What do you suppose Jack was about to say?” he asked Pessoa.
He hadn’t really expected an answer, which was a good thing, since Pessoa had no suggestions.
This man, Samuel. He was an exceedingly odd bird, for the friend of an unemployed fisherman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FREDERIC: The Major-General comes, so quickly hide!
FRIDAY DEGENERATED INTO chaos, as Hale stood, alone and assistant-less, to receive the barrage of last-minute necessities, undone tasks, and everyday emergencies. He went out to Randolph’s damned boat every few hours, holding firm to his threat that if every surface was not spotless and fragrant, no actress would set foot on
