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?”
