I just looked at him and he backed away and crossed his skinny tattooed arms and jutted his pointy chin.
I summoned as genuine a smile as I could muster. “What’s the problem here, gents? I assume you’re security. I’m Jack Reynolds, unit publicist. Just started today. You can check with any P.A. I’m supposed to grab interviews with the stars for publicity purposes. What was I doing in Miss Goodwin’s trailer? I have been interviewing her. What do you think I was doing? Getting blown?”
They both stood there with slitty eyes, processing that for maybe ten seconds. Naturally the scarecrow’s circuits cleared first, and he said, “You’re a PR guy?”
“Right.”
He took a deep breath, let it out, reassembled himself and his dignity. “Okay. Well. See, we been told to make sure nobody bothers Miss Goodwin.”
“Particularly men,” bandana boy put in.
“I wasn’t bothering her,” I said. “Who are you working for-Mr. Licata?”
They glanced at each other, obviously disturbed that I possessed that information. Even the smarter one wasn’t sure how to respond.
So I saved them the trouble: “Listen, guys, where Miss Goodwin is concerned, I’m no threat to Mr. Licata or anybody else. I’m one of those show biz types you hear about-boys who like boys?”
Bandana boy blurted, “You’re a fuckin’ queer?”
His partner slapped his arm. “Be nice.”
I wondered who they were in their daily lives, when they weren’t out playing road-company Bowery Boys. Nobody was a biker for a living, and they sure didn’t do security work as a fulltime gig. Being an eternal juvie in a biker gang did not pay well, unless they were running dope or something. Which I supposed was possible. Might be the Licata connection at that.
The scarecrow hauled his pal off by the arm, the guy taking it but not liking it, and called back, “Sorry, man! You’re cool. We’re cool…”
I was just standing there, chuckling to myself, when I realized somebody else was standing next to me.
Eric Conrad.
He was so handsome close up, he might have been his own exhibit in a Hollywood Wax Museum-chiseled features, cleft jaw, roman nose, bright brown eyes.
Short, though-I’d give it five seven at best. Close up, that bronze tan had the telltale touch of orange that meant the sun hadn’t had anything thing to do with it. He was in a black dressing gown belted at the waist.
“So you’re Jack Reynolds,” he said.
His voice had that radio-announcer mellowness lots of leading men possess.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did Art mention me? That I’d like to interview you for PR purposes?”
“No, Ginger alerted me you were on set.” He nodded over toward where they were still prepping the next angle on the fight. “Man, I wish they’d let me do my own stunts. Back on my series, the first year, I did all of them. Then I pulled a hamstring and they went ballistic. The star goes down, the whole company goes down.” He shrugged fatalistically. “ C’est la vie.”
I nodded toward the two bikers who were stalking along the highway now, trying to look important. “Did you see those jackasses?”
“Yeah. I was in my trailer. I heard it all. I’d have come out and kicked ass if you’d got in a scrape. I liked how you handled those idiots.” He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me half a dazzling grin. “You weren’t afraid at all.”
“No,” I admitted.
He shook his head, smirked over toward the gas-pump sequence about to start shooting again. “That’s one of my big action scenes and I’m barely in it. It’s a crock…I’ll be free for at least an hour. Want to grab that interview?”
“Sure,” I said. “Not an interview, really, just want to get to know you a little. Strictly prelim. I won’t take notes or anything.”
The interior of his Winnebago was near the twin of Tiffany’s-her sofas and comfy chair had been green upholstered, his were brown, though the pattern was the same. I took the comfy chair and he settled on the couch. When he crossed his legs, there was a flash of pubic hair and dick, and I experienced the worst case of dйjа vu ever.
“Where should I start?” he asked. “I grew up on the east coast. My dad was a cop. Three brothers. We are big jocks-well, I’m not tall big, but I was a wrestler. Got a full ride scholarship at…”
But I had stopped listening. Just going through the motions. I did not see any way Eric Conrad played a meaningful role in the murder plot against his director. He was not Tiffany Goodwin’s lover, unless he was bisexual. Because, as my old man used to say, this guy was queer as a three-dollar bill.
Eric talked about himself for five minutes straight, or anyway for five minutes, and his eyes were all over my face like a teenage boy’s fingers under his date’s sweater. When he’d got past his acting classes and early film and TV roles, and up to landing his series, I raised a hand.
“This is great stuff,” I said, “good background. We’ll schedule a full interview and I’ll take notes.”
He said, “Fine,” and stood, and dropped the robe.
He was fully erect. And in this physical aspect, he was not short.
“I heard you tell those clowns you were gay,” he said. “That took strength. You don’t know how I wish I could be more open…Just tell me how you like it, Jack.” He gave me the other half of the dazzling grin. “I’m more versatile an actor than you might think-I can catch, I can pitch. You want me on my knees? I’m on my knees…”
I don’t know exactly what I said next. It had something to do with thanking him (thanking him!) but insisting that I needed to maintain professional boundaries, and anyway, I was in a serious relationship with a wonderful guy (wonderful guy!) and he told me if I changed my mind and wanted to see him that he was staying at the Four Jacks and somehow I got out of there.
And down the steps and walked briskly to my car.
Well, that was one more thing I could add to my list of things I’d learned on the Hard Wheels 2 shoot.
Getting blow job action on a B-movie set did not seem to be that tricky.
I had two problems.
First, I didn’t really have a fix on Nick Varnos. Yes, I knew Nick Varnos was checked in at the Spur, but I didn’t know under what name.
Second, if Varnos followed the usual pattern, for a Broker-bred hit team anyway, the kill would go down either today or tomorrow. Generally within forty-eight hours after the back-up man’s work had been done. And Jerry’s work was done, all right.
After several hours on location, I had pretty much ruled out the film set for where the accident would go down. Despite the wealth of ways a fatal accident could occur on set, there’d been no sign of Varnos there. If he’d planned to infiltrate, as I had, he probably would have done it by now. Still possible, but my gut said no.
After all, Nick Varnos had checked into the Spur, where his target was staying. Why? It’s generally risky to maintain that close a proximity to the mark… unless that proximity is key to how you are planning to take that mark out.
It seemed likely that Varnos would provide the director with an accidental death at the hotel. And that it would almost certainly go down in Stockwell’s hotel room. That gave me an odd, unexpected twinge, knowing Joni was possibly at risk as well. An accident that befell Stockwell- a fire in the room, say-would take her out, too.
Joni was a definite factor in this-that she was bunking in with her hubby on this trip meant that if the kill indeed was scheduled to occur in the motel room itself, it would either have to happen when she was away…did she swim every night? (hadn’t been in Jerry’s notes)…or that she would indeed be collateral damage.
Did I care?
Varnos wouldn’t. Generally collateral damage is frowned upon in the murder business, but sometimes it could make a hit seem more like an accident. Less focused. Also, Varnos was a free agent, wasn’t working through a broker. He might not give a shit who got hurt. Not everybody has scruples.
Anyway, trying to avoid Joni as collateral damage really would limit the accidental death options. How did you
