good ink. Exploitation, Jack. Exploitation.”
We shook hands on it, then we went back out to the set, Lou’s arm around my shoulder like we were old buddies; he smelled good-some fancy designer cologne, no doubt. The crew was getting ready to move the camera to the other side of the roulette table as we approached.
When Tiffany in her white Marilyn dress spotted Lou, she practically ran into his arms. They didn’t kiss, but they were openly affectionate. He did not seem like an uncle greeting a favorite niece, either, unless it was the kind of uncle Marilyn herself used to run into, time to time. Licata certainly made no pretense of separating himself from her. Some local photographers were catching shots of them, before Ginger and several P.A.’s chased them off.
I made sure Licata saw me approach one of the photogs and ask for a card.
Ginger had told me that the change of camera set-ups meant at least half an hour, and I got to Stockwell’s side and said I needed a moment. The director seemed anxious to get some fresh air-the smoke-laced air conditioning was nothing human lungs had been designed for-and out back we leaned against somebody’s Mercedes Benz and talked.
In the t-shirt and jeans, with his short unbrushed hair, his leading-man features puffier than ever, he looked like anybody but the general of the small movie army carrying out his orders indoors. He lit up a cigarette, which defeated the purpose of fresh air, but the director was tense and tired, and I would hardly deny him any small relaxation.
“We’re halfway there,” I said.
“How so?”
“I caught our guy in your room trying to switch your Percodan with his own.”
“Christ. Poison?”
“Or a concentrated overdose.” I shrugged. “Same difference. Point is, the two guys sent to take you out are out of it themselves.”
“What do I need to know?”
“About what I did today? A guy down the hall from you had an accident in his bathroom. Fatal one. I don’t look for the hotel or the cops to make much of a fuss.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a casino town. Resort town. Dead guests aren’t good for business. You have any idea, Art, how many people die in hotels in this country every year? Neither do I, because the hotels quietly haul the stiffs out the back way. The local cops are goodwill ambassadors for Boot Heel, too, so knocking on a lot of doors asking guests questions isn’t very likely.”
“You take this so…so dispassionately.”
“Do you jerk off when you’re shooting a nude scene? I plan to stick around a day or two, and try to figure out who was behind this-okay?”
“Yes! Christ, yes. Do you think it’s Licata?”
“Maybe. I just had an interesting conversation with him. I’m happy to say he seems to like me. We hit it off.”
“Lou is a likable guy. But I never forget who he is and where he came from.”
“That’s good. Because we had an in-depth talk about Tiffany Goodwin. He actually doesn’t mind that people know he’s banging a Playboy playmate. Including the missus. He’s kind of proud of it, and he even asked me, strictly sub rosa, to feed photos and leak info to the Enquirer and other shit rags.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“Not the way he explains it. What’s most interesting, I think, is that he referenced the rumors that Eric Conrad is having an affair with Tiff, but not about you and her.”
“Eric? He’s queer as a two-dollar bill.”
“That’s a dollar less queer than I was thinking, but yeah, tell me about it. Why wasn’t Licata concerned about you and his mistress? You really did have an affair with her.”
“Maybe…maybe he doesn’t know…”
“Maybe he does know,” I said. “And that’s why he didn’t mention it.”
“Because…he’s the one who wants me gone?”
“Maybe. I have a hunch to play out, and then we’ll see.” I gestured around the parking lot. “Where’s your honeywagon and the two Winnebagos?”
He sighed cigarette smoke and gestured with his cigarette-in-hand. “We don’t need them here. Eric and Tiffany are staying at the Four Jacks, and have suites far nicer than their Winnebagos. And there’s restroom facilities and anything else we might need on site.”
“How’d you wrangle the run of the place?”
“I thought you knew, Jack-Licata is one of the owners of the Four Jacks. How do you think we got to shoot in a casino? That’s a notoriously hard location to secure. Nobody in charge of a casino likes anybody hauling cameras in. Privacy issues if nothing else. We were able to clear some press photographers today, but…why do you ask?”
“It’s helpful information.”
“Helpful how?”
“Helpful for playing my hunch. You better get back on set. You go deal with your melodrama, and I’ll deal with mine.”
NINE
I hung around the casino watching them shoot for several hours. I overheard the director tell Eric Conrad and Tiffany Goodwin that a major camera move was required for what would be the last shot of the day, and they might want to go up to their suites until they were needed.
Tiffany, however, hung around signing autographs for fans and being attended by Licata. The smooth, mustached mobster from California continued to show no signs of wanting to distance himself from his protйgйe, much less the prying eyes of onlookers.
Meanwhile, Eric Conrad was escorted to the elevators by a pair of the biker boys, who kept autograph seekers back while Eric nodded and smiled and promised fans he’d sign for them at the end of the shooting day.
I didn’t follow him up, not immediately. I waited until I saw the bikers come back down and resume their security posts. Then I sought Ginger out and got the actor’s room number from her.
Eric was in a suite on the top floor, but fortunately this was not one of those hotels where you needed a special elevator key to reach the heavens, and the stars dwelling therein. His room was
1201, off the elevator to the left and down a short private hallway of its own-a small scrolly gold plaque identified this as THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE.
It was so fancy it had a buzzer, which I utilized. I had to be a little bit persistent, but finally I heard Conrad’s radioannouncer voice behind the door, slightly irritated. “Yes?”
“Mr. Conrad-Eric? It’s Jack Reynolds. The publicist?”
The door opened a crack. The diminutive, bronzed, buff actor was in the jeans but not the denim vest of his costume. He smiled up at me, any irritation vanished. It was a shy smile.
“Well, this is a nice surprise, Jack.”
“Can I come in for a second?”
“Sure.”
He showed me in with a generous sweeping gesture, indicating the living room of the Presidential Suite, with its Early San Francisco Whorehouse decor. Lots of plush red with gold trimmings-couch, drapes, brocade wallpaper, all about as subtle as a velvet whoopee cushion. A door was open onto the bedroom where the decor was similar but with red trimming gold. For variety.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. He indicated a red faux-leather wet bar. He was looking at me with a handsome smile and eyes that were a little too eager. Now I knew how Little Red Riding Hood had felt.
“No thanks,” I said.
