powerful man. And, yes, I understand, too, that I’m potentially the one in danger here. On the other hand, I do have the gun.”
Licata growled, “What do you want from me?”
“First, relax. You don’t need to be defensive. Your secret is safe with me.”
Eric said to the mobster, “Jack’s gay, too.”
Licata snapped, “No he isn’t, you dumb cunt!.. What, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Put on your pants and join me in the other room.”
He took time to put on his boxers and his white slacks, but when I waved the nine mil, he understood that the rest of his wardrobe was to remain behind.
I let him out of the bedroom, and shut the door on Eric. Then I motioned the barefoot mobster to the red plush couch; when he’d perched himself on its edge, poised for just the right moment to take the gun away from me, I pulled up a matching red chair and sat across from him.
“Sit back,” I said.
He did. His hands were in his lap. His trigger finger was twitching.
“If you behave,” I said, “everything’s going to be peachy keen. If you make a try for me, then you just enjoyed your last cornhole… capeesh?”
He sighed heavily-contempt was in it. Understandably. But he nodded. His eyes were hooded and he was so very fucking pissed.
I asked him, “Do you have any reason to want Arthur Stockwell dead?”
His frown of confusion could not have been more complete. And I saw nothing fake in it. But there was real indignation.
He blurted, “What the fuck…? Artie’s directing the picture! Why would I want that?”
“Well, somebody wants him dead. And you were the prime candidate because, just before this production started, Stockwell had a fling with Tiffany. You remember her-your girlfriend? Main squeeze? Love of your life?”
“Why would I give a fuck about him fucking her?”
I was studying him. “That’s what I’m trying to figure. The only way it plays is if you are so intent to portray that bimbo as your mistress, you feel it necessary to prove the point by getting rid of somebody who really did fuck her.”
“Stupid,” he muttered.
“I mean, I caught on this afternoon-when we spoke, and when I saw how you and Tiff behaved on set-that she was your beard. Why else would you want your PR man to spread pictures of such a forbidden relationship? Unless you were in another relationship even more taboo. No whisper of your real sexual proclivities can be allowed, right, Lou? So you have a wife and kids, and a mistress, a Playboy playmate that the goombah crowd can envy you over with their mouths wide open and watering.”
“Like Don Rickles says,” Licata said nastily, “you win a cookie. But no fucking way would I want Artie dead. He’s too useful to me.”
“Sure. If his movies make money, well, hell, that’s money. If they lose money, then you have the perfect laundry. But there’s another possibility.”
The mustache emphasized his sneer. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”
“My understanding is that Art is insured. That if he went down, something called a ‘completion bond’ would kick in. An insurance company would write you a big fat check to cover production costs of a film that never got finished.”
He folded his arms. “Why would that be a good idea? The money would come in, and everybody would get paid off. So what? How do I stand to benefit?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that.”
“Well, don’t sprain yourself. Anyway, if I needed to shut the production down, I’d get rid of somebody above the line who’s more easy to replace, like that kiss-ass producer or…” His next words were sotto voce. “…one of the stars.”
I leaned forward, still pointing the gun at him, but not as threateningly. “Lou, somebody took a contract out on Art.”
“Says who?”
“Says the two assholes I iced since I got here. One today, one day before yesterday.”
“The fuck.”
“The fuck, Lou. The first guy was doing back-up, the second was arranging an accidental death for Art. I saw the doctored pills he was planning to switch with Art’s Percodan. That guy, the second guy? He had an accident this morning at the Spur in his own bathroom. Probably won’t be found for a while, since he has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ on his door.”
“…Who are you?”
“I used to work for the Broker out of the Quad Cities.”
“…Shit you say. Somebody killed him.”
“He was in a dangerous business.”
“What’s your business, Reynolds? What’s a guy who hits people doing hitting other guys who hit people?”
“Like you said, Lou-it’s my business. I’m working for Art, making sure he survives this film shoot. Call me a bodyguard or a troubleshooter, but however you put it, I’ve taken the immediate threat away…but do I have to tell you, Lou, that if somebody has marked Art for murder, another team won’t be far behind?”
He huffed a laugh. “So you think I’m the guy who wants him dead? Well, you’re fuckin’ nuts!..So what now, kill me and that innocent kid in the other room? You are one sick fuck.”
I sat looking at him. The nine millimeter, unsilenced, might bring attention. There was a pillow on the couch I could grab and use. And maybe just stuffing the snout in his gut would muffle the sound enough to get by. All that hair on him might help.
But then his honeybunch would come running in or maybe just start screaming, and then what? Collateral Damage starring Eric Conrad. Playing a hunch, doing things on the fly, it had its drawbacks.
“I don’t think you’re the guy who wants Art dead, Lou.”
“Good. ’Cause I’m not.”
“Not interfering with me, and my work, would benefit you. In fact, any theories you might have about who stands to gain from Art’s death, I’d like to hear.”
He shrugged. “Probably that wife of his. Art has money. Nice house in the Hills. She’d get it all. And he fucks around on her with other women, like you said. Kill her ass, why don’t you? And leave me the fuck alone.”
“Do I need to kill you, Lou?”
“What?”
“Convince me I don’t need to kill you. Maybe we can be allies.”
“I already helped you, didn’t I? With my theory?”
“If you really don’t want your director dead-and to have your movie hit a real bad speed bump-just forget we had this conversation, and we’ll go our separate ways. You forget I barged in on you waving a gun, and I’ll forget you were playing slap and tickle with Billy Jack.”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “I can do that.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“…Are you the one they call Quarry?”
“I might be.”
“I won’t lie to you.”
I stood. “Good. I can’t hang around forever, because even in a casino town, suspicious deaths attract attention.”
“What did you do with the surveillance bozo?”
“I smacked him with a hunk of rubber.”
“Why would that kill him?”
“It was on a car at the time.”
I put the nine mil in my waistband. I buttoned the sport coat over it. I stared at the seated mobster for a while, my expression telling him he was free to make a try for me. It was no Wild West stunt. The guy was
