unarmed and smaller than me. He didn’t make a move.
But if I said I wasn’t shaking a little when I shut the door on the Presidential Suite and headed for the elevators, I’d be lying.
TEN
Just off the lobby of the Spur was a little bar, where I sat in a back booth with the director of Hard Wheels 2.
I’d run into Stockwell in the hotel parking lot, a little surprised we were getting back around the same time, the day’s shoot having wrapped well before I’d gone up to the Presidential Suite for my threesome with Conrad and Licata.
I told the director we needed to talk, and now we sat across from each other in the bar’s underlit little world, our conversation granted a certain privacy by the blaring, thudding disco music (“I Will Survive!”). I was allowing myself a rum and Coke and my friend Art was drinking rye and ginger ale.
Not surprisingly, he again looked beat, his eyes droopy, his face puffy, though he was handsome enough a guy to carry it well. His black t-shirt said, HARD WHEELS-Where the Rubber Meets the Road, with a butch-looking Eric Conrad astride a Harley. An artifact from the first movie, I assumed.
I asked, “Why are you just getting back?”
“Just having an end-of-day confab with Jimmy,” he said.
“Where is Kaufmann? You two are usually joined at the hip.”
“On his way to Vegas to pick up the rushes from the film lab. That’s the stuff we shot yesterday, or anyway the takes I marked for processing.”
“You look at the footage as you go along?”
“Sure.” He savored a sip of his drink. “That way we know before we’re too far down the road whether we have some technical problem or a scratch on the film or some shit, and need a re-shoot.”
“You do this every day?”
“Every night. There’s kind of a frustrating lag, because we don’t get the dailies from that Vegas lab in time to look at them in the morning before we start the next day’s work. Like, tonight we’re looking at the footage of the gas station fight yesterday. We’ve already struck that set…moved on, I mean…and if we find a fuck-up, it will be a giant hassle re-doing it.”
That explained the late nights for Stockwell and his producer-after each day’s shoot, they had to watch the dailies.
“The weekend’s a real pain in the ass,” the director said. “The local cinema complex can’t spare a theater for us until after their nine o’clock show. So we can’t screen the shit till sometime after eleven.”
Poor bastard. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, or anyway the weight of this production, but maybe that was a good thing. With so much on his mind, he didn’t have time to sweat the small stuff-like who wanted his ass dead.
“You may be relieved to know,” I said, “that I’ve eliminated Licata.”
His dark eyes flared. “What? Jesus, Jack, what the hell have you-”
“No, no. Not that kind of eliminate. Lou’s alive and well.”
Stockwell heaved a relieved sigh.
“What I mean is,” I continued, “I’ve determined to my satisfaction that your mob angel is not the party responsible for your problem.”
The eyes in the pouches burned bright. “So Licata doesn’t know about Tiff and me?”
“He does, but he doesn’t give a shit.”
Stockwell frowned in confusion. “How is that possible?”
“Art, there are some things it’s better you not know. Safer that way. Leave it that Lou likes being seen as a guy who’s banging a Playmate of the Year. Good for his image.”
“But he has no…no emotional investment in Tiffany?”
“None.” I squinted at him, and it wasn’t just the smoky bar. “Do you really think anybody but Tiffany could ever have an emotional investment in Tiffany?”
A big-hair brunette waitress in a fringe vest, denim miniskirt and a little less make-up than a circus clown came over and asked if we wanted refills. Stockwell said yes to a refill, but I was still working on my first one.
“The problem is,” I said, when the waitress had gone, “I was fairly confident Licata was our guy. With him ruled out, I’m not sure where to turn.”
Stockwell leaned forward. Despite the disco (“Le Freak!”), his whisper was not hard to hear: “But I’m still on the spot. I’m still marked for…what? An accident?”
“For something,” I said with a little shrug. “I need to know who benefits from you not being around. How about your wife?”
“Please. We’ve been down that road. J.J. and me, we love each other. Love each other in our way, but love each other. She has half of everything even if she walks out on me. Why would be she want me…” He whispered again. “…gone?”
“For both halves of everything?”
He shook his head firmly. “No. Not J.J. Never J.J. She’s just not that kind of person.”
My experience indicated otherwise, but I didn’t think now was the time to fill the director in on-what was the movie term? Backstory? The backstory of his wife and my ex-wife and how they were the same chick.
So I just said, “There’s only a limited amount of time here where I can be helpful. I have disposed of two pieces of shit for you…” I had to be euphemistic, because even with the loud disco (“Knock On Wood”), we were after all in a public place. “…and that could mean ramifications.”
His eyes narrowed. Again, not just the smoky bar. “Authorities getting interested?”
I nodded. “I frankly think it’s a long shot, but I didn’t make it past thirty by taking needless risks. I can give you maybe two more days.”
“Christ-then what?”
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “I would advise taking on security, and I don’t mean more Hell’s Angels retreads. I’d go to the baddest-ass P.I. agency in Vegas, hire some bodyguards through them, and tell their boss that you have reason to believe a contract has been taken out on you.”
“He’ll want to know why, won’t he?”
“Not if you give him enough money. You can point out that one of your film backers is Louis Licata, and he’ll understand the kind of waters you’re swimming in. Steer him away from Licata, though.”
“Christ on a fucking crutch. That’s my best option?”
“There’s Licata himself. He’s the money man behind your picture, and I don’t think he wants you dead. He has the resources to help.”
“Should I go to him now?”
I shook my head. My response was only partly based on my desire for a second twenty-five grand. “Our pal Lou, uh…he probably needs a day or two to cool off. He may not be thinking with a clear head just yet. Had to rattle his cage pretty hard, before I could figure out what was up.”
Specifically, his dick up Eric’s ass.
Stockwell rubbed his forehead. “How soon will another…team be brought in?”
“That’s the only advantage we have. Whoever hired this done probably doesn’t know yet that the first team has been permanently benched. There is usually a buffer involved. Professionals in my business are protected by layers.”
“I don’t follow…”
“Whoever hired this did not deal directly with the team. Probably he or she talked to someone in Licata’s world-not Licata’s family, just some organized crime contact-and this thing was put in motion.”
He was swirling what was left of his second drink in its glass, looking in at the liquid like it might have better answers than mine for him. “But eventually somebody’s going to figure out that something went wrong, Jack, since I’m still around.”
