Production Company account. It was tempting, but that might require some kind of clearing process, so I said no.
“Tina, could you give me a call when Art gets in? Assuming you’re still working.”
“Oh, I’m on night shift. I’ll be here. So should I have Mr. Stockwell call you, then, Mr. Reynolds?”
“No. Please don’t. We’re old pals and I want to surprise him. He isn’t expecting me till the weekend. You call me, please.”
“Glad to, Mr. Reynolds.”
We exchanged smiles that were polite but with promise. My general policy was no sex on the job. Too distracting. Fortunately, I was completely inconsistent on this point.
I went up the elevator to my room. It was surprisingly spacious, nicely modern, nothing western in the appointments beyond another desert vista print and an earthtone color scheme. I unpacked, wishing I could risk a shower, but I didn’t know when the phone might ring announcing Stockwell’s presence.
The nine millimeter, which I’d transferred from the Nova’s glove compartment to the carry-on bag, I rested on the nightstand by the phone. I turned off the lights, stretched out on the bed, propped a couple pillows, and used the remote to check the TV stations on the nice big 21” Sony on the dresser. They had satellite. Bruce would have loved it here.
Enough time passed that I was suddenly watching Johnny Carson. I realized I’d dropped off to sleep a few times, and that was no good. I got up and went out on the little balcony to stretch and let the night breeze wake me up a little.
Someone was swimming down there.
The motel, I now realized, was a squared-off U-shape, the short, flat part of the U representing the lobby wing facing Main Street. Within the U was a courtyard that was mostly swimming pool. Few lights were on down there, but the pool glowed from underneath, making the gracefully swimming figure a near silhouette.
A woman.
What from here, at least, seemed to be a lovely woman…longish dark hair, long legs, a slender, shapely body in a black bikini against a tan that aided and abetted the silhouette effect. According to Tina at the desk, the pool wasn’t open this late. But who was going to complain about this nymph relaxing with a solitary swim? Not any male guest, anyway.
The balcony I stood on was wrought iron and fairly small and I was wreathed in darkness, as the only light behind me was from The Tonight Show. When she swam on her back, she either couldn’t see me or didn’t care that I was up there leaning at the rail, gazing down admiringly.
Funny. With the pool’s under-lighting and the slice of moon’s grayish ivory, she eventually became somewhat more distinct in my night vision, less of a silhouette, and I’d be damned if she didn’t remind me of Joni. A little. Of the adult woman Joni at thirty-something might have grown up into, if she took decent care of herself and didn’t run to fat or anything.
The phone rang.
FOUR
It was pushing midnight, but I took the time to shower and make myself presentable. You don’t want to drop in unannounced on somebody, with a wild tale of hitmen on the loose, looking like the long day you’d just had.
I even shaved, and took the time to put on my creamcolor sport coat over a rust-color polo and brown jeans. I had put the sport coat in the closet when I unpacked, and it was fairly hung out from its time in the carry-on. It would give me a nice young professional look, and cover the nine millimeter stuffed in my waistband.
Earlier, when Tina down at the desk called, I made sure she hadn’t spoiled my surprise-she hadn’t-and then laughed and said, “Bet Art’s in one of those crazy Hawaiian shirts of his.”
“Uh, no-I think he just had on a t-shirt and jeans.”
Before the confusion in her voice could turn into anything, I said with another laugh, “Must be a little too warm out here in the desert for the Don Ho bit. I tell you, back in L.A., that’s his uniform.”
She managed to laugh at that, and I thanked her for her help and she said not at all, and I didn’t sense anything suspicious in her voice.
I’d just wanted to make sure I knew who I’d be talking to when I knocked on the door of 313. And a good thing, too, because the guy who answered was not wearing t-shirt and jeans.
Whoever-this-was in the doorway had on a pink polo shirt and off-white slacks with a puka necklace and sockless sandals (somebody was doing the Don Ho bit after all). Tall, slender, almost skinny, with a dirty blond early Beatles haircut, he wore aviator glasses whose lenses were tinted a faint rose. The light blue eyes behind rosecolored glasses were wide when the door opened; but they immediately became hooded when he saw a stranger before him.
Till then, he’d been smiling and I’d describe his expression as friendly-a pleasant-looking man in his forties, well-tanned, his boyish features slightly marred by pockmarked cheeks-but seeing me, his demeanor went freezedried.
That made sense, both his answering my knock so easily and then reacting negatively. I figured a movie company was a little world unto itself, with lots of people coming and going, so you wouldn’t think twice about opening a door half-past-midnight.
And that door had opened wide, giving me a glimpse of a guy sitting at a table, with paperwork spread out in front of him. A guy in a white t-shirt and jeans. Then the one in the pink polo narrowed the door to not much more than a crack.
Making three syllables out of it, he said, “Yes?”
“I apologize for the lateness, I just got in. Mr. Stockwell doesn’t know me, but I have an important business matter to discuss with him.”
My reluctant host’s voice was a pleasant baritone with a faint Southern tinge. “And how do you know I’m not Mr. Stockwell?”
“Because you aren’t. I assume you’re a business associate. His producer?”
The way the light-blue eyes unhooded momentarily told me I’d guessed well.
“I’m Mr. Stockwell’s producer, yes.”
“Mr. Kaufmann, it’s vital I have a few minutes with him. I know how valuable Mr. Stockwell’s time is, and I won’t abuse it.”
Despite the lateness of the hour, and people trying to sleep in rooms all around us, I was talking in a normal, even somewhat loud manner. I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious, I just wanted the guy in the t-shirt at the table to get the drift of the conversation I was having with the guard at his gate.
Who was getting openly pissed. Couldn’t blame his producer for wanting to protect the director.
“You need to stop by the production office,” Kaufmann said, starting to close the door again, “and make an appointment.”
But my tactic worked-a hoarse second tenor chimed in from within the motel room: “Jimbo, let the guy in. Let me deal with this.”
Kaufmann twitched a frown, then forced something like a smile, opened the door wide, and gestured for me to enter. His bony hand was adorned with a rough goldennugget ring.
I nodded to the producer and said, “Thanks.”
Arthur Stockwell-assuming that’s who this well-tanned guy in the vintage Harley t-shirt and jeans was-did not rise; he swung his body around and frowned up at me. Not angrily, just with quiet frustration.
I put him at about fifty, about my size and weight, with short black hair suspiciously free of gray; his eyes were dark brown and a little puffy in a conventionally handsome oval. He looked like a slightly gone-to-seed leading man.
His voice was firm if ravaged from too much talk: “If this is about that Teamster matter, I can only say we’ve complied. And you need to ask your guys if they are aware of exactly who Louis Licata is. Because among other things, he’s the executive producer of this picture.”
Poised just inside the door with Kaufmann nearby, I let the director go on with that speech, because I found
