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.”
“No argument. We might have forty-eight hours. Let me ask you something-this completion bond thing. How does it work?”
He shrugged. “It pays off the production. Pays the salaries. Pays the bills.”
“If something happened today, to shut this production down-how easy would it be to complete the movie?”
“Not easy. We aren’t nearly halfway. It’s vaguely feasible another director could be brought in, but one director picking up immediately for another…very tough. And if you shut the production down even for a week or two, to allow the second guy to do even a little prep, you can lose cast and crew to other commitments.”
“What if this were, say, two weeks from now?”
“More feasible. Bulk of the film would be in the can. Some of the actors would be shot out, including Tiffany, though not Eric, who is run-of-the-picture.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you often shoot your name talent out. By that I mean, you shoot all of their scenes. We don’t shoot this shit in order, you know. So let’s say I have a name player-at the Four Jacks this afternoon, you must have recognized the guy playing our villain, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I only have him for four days. Only way we could afford him. Today was his first day with the company. Once all his scenes are shot, he’s gone. Back to Hollywood.” The director gave me a frowny smile. “Why do you want know this technical stuff, Jack?”
“I don’t give two shits about the technical side, Art. It’s just that…if this completion bond money is the motive behind taking you out, then that means any accident you have needs to happen soon.”
“Is that bad for us? Or good?”
“Neither. It just is. It does give me a glimmer of who might be responsible.”
“Who are you thinking?”
I told him, and he just laughed. He waved that off, saying, “You’re crazy. That’s impossible. You can’t be serious. Don’t waste any time going there.”
“All right,” I lied. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
I was hoping that the kiddies would be out of the pool by ten-that was the Spur’s supposed cut-off for swimming, as you may recall-and I got my wish. A young married couple was in the hot tub for the first ten minutes, but otherwise I had the pool to myself.
The water had just enough coolness to contrast nicely with the humidity-free warmth of an evening enjoying a sultry breeze. The sky was like a special effect that the Hard Wheels 2 budget couldn’t manage-a Cheshire Cat smile of a moon and a scattering of sparkly stars. Desert night sky had a look of its own, faintly surreal, even from a hotel swimming pool.
I’d been swimming easy laps and was floating on my back, looking up at that phony sky, when somebody dove in. Somehow I knew it was Joni.
It was.
She had her long dark hair rubber-banded back and was in the skimpy red bikini. She began treading water. I treaded water, too, and went over near her and said, “We have to stop meeting like this.”
“What is this about, Jack?”
“Your husband hasn’t told you?”
“No.”
“Then it isn’t my place to.”
I swam over to the side of the pool and climbed up and sat there dripping. She swam over and treaded water some more. Looking up at me with big lovely brown eyes.
“You were…telling the truth the other night?”
“About what, Joni?”
“About my husband being in danger. Death threats?”
“Yeah.”
“That wasn’t just some…some head trip you were pulling? To get even with me?”
“Putting you through a ‘head trip’ wouldn’t quite do it.”
Her hands moved in the water as if she were hiking through high brush. “Art hasn’t said anything. I keep asking him what’s bothering him, and he just says it’s a tough shoot. That’s all. Not sharing anything.”
“His prerogative.”
Breathing fairly hard, she said, “I want to know what’s going on, Jack. Am I in danger, too?”
Collateral damage again.
“I don’t think so. Maybe. I don’t want to see you die or anything.”
That made her smile. Bitterly, but she smiled, still treading, spitting a little water now and then. “What about what you said the other night? About ‘all of the above?’ ”
“I don’t want to kill you.”
“That’s almost like…almost like hearing you say still love me, Jack.”
“I don’t remember saying I ever stopped.”
She treaded water some more.
“Listen,” I said, “if you want him dead, just say so.”
She frowned. “Are you kidding? What a terrible thing to say.”
“Yeah, well…maybe I was just kidding.” I got up, trunks dripping heavily onto the concrete like a hard lazy rain. “Good night, Joni. Enjoy the rest of your swim.”
From off the nearby deck chair, I got my towel-it had the nine millimeter wrapped in it again, not to impress my ex, just because I thought the shit on this job was getting deep enough that maybe having a weapon handy wasn’t a bad thing.
I went up to my room, took a hot shower, and put on my jockey shorts to sleep in. I felt relaxed physically, no kinks in my shoulders or neck, but my mind was twitching in a way I didn’t much care for.
I put the nine millimeter on the nightstand and got under between the sheets and played with the remote a while. Johnny Carson was a rerun and I had just about settled on an old Randolph Scott western (well, hell, all Randolph Scott westerns were old, weren’t they?) when somebody knocked on the door.
I got out of bed, nine mil in hand, and used the little peephole.
You’re ahead of me again, right?
Joni.
She was in a short white terrycloth robe and her hair was still damp from the swim. The darkness of her tan sharply contrasted with the white of the robe.
I let her in.
Shut and night-latched the door. The only light on was the TV, but the volume was muted. It threw a shifting, shimmering light on the room not unlike the effect of the under-lighting down at the pool.
She took the gun from my hand and set it gently on the nightstand, like she knew where it went, then undid the belt at her waist and dropped the robe to the floor, leaving just the skimpy damp bikini and all that tan flesh.
“Was there something you wanted?” I asked.
“Fuck you, Jack.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The first kiss was passionate but not exactly loving, more like angry and demanding and she was making noises that sounded like tears being held back, or maybe it was rage. The next kiss was yearning and youthful, a real flashback right down to her searching, darting tongue. Then she let me take the bikini top off her and her breasts were larger and not as pert as before, but I recognized them all right, and stroked them and plumped them and kissed them, their dark nipples stark against white flesh untouched by the sun that had darkened the rest of her. Almost the rest of her, because as her long legs stepped up and out of the bikini bottoms, the thatch of tangled brown against the white, white flesh made a contrast that resonated in my memory.
I kissed her neck, I kissed her ears, I kissed her face, here, there, then she dropped down and tugged down my shorts, leaving them around my feet in rumpled confusion, and she moved her mouth down the shaft of me in one long smooth move until her nose was getting tickled by the short and curlies and I thought I would pass out or at least lose my balance. She lavished attention on the old acquaintance standing at attention for her, with her mouth and her hands, kisses and licks and strokes and suckles and when she had me on the verge, she knew to stop and led me by the dick to the bed where she deposited me on my back and climbed on and I was sucked up into that tight familiar warmth and she ground slowly at first, her beautiful features caught in a dreamy, half-lidded state of realized desire, her damp hair dangling in dark tendrils at her shoulders, her slender body, still slender fifteen years later, moving serpentine with a dancer’s fluid grace, and when she came it was a shuddering thing, beaming and crying and whimpering and laughing. I didn’t think I was doing anything but fucking her, and didn’t realize that some of the tears on my face were my own.
She was beside me then, against me, head where my arm and shoulder met, her cheek wet against my chest. She said nothing for endless seconds. I thought she was sleeping, but then she said, “Did you come looking for me?”
“No. It was a coincidence.”
“I don’t know if I believe in those.”
“Well they do happen. Or maybe it was fate. It sure wasn’t God.”
“Jack…Jack. I did love you. I didn’t want you to die over there. I wanted you to come home.”
“You knew I was coming home.”
“I did. But you came home a day early.”
“Really? I’d forgotten.”
“Jack, I was ready to take you back into my life. That afternoon…when everything went wrong…it wasn’t how it looked.”
“Wow. Really?”
“I was just…just saying goodbye to somebody.”
“You know what the Beatles say.”
“All you need is love?”
“You say goodbye and I say hello.”
“…You’re still angry.”
“No. I just didn’t…nothing.”
“What, Jack?”
“Feelings. I thought were dead. Never expected…come back. I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean.”
For maybe a minute we just lay there. I could feel our hearts beating in sync.
Then, very quietly, she asked, “Why did you ask me…?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
“What made you think I wanted Art dead?”
“Because somebody does. And you stand to benefit.”
“You think I could be capable of that?”
“What would ever make me think so?”
“…Jack, that was a long, long time ago. We were both kids. I was a fucked-up kid from a rough goddamn place. I just wanted a better life, Jack. And I never, never, never, never wanted you to die over there.”
“Like your first two husbands, you mean.”
“I didn’t want them to die, either. I didn’t love them like I loved you, but-”
“Please! No.”
“All I wanted was to make you…all three of you…but especially you, Jack…feel alive for a while, have a good time, experience a little joy, before you went over there where…where the odds were so stacked against you.”
“And all you got out of it was monthly paychecks followed by death bennies?”
“What do you want me to say? I gave you something to live for, Jack-can you deny it? Something to come home for? And you came home, didn’t you? You came home.”
“I came home.”
“And we finally had it, didn’t we?”
“What?”
“Our proper homecoming.”
I laughed at that shit and pushed her away.
“Give me a fuckin’ break,” I said, off the bed and onto my feet. “You better go back to your room. Art’ll be back from viewing his dailies before long.”
She looked hurt. Wordlessly, she got out of bed and climbed into the bikini, then sashed the little white robe around herself.
Naked, I escorted her to the door. She was halfway into the hall when she looked back with mournful brown eyes and said, “You’ve changed, Jack.”
“You haven’t,” I said. “Still fucking around on your husband.”
And shut the door on her.