The Spur Motel was not my first stop, after returning to Boot Heel; in fact, I rolled right past it in the late Jerry’s red Mustang. I had another motel in mind, which required making my way through Main Street’s four-block minicanyon of neon.
Traffic was modest-this was a Thursday night in the little casino town-as I made my way to the northern outskirts where that other motel awaited…the Saddle Up, which I have to say is one of the best names I ever heard for a sleazy little motel.
The Saddle Up certainly fit that shabby bill. The Spur, which I’d only glimpsed, was three stories and quite modern. This was a horizontal strip of rooms with a freestanding office, a light-blue badly cracked and chippedup stucco structure that had been around since Bonnie and Clyde went looking for places to shack up away from the law. Billy the Kid may have attended the grand opening.
Not that there was anything grand about the Saddle Up. Even its neon sign couldn’t deliver, depicting not a saddle but a horseshoe, a red one with yellow nails, several of which had burned out. Yellow neon lettering filled the upside-down U:
COOL AIR
COLOR TV
NO VACANCY
These were shorting in and out. No pool, just a gravel lot. Twelve rooms with only three cars, despite the buzzing No Vacancy notice.
Which I knew to be inaccurate. Jerry had been staying here, and he’d checked out, all right. Maybe not from the Saddle Up, but…
I nosed the Mustang into its stall outside Jerry’s room- number eight-and used the key I’d found in his wallet. I’d considered stopping at my car, which you may recall was parked on Main Street down from the Four Jacks, to get my nine millimeter Browning out of the glove compartment. But I didn’t really see any need for a weapon. Jerry was dead, and his partner Nick had no idea I was in town. It pays to be paranoid in my business, but why go to extremes?
When I flipped on the light switch, I for the first time felt sorry for the late Jerry. That he’d had to live in this dump for the last month or so of his life was a small tragedy. The best that could be said for number eight was that the bed was made; oh, and for a quarter the mattress would vibrate. And the chugging air conditioner indeed delivered the cool air the neon sign promised.
Looming over the bed’s nubby piss-color spread was one of those garishly framed matador prints that every cheap motel room seemed to have, jarring against ancient peeling wallpaper the color of sand dotted with green cartoon cacti. For that Southwestern flavor. The green shag carpeting gave you the feeling a whole realm of dirt and germs existed down in the underbrush, well out of any sweeper’s reach, not that any sweeper had recently gone on safari there.
If some industrious biographer discovered Alfred Hitchcock had been traveling through these parts in the late 1950s, this bathroom with its shower stall might well turn out to have inspired a certain very famous scene. Of course, this was sheer speculation on my part; after all, Hitch couldn’t have fit inside that bathroom unless they’d built it around him.
Beyond number eight’s natural ambiance, Jerry had added his own touches, namely a stack of well-thumbed men’s magazines (Hustler, Club, Gallery) on the junky dresser, which was also home to a bottle of baby oil, a king-size box of Puffs tissues, a boom box with a scattering of audio cassettes (Boston, Foghat, ZZ Top), two bottles of Dewar’s, one unopened, and a bathroom water glass with Scotch traces, adding more circles to the wooden dresser top. Everything a sophisticate like Jerry required for a rewarding night in.
I didn’t touch much of anything. Whether that was to prevent fingerprints or to avoid catching something, I’ll leave for you to decide. But I found what I was looking for: a spiral notebook in a drawer by the bed that had all of Jerry’s surveillance notes. Each day was dated and ran to three pages. Three weeks and a few days worth.
Everybody in the trade took such notes. But hanging on to them was a dangerous practice. On those rare occasions that I took the Passive role, I made sure my notes were cryptic, never including the name or even initials of the target or any secondary subjects.
And by the time the Active half of the team showed up, a month or more of such information would be distilled- “He takes breakfast at the diner on Vermont Place every morning around seven,” “She walks the dog when she gets home from work, between five and five-thirty,” “He smokes a joint in the hot tub on his deck every night at eleven,” and so on. You transferred information along verbally, like the Indians used to pass their lore from generation to generation.
And any notes were disposed of. Burned, usually.
Jerry had names or initials and times and dates. Perfect for my purposes. But also another reason to wonder why he’d lasted as long as he had, or why somebody as skillful as Nick Varnos-staging accidental deaths was maybe the hardest kind of hit to pull off-had for ten fucking years put up with this douchebag.
Part of why I stopped by the Saddle Up was to remove any trace of Jerry. So I packed his suitcase, including everything from his clothes (here at least he did well- they were as bland as mine, a page out of a Sears catalogue) to his stroke books, from his Dewar’s to his boom box with blues-rock cassettes. Toiletries, too. Included among the deceased’s effects were a. 38 Colt Super Automatic from his nightstand drawer and the box of slugs that went with it.
I saved out a HENDRIX LIVES t-shirt (Hendrix maybe, not Jerry) and used it to rub away any fingerprints I might have left. Better than going near that box of Puffs.
When the one-room suite was devoid of Jerry’s personality and had been returned to its own natural charming state, I hauled the suitcase out and stuffed it in his trunk. Jerry had another handgun in there-a Colt Diamondback revolver in a little belt holster-and two boxes of ammunition for it. Just sitting there.
Fucking idiot-what if a cop, suspecting a DUI, had stopped him and found this? Or worse, what if just now I’d gone through a stop sign or something, unfamiliar with Boot Heel, and got stopped, and the fuzz checked the trunk when they ran my driver’s license (a phony) and found it didn’t go with a red Mustang?
Shit, if I hadn’t already killed that fuckwad, I’d have gladly done so now. It was all I could do not to drive back to that lonely road and run over him a few more times.
Anyway, I used the Hendrix t-shirt to wipe any potential prints off any surface I touched, then drove the Mustang back into Boot Heel. I found a parking space not far from the Four Jacks in front of the Old West Museum amp; Gift Emporium-open but doing scant business-and (with some more Hendrix wiping) left the Mustang there.
With the keys in the dash, and the windows rolled down.
I had checked the registration and Jerry’s name wasn’t on it-at least, not any name I knew him by. Probably he’d bought it specifically for this gig, paying cash and using false I.D. Should any cops lay hands on it, there was no reason to think it would lead to Jerry, either the Jerry who lived somewhere with a straight cover story, or the Jerry who lay on a dirt highway with a head looking like a Halloween pumpkin some nasty neighbor kids kicked in.
Might have made one of the more interesting wagers in Boot Heel tonight-betting somebody how long it would take the Mustang to disappear.
Personally I didn’t give a shit where the Mustang wound up. I was just looking to get rid of it and simplify matters in a way that would buy me a day or two. With his skidmark puss, Jerry was unrecognizable, and when (next county over) he was found, whenever he was found, the wheels of justice should grind fairly slowly. At least as slowly as mine had over Jerry.
Identifying the body would take a while, if it ever was identified; and his death-mysterious as it was (had a drunk stumbled out into that road and got run over?)- would hardly make headline news. Jerry had said his part of the job was over, so I didn’t figure Nick would be looking to get in touch with him. If the local paper in a day or two carried a little story about the weird death in the boonies, well, why should Nick think it was about Jerry?
And assuming somebody helped himself to the Mustang, it would either wind up in a Vegas chop shop or be merrily driven off by some lucky winner. Admittedly, that winner would have an eye-popping moment or two, discovering the weapons in the trunk of his new car. Or maybe not. If it was a pro and not an amateur who took the Mustang, the guns might just be something else to fence.
Everybody wins.
With the Mustang dumped, and the Hendrix t-shirt stuffed in a trash bin, I returned to the Four Jacks and found my way through slots and poker machines and bluehaired patrons to the snack bar, which was off to the right. Open onto the busy casino, Jack’s Shack was fashioned after an old-time soda fountain with tables and a few booths, its back wall decorated with cartoon cut-outs of cowboys and Indians and gunfighters. I got myself a sugar cone with Rocky Road ice cream and sat in a booth licking and nibbling it, while I thumbed through the dead man’s notebook.
I could bore you with details, because Jerry had filled almost sixty pages, and there was a lot to piece together. But I won’t. What I learned boiled down to this: the target was Arthur Stockwell, film director.
The first two weeks of Stockwell’s activities proved irrelevant because this period represented something called pre-production. His hours were erratic, as he apparently was spending time at various film locations in Boot Heel, and sometimes checking with production staff who were staying at three hotels (including the Spur but not, you may be shocked to learn, the luxurious Saddle Up). Halfway through the second week, Stockwell began rehearsing with actors in a conference room at the Spur, but the times were all over the place.
For somebody in the murder business, dealing with a target involved in such a constantly shifting activity was your worst fucking nightmare. You want to deal with your mark in his or her daily life, where there’s a routine to discern. Patterns, predictability- so important when you’re planning to kill somebody.
What I didn’t get was why the hit was going down here, and now — why not wait till after the film wrapped? (That was the term, wasn’t it?) Why not wait till the director would be back in Beverly Hills or wherever, living a normal life? Not that people lived normal lives in Beverly Hills. Even so, that life certainly had some order, some structure, not this movie-making chaos.
Speaking of which, why hadn’t Stockwell been snuffed before he came to Boot Heel to shoot a movie for weeks at a time or maybe months? (Jerry’s notes gave me no indication of how long this-or any-movie production might last.)
Last week the film had started shooting. Again, the times were all over the place, with the only common thread the director working very long hours. He would be on the set as early as six a.m. and get back as late as nine or ten or even midnight. The sets ranged from a desert location just outside town to, well, the Four Jacks Hotel amp; Casino. Apparently they’d shot a scene in this very snack bar.
A local home and an apartment had been used as sets and were (according to Jerry’s notes) “shot out.” Had Jerry ingratiated himself with crew? He seemed to have picked up the jargon.
And it seemed one full day had been spent at the local sheriff’s office. Great place to be shadowing a subject! This seemed more and more like madness…
A dozen names of cast and crew appeared in Jerry’s notes. Either he was a hell of a back-up guy, soaking up information at the scene, or he’d been briefed heavily going in to the job. I could only assume the latter, because as far as I could tell what Jerry really soaked up was Dewar’s.
The names that seemed to matter-the ones that showed up again and again, and figured in Jerry’s surveillance-were (in addition to Arthur Stockwell himself) Tiffany Goodwin, apparently the lead actress, Eric Conrad, lead actor, and J. Kaufmann, producer. Another actress, referred to only as J.S., rated four notations.
I had actually heard of both Tiffany Goodwin and Eric Conrad, and the movie they were making- Hard Wheels 2 — was the sequel to a sleeper hit of a year or so back.
Tiffany Goodwin had been a Playboy Playmate of the Year half a decade ago-I didn’t know she’d gone on to be an actress in the movies. I figured she was probably just hanging out at the Playboy Mansion fucking Hefner.
Eric Conrad had been on a very popular TV show about cops who worked on the beach. Actually, I thought he was still on it, though I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t something I kept up with, despite the beautiful girls in bikinis running on the beach. Even I need some plot.
We were not exactly dealing with Al Pacino and Diane Keaton here. Nor did I figure Bogie and Bacall’s romantic icon status was likely to be challenged by Conrad and Goodwin. And John Ford and Steven Spielberg had little to worry about from Arthur Stockwell.
Clearly the movie being made in Boot Heel was strictly of the drive-in variety, the kind turning up on the shelves of these video stores popping every wherever these days. One of my poker buddies owned such a shop in Lake Geneva.
I have always liked movies but am no film buff. Still, the name Arthur Stockwell rang a bell. That, and the thought of that video store back home, gave birth to an idea…
I got some change at the snack bar counter, and found a row of payphones near the bar. It took a while, as I had to go through directory assistance, but eventually I heard a familiar nasal voice answer, “Lake Geneva Home Video, two tapes, three days, four dollars. This is Bruce, how may I help you?”
“Hey, Bruce,” I said.
Bruce, at thirty, was the only guy in the poker group younger than me.
“Hey, Jack. Ya haven’t been in lately. What’s it take, dude? I don’t even charge you late fees!”
Jack was a first name I used a lot. Mostly it was the last name that shifted.
“I’ve been out of town visiting relatives. Still am, actually. We’re playing one of those silly trivia games, and hell, Brucie, you know more about movies than anybody I know.”
“No argument there.”
“So help me look good, dude.” Yes. I said it. “Tell me who Arthur Stockwell is.”
Bruce did.
Turned out Stockwell was a very well known B-movie director. As a young man in the late ’50s, he had directed a number of films for producer Roger Corman; he broke off on his own and in the ’60s specialized in genre movies of all kinds, mostly for American International-science fiction, horror, biker, “a few hippie flicks, where they drop acid and stuff.” He had worked with Jack Nicholson, Peter Falk and Bruce Dern before they got famous. And, as with Jerry Lewis-who I like, so watch it-he had a favorable reputation among certain influential French film critics.
“Stockwell got a chance to make a movie for Twentieth Century Fox,” Bruce said, “about ten years ago. After one of his cheapies, Acid Trip, unexpectedly broke box office records, he got his shot. Made this big epic about World War One biplanes, The Red Baron. And I don’t mean Snoopy.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It tanked. El flopperoo. For a while he couldn’t get arrested.”
That’s a bad thing?
“The drive-in market kind of dried up in the ’70s,” Bruce was saying. “Stockwell started directing episodes of TV shows, mostly cop shows, you know, Quinn Martin action crapola. Then last year he made Hard Wheels, a throwback to his classic biker movies. And it was a big hit on home video.”
“Not in theaters?”
“It did all right, in what few drive-ins and grindhouses there are left. But the video stores are changing everything. Hard Wheels is one of the first movies ever to get famous and popular just from people renting it. And playing on cable.”
“Cable.”
“Oh, yeah, man-HBO rules! You need to get a satellite dish, my friend. You really do. And I have a friend who can fix you up.”
“We’ll see. Thanks for this, Bruce.”
“Sorry for yammering on so long, buddy. I gave you a lot more info than you need for a trivia game.”
“No, that’s cool, it’s interesting stuff. You’ll make me look smart.”
“Then I am a genius…Hey, man, I hear Stockwell’s making a sequel. Can you dig it? A sequel to a movie that was a hit on home video. It’s a brave new world, Jack.”
“You’re slipping, Brucie. That was a literary reference.”
“Books serve their purposes. Hell of a lot of good flicks came from ’em…When you gonna be back in town?”
“Probably in time for poker. I’ll let you know if not.”
I went out to the street, where the night had turned sultry but with a teasing breeze, and walked to my car. Not a rental, my own wheels (hard wheels?), which I’d purchased in Vegas, after flying in from Wisconsin. I used phony I.D., of course, and paid in cash. It was nothing special, a ’76 Chevy Nova, dark green, fairly sleek, almost sporty. No red Mustang, though.
The Spur was everything the Saddle Up wasn’t. At night, I couldn’t tell what color the three-story brick building was-light pink? — and in truth it was nondescript and institutional-looking. But the big elaborate boot-shaped neon complete with spinning-neon spur, all green and yellow and orange, had enough flash for four motels.
All I had for a suitcase was a brown vinyl carry-on, slung over my shoulder when I entered the lobby of the motel, which proved to be a mini-casino. Well, that might be an exaggeration-it was just slots that ringed the walls, though the coffee tables around which comfy chairs were arranged were embedded with poker machines. About half a dozen guests were making use of them.
The cowboy trappings were limited here-the lobby was modern and bright, with only a couple of large framed western prints (a rodeo scene, a desert vista) to hint that we were in Boot Heel, Nevada. Behind the long check-in counter were three stations, but only one clerk was working, an attractive big-hair brunette in her midtwenties, with luminous brown eyes and a nice tan and an immediately friendly smile. She was in a green blazer the same startling color as her eye shadow; whether fashion statement or coincidence, I couldn’t say.
Her name tag said tina.
“Hi, Tina,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation.”
“No problem, sir. We have rooms available. Facing the pool, if you like.”
“Cool.” I leaned an elbow on the counter and gave her my friendly, shy smile. Maybe she was just a good clerk, but the vibe I was getting said she didn’t find me repulsive. “I’m here to do some PR for the movie company that’s in town. Art Stockwell is an old friend of mine.”
She got even more pleasant and friendly. “Well, I can put you on his floor, if you like.”
“That would be great. Closer the better.”
She checked her book. “How about…across the hall? Down a little, but real close.”
“Perfect. What room is he in again?”
“Three-thirteen. You’re in three-sixteen. Your room looks out on the pool, but don’t worry. There’s no swimming after ten, so it shouldn’t be noisy.”
“Great. Say, I just got in. Is Art back from the day’s shoot yet?”
“No, Mr. Stockwell is still out.”
We did the check-in stuff, and I gave her a credit card that said JOHN H. REYNOLDS. I had two on that particular name, attached to a legit bank account. She wondered if I’d want the room charged to the Stockwell 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.