Cover-Up Story (19 page)

Bart made a final, vicious grinding motion with his heel before following the gaze of the others to his feet. He lifted his heel from the red bandana and shrugged. ‘I always told that no'ccount old fool he was too careless with them things,' he said. ‘An accident like this was bound to happen one day.'

No one answered. He grew restive under the accusing stares.

‘Don't make no difference, nohow,' he said defensively. ‘He don't need them for the rest of the shooting. Ain't no scene where he ever wears them.'

‘You shouldn't have done it, Bart,' Uncle No'ccount said quietly.

‘I done nothing!' Bart raged. ‘You –' he pointed to one of the lighting technicians – ‘you see me do anything?'

Slightly less bored than usual, the man shook his head.

‘There!' Triumphantly, he pointed to someone else. ‘You?' Again a headshake. ‘You? ... You ...?

It made no difference. Bart might choose his witnesses, but the jury knew him too well. Before their implacable faces, he wavered to a halt, glaring in baffled indignation.

The technicians, sensing an imminent explosion and, quite rightly, wanting no part of it, hurled themselves into their own jobs – each job, by some strange coincidence, removing them from the danger area. We were left in an isolated circle, surrounded by unmanned camera equipment.

In the hiatus, Crystal crossed to Uncle No'ccount, kissed him full on the mouth, and swung to face Bart. ‘It makes me no never-mind,' she said calmly. ‘All you've done, Bart, is make things a little awkward temporarily for Eugene. You ain't changed nothing.'

‘You lousy, rotten little tramp! After all I done for you –' Bart kicked the lumpy bandana towards them and strode off towards the oversized closet at the back that was doing duty as his dressing-room.

‘Bart!' Struggling from her chair, Lou-Ann ran after him.

Sam tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Doug,' he said humbly, ‘but what did you say that dentist's name was?'

WHILE BART SULKED in his dressing-room, the show went on. Lou-Ann and the Cousins took the floor with the fill-in bits. All run together, it was worse than ever. The Cousins finished their part of the stint and bounded out of camera range thankfully.

Left alone, Lou-Ann hurled herself about even more wildly. She gagged, mugged, slipped, acted double-jointed, and hammered her punch lines with increasing desperation. But she was playing to the world's toughest audience. More bored than ever, the technicians went about their business, not one of them cracking a smile.

‘She ought to take it easier.' Sam frowned. ‘She was a pretty sick kid last night.'

I nodded. We had moved over by Bart's dressing-room, so that Sam could keep an eye on him. Sam hovered back and forth between the half-open door and a corner from which he had a clear view of the proceedings on the floor. I leaned against the wall, with a clear view of neither, but able to see far more of both than I wished. Bart was sprawled in a chair, only his boots visible through the doorway, and had been steadily drinking from a bottle of bourbon he had taken from his make-up case. His numbers were filmed, however, and all that was left in the script was a scene or two with Lou-Ann. I wondered if he were deliberately trying to avoid those.

On the other side of the studio, the Cousins were beginning to clown around, blowing off steam in pantomimed horse-play. It was nice that
some
people felt their work was finished and could relax.

Sam flitted back to the doorway. ‘Somebody ought to get him some coffee,' he said. ‘We'll never get through the script today, if he can't finish the last scenes.'

‘I'll go.' Penny had appeared behind us. ‘They have an electric kettle in the corner. It won't take long.'

‘It better not,' Sam grumbled. ‘Lou-Ann's nearly done with her solo stuff. It's time Bart got ready for his cue.'

I nodded to Penny and she hurried off. In a momentary lull on the floor, we could hear the homely gurgling of the bourbon being tilted again.

‘Are you sure it's a good idea?' I asked. ‘I mean, do you think he's really in the mood to play any scenes with Lou-Ann?'

‘It's in the script,' Sam said, as though that made it Holy Writ. ‘If Lou-Ann can get out of a sickbed and come down here to go on with the show, the least Bart can do is pull himself together and go on with it, too.'

It hadn't exactly been a sickbed, but I didn't feel like arguing the point with Sam. He appeared to have an infinite capacity for ignoring the nuances of a situation. Perhaps it was a form of self-protection. He might not be able to live with himself if he admitted all he noticed.

Especially, feeling the way he did about Lou-Ann.

Lou-Ann was still in the spotlight, doing her best to give herself a relapse, seizure, or whatever might result from ignoring doctor's orders too soon after being snatched back from the grave. (
Had
she deliberately taken extra pills, to attract Bart's attention?) And still, no one had laughed.

Gerry, obviously with her morale at heart, was taking pictures. It cheered her visibly every time a flashbulb went off. I wondered what possible future Sam could envisage for himself, containing her. The Great Impresario? On the other hand, all things being equal, they made a well-matched pair. She was a dab hand at not seeing anything she didn't want to see, too.

‘She's trying too hard,' Sam muttered in my ear.

‘Try convincing her of that.' But of course, he already had. She wasn't going to believe him. Not when Bart kept egging her on to ham it up. It never occurred to her that her darling Bart might have an ulterior motive for wanting her to fall flat on her face. Like hoping she might break her neck in the process.

But there was no evidence of that. How do you convince people without evidence? Answer: you don't. You just get written off as a petty minded malicious mischief-maker. If you don't actually get sued for libel and slander. By the time they find out you may have been right, it's too late – for them. And perhaps for you, too. There isn't likely to be much future in the Public Relations field for a PRO who has openly suggested that his Client is a murderer. It can make prospective clients very nervous. Everyone has his little quirks, and the business of a PRO is to put his client's best foot forward, and try to hide the other three cloven hooves.

The Cousins were growing noisier now. It didn't really matter. If the noise was picked up by the microphones, new sound could be dubbed in later. But it was rattling Lou-Ann considerably.

I glanced across at them and, suddenly I was considerably rattled myself.

Cousin Homer started to sit down. Cousin Ezra whipped the chair out from under him, and danced with glee as Cousin Homer sprawled on the floor.

‘You bastard!' Cousin Homer howled.

The others laughed heartily – another of Ezra's merry little japes. But Homer was still lying there, eyes closed, and the laughter died away. He'd hit the floor pretty hard, he might be hurt.

‘Homer? You all right, Homer?' Cousin Ezra bent over him uncertainly. ‘I was only funning, Homer.'

Lou-Ann faltered to a stop, and turned to watch anxiously. The cameraman stopped filming.

Suddenly, Cousin Homer's hands shot up and grabbed Ezra's shirt front, pulling him off balance and down on top of him. ‘Gotcha, you bastard!' he shouted, enthusiastically trying to put his knee through Ezra's stomach. They rolled about, the wrestling match deteriorating as both of them began to shake with laughter.

Good old Cousin Ezra – who could stay mad at him? The licensed jester of the Troupe, with his famous practical jokes. Everybody was laughing now, even Lou-Ann, as she turned back to the cameras and went on with her act.

Cousin Ezra – a bastard I had overlooked. A minor bastard, and easily overlooked in the presence of such a major bastard as Black Bart. For that reason, perhaps, more dangerous. Cousin Ezra – whose ‘jokes' had been known to have had serious consequences before. Serious, but not deadly – so far as we knew.

But it was the sort of thing that would be just down Cousin Ezra's street. ‘
That bastard pushed me
!' Not any old bastard, but a particular one. One who would think it funny to push someone out into the line of moving traffic. Give him his due – he probably intended to pull her back again before anything happened. Catch her and haul her back on the pavement, while brakes shrieked all around them, and perhaps a couple of those funny, teeny English cars bumped into each other, while drivers cursed and mopped their brows. Yes, it would be a real good joke – just the job to give everyone a good, laughable, heart-stopping scare.

But the joke had failed. Perhaps because Maw Cooney had stumbled and twisted out of his grasp. Or perhaps because he had depended too much on the reflexes of an unknown driver, and the brakes of an unknown car. Ezra came from a country where cars had to be inspected every six months to retain their Road Licence. How could he dream that the English laws were so much less demanding? It was unimaginable to a citizen of a more mobile country.

And so, the spontaneous horse-play had gone wrong. Like Ezra's other failure, when a woman had landed in hospital. But
this
woman didn't recover. He couldn't laugh that off. Nor could he admit it.

Yes, Cousin Ezra was a very good bet as that murdering bastard. But again, there was no evidence.

I saw Penny, carefully balancing a brimming cup of black coffee, moving towards me, but was so absorbed in my own brooding that the fact didn't really register. I stood aside automatically to let her enter the dressing-room, and continued brooding. Perhaps I could get a nice quiet job with IBM ...

About ten seconds later I heard a muffled shriek and the crash and splash of the coffee cup hitting the floor. I charged through the doorway in time to see Penny twist away from Bart's grasp, leaving a jagged piece of her blouse in his hands.

‘You keep away from me,' she gasped, ‘or I'll –'

‘Come on, honey, don't be like that.' He was grinning. It was obvious that he enjoyed a good unequal fight.

‘Leave her alone!' I snapped.

‘You again, boy?' He turned on me slowly. ‘I told you – I've had enough of you. You git the hell outa here and mind your own business.
You
don't give
me
orders – get that straight.'

‘Bart, cut it out! ' Sam was behind me in the doorway.

Bart told us both what we could do, and returned to stalking Penny. She was panicky and edging herself into a corner. I tried to signal her to get over towards the door.

Bart caught the signal out of the corner of his eye, and half-turned towards me.

It was then that Penny snatched up the bourbon bottle and brought it down over his head. The blow should have knocked him senseless, but he merely shook his head groggily, and completed the turn until he was facing me with a nasty light in his eye.

‘You hit me, boy,' he said. ‘Now we are really going to tangle, and I'll teach you some manners like your momma shoulda done. If'n she hadn't'a been too busy trying to figure out who your daddy mighta been.'

Where does chivalry begin and end? It was scarcely the moment to tell him that it was little Penny who had hit him. Not that he would have believed it, anyway. He'd been looking for an excuse to fight with me for days now. He was three inches taller than I was, and about a stone and a half heavier. All I could do was brace myself and hope that Penny's blow had weakened him.

We circled each other warily and, just as he made a sudden lunge towards me, Penny hit him again. This time he swayed visibly for a moment, then sagged to the floor between us. Penny looked a bit startled at what she had accomplished.

‘Nice work,' I complimented her. ‘And he certainly had it coming to him.'

‘Oh, it wasn't so much that,' she said. ‘I simply couldn't let him hit
you.
'

It occurred to me that Penny had all the makings of a really Faithful Old Retainer. And I must encourage her along this line. It would be a pity to lose her.

‘Well –' Sam moved forward and looked down at Bart glumly – ‘I guess that finishes filming for today.'

‘Bart! Bart, honey!' Lou-Ann hurtled through the doorway and flung herself to her knees beside him. ‘What happened?'

‘He slipped,' I said quickly, motioning to Penny to dispose of the cracked bourbon bottle. She nodded, and quietly replaced it under the makeshift dressing-table.

‘Don't y'all jest stand there!' Lou-Ann tugged at Bart's shoulders. ‘Help me pick him up and get him back to the hotel. We gotta get him a doctor. He coulda hurt himself.'

Sam ground his teeth almost audibly and stooped to lift Bart by the shoulders. Ready to show willing, I picked up his feet and we lurched forward with him, while Lou-Ann fluttered along beside him. It was a pity we didn't have any stairs to negotiate – with a little careful manoeuvring, we could have managed to drop him and made it look like another of those accidents.

Gerry had gone to Penny and put his jacket around her, hiding her torn blouse. ‘I'll see her home,' he said quietly to me.

‘He slipped,' Lou-Ann said, as we went through the studio, ‘and hit his head on the edge of the make-up table.' It was a detail I didn't remember telling her, but it fitted in very well.

I saw the Cousins grin and nudge each other, and knew they had heard the beginning of the scuffle. They'd keep quiet, though, their jobs depended on it. And it wasn't the first time they'd kept quiet about Bart.

‘Reckon we'll come along.' Crystal and Uncle No'ccount joined us. ‘Might be something we can do.' Her eyes were on Lou-Ann as she spoke. It was obvious that she was more worried about her sister in-law than her brother. With a brother like that, it was understandable.