Dishonorable Intentions (23 page)

T
he director of the Western assembled his cast and crew in the saloon standing set, the principals in the chairs and the extras standing at the back, and an enlarged photograph of the street scene, taken from the balcony of the hotel, was stapled to a wall. The AD used his megaphone. “All right, everybody, listen up!” The crowd got quiet.

The director stepped forward; he didn't need the megaphone. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to the photograph with a pool cue from the set. “This is how we were set up this afternoon for our first exterior of this movie. Find your own positions and remember them. Now, somebody on this shoot loaded a weapon with live rounds, and, as a result, our executive producer took one in the upper arm.” He indicated Boris Tirov, who sat, glowering, facing the crowd, his left arm in a sling and a whiskey bottle and shot glass on the table before him. “This is
against our procedures and policies,” the director said. “Every actor on this shoot is an experienced performer and knows how we work. I exclude the crew from blame, because none of them had a weapon, so these remarks are directed at those who were armed. Anybody want to cop to loading live rounds?”

Nobody spoke. “I didn't think so.” The director went to the photograph, took a black marking pen and drew two lines radiating out from Tirov. “Whoever fired the shot was within these lines, given the nature and position of Boris's wound. Kitty is going to call out the names of those who were well outside the lines, and when she does, I want each of you to step over to the bar and wait there.”

The woman with the clipboard stood up and began calling names, and each person moved to the bar. They were left with sixteen people who had been armed and in a position to have fired the round. “Now,” she said, “as I call your name, I want you to come up here and point out where you are in the photograph. She began calling names, and each actor took the pool cue and pointed to himself, while the AD marked his position. “Okay,” Kitty said, “I think we know who our man is.” She took the pool cue and pointed to the only unmarked man in the photo. “His name is Baxter, or at least that's what he said. Earlier in the day, production got a call from a man calling himself Baxter, saying he was sick in bed and couldn't make it to work. I didn't hear about it until this afternoon. Still, this guy signed in as Baxter. I remember him, he was sitting at the bar before
the first scene was shot. After the incident, I noticed him leaving the general-store set. I asked him where he was going, and he said he wasn't in the next shot, and he was going to the parking lot to get something out of his car.”

“Kitty,” the director said, “can you tell us what he looked like?”

“Like every man in this room—cowboy clothes, six feet or so, slim. He wore his hat tipped forward, so you couldn't get a good look at his face. I checked with wardrobe—the real Baxter didn't check out a costume or weapon. Neither did his impersonator. This was very well planned.”

The director spoke up. “Why do you think it was planned? How would he know Baxter was sick? How would he know to sign in for him?”

“You have a point. I asked him to sign in, and there was only one blank space, next to Baxter's name. But it was well planned enough for him to provide his own costume and weapons—he was wearing a six-gun, too.”

“Is there anybody in the room who talked to the fake Baxter or got a close look at him?”

The AD spoke up. “I placed him by the hitching rail in front of the general store, but I wasn't really looking at his face. He was taller than I am, but then almost everybody here is.” The crowd had a good laugh at the short AD.

“Anybody else have conversation with him?”

Nobody spoke.

“Boris, is anybody mad at you?”

“Not that I know of,” Tirov replied. “At least, not mad enough to take a shot at me.”

“Anybody else have anything—anything at all—to contribute?”

Nobody spoke.

“All right, then,” the director said, “I'm going to assume that somebody brought the gun from home, and that it was already loaded with live ammo, and that this was an accident. I'm not going to call the police, because there is no reason to think that he was trying to kill Boris, and we'd likely lose a day's shooting. Boris agrees with me—in fact, it was his idea. So we're going to go back to work and right now. I want to get this scene done before we lose the light. Let's go! Assume your previous positions in the street.”

Everybody filed out of the saloon and into the street.

The director approached Tirov on his way out. “Boris, do you really think this was an accident?”

“What else could it be?” Tirov asked. He had brought the bourbon with him and took a swig from the bottle.

“You'd think, wouldn't you, that in a crew this size
somebody
would have an oxycodone?”

“You'd think,” Boris replied, taking another swig.

It was the director's private opinion that if everybody on the set had had a pocketful of pills, nobody would have offered Boris one. He was that popular with the crew.

—

B
oris didn't resume his seat on the set. Instead, he went to his trailer, stretched out on his sofa, and got drunker. He had no intention of going to an ER, where a gunshot wound would be reported to the police, with all that that would entail.

There was a rap on the trailer door. “Boris?”

“Come in!”

A man entered. “Are you finished with my snake?”

“What?”

“You borrowed a six-foot rattler, remember? I handed it to you in its cage.”

“Oh, that. It got away.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“I screwed up, okay? It got away from me.”

“Where?”

Tirov waved a hand. “Out there somewhere. Just bill me for the fucking thing, okay?”

“That will be one thousand dollars. I raised it from a pup.”

“Fine. Send me a bill.”

“Don't ask to borrow any more animals.” The man left.

Tirov took another swig of the bourbon and lay back on his sofa, swearing under his breath.

There was another rap on the door. “Boris?”

“Who is it?”

“It's Sam. Your director.”

“It's open!”

The director came into the trailer. “I've had a conversation with a lawyer at the Directors Guild, and I have to report the shooting to the police.”

“It wasn't a shooting, it was an accident.”

“I'm sorry, I've already called them. You'd better sober up enough to talk to them.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, get out of here, or I'll fire you.”

The director left, slamming the door behind him. “You just try that,” he muttered under his breath.

T
irov was sound asleep and snoring loudly when there was a loud hammering on his trailer door. “Mr. Tirov, Santa Fe County Sheriff's Office. Open up.”

Tirov sat up on one elbow. “Open it yourself!”

Two men, one in a tan uniform and a Stetson, the other in a business suit, entered the trailer.

“Mr. Tirov, I'm Detective Rhea, and this is Deputy Smith, of the Santa Fe County Sheriff's Office,” said the suit.

Tirov struggled to a sitting position and got his feet on the floor. “What do you want?”

“We're investigating a report of a shooting on your movie set.”

“There was no shooting.”

“Then how come your arm is in a sling?”

“It was an accident, not a shooting.”

“How is it an accident that somebody was carrying a loaded weapon on a movie set, where every weapon is supposed to be loaded with blanks?”

“I figure somebody brought his own weapon from home and forgot it was loaded.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but that doesn't make any sense at all. Where would I find this extra, Tom Baxter?”

“He called in sick. I imagine he's at home, wherever that is.”

“Then how did he sign the worksheet?”

“There was clearly an unauthorized person on the set. He signed the only blank space on the sheet, rather than get thrown out.”

“Do you always have unauthorized persons mingling with your cast and crew?”

“It happens more often than you would believe. People are starstruck, movie-struck. Some of them would do anything to nuzzle up to our star, Brad Goshen.”

“Did anybody nuzzle up to Mr. Goshen this morning?”

“How would I know? Ask Mr. Goshen.”

“You're being uncooperative, Mr. Tirov.”

“Oh? Tell me a question I haven't answered. How am I uncooperative?”

“Well, you're pretty surly.”

“I have a gunshot wound, and I'm in pain, and since nobody in this company has a pain pill, I'm substituting bourbon. And there's no law that says I have to be polite to a cop.”

“I'm sorry for your pain. We'll go talk to Mr. Goshen.”

“Good luck with that. Between takes, he goes into his trailer and I'm told does some pretty weird stuff.”

“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

“I don't know what it is—some kind of yoga or meditation or something. The entire company is on standing orders not to knock on his door until we're ready for a take.”

“We still need to talk to him.”

“If you start messing around with our star, we're liable to lose a day's shooting. Do you know what that costs?”

“No, sir.”

“Several hundred thousand dollars. I can tell you that Brad Goshen didn't shoot at me. I was looking at him at the moment I got hit, and he was doing his job. The bullet came from behind him somewhere, so he couldn't have seen the shooter. And he wouldn't have anything but blanks in his gun, because he didn't load it, our armorer did, so why don't you just leave the kid alone. Talk to the armorer, if you like.”

“What's his name?”

“Frog.”

“Frog what?”

“Frog the armorer—how do I know? Ask the production manager—that's who he reports to.”

“What's the production manager's name?”

“Al.”

“Al what?”

“I don't know that, either. I don't talk to the crew, I talk to the director or his assistant or the line producer, and they talk to everybody else. Ask the first person you see when you leave, which I'd like you to do right now.”

“We may have more questions for you later.”

“Not today, you won't. Now please leave my trailer, and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.”

“Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Tirov.”

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Sheriff.”

“Detective.”

“It doesn't suit you, either, Detective. Next time, try charm.”

“I don't do charm,” the detective said, and slammed the door hard behind him. “Let's go find this Brad guy and annoy him,” he said to the deputy.

“Sounds like fun.”

“And if we don't start getting some joy around here, I'll get a search warrant and we'll turn over every trailer and truck in this goddamned cardboard town until we find that weapon.”

“Can I watch?”

“No, but you can help. Come on.” The detective stalked off in the direction of a cluster of trailers. He reckoned Brad Goshen would be in the biggest one.

—

B
oris Tirov locked his trailer and yelled for his driver. “Bernie!”

Bernie popped out from behind the trailer. “Yessir?”

“Get the goddamned car. I want to go to the hotel.”

“Yessir!” Bernie ran to get the car.

B
illy Barnett drove back to the movie ranch in the late afternoon and parked in the public lot. The animal wrangler's truck was in its usual spot at the edge of the lot closest to the sets, and the engine was running, Billy assumed for the purpose of air-conditioning the cages in the back. He checked the driver's seat and found no one there; it took him less than a minute to pick the lock on the rear doors.

It was fairly quiet in the back of the truck; there was a kind of zoo odor, but it was not unpleasant. It took Billy hardly any time to find the perfect rattlesnake, about a four-footer, he estimated. He took a burlap bag from a stack, picked up a handling pole with a hook at the end, opened the cage and, after a little fumbling, got the snake into the burlap bag and tied a knot in it.

He got into his car, put the bag on the floor of the backseat, drove into Santa Fe, and parked his car on Water Street, behind
La Fonda Hotel, where the movie crew was staying. He checked the call sheet and found the room number he wanted, then he took a cardboard box from a nearby trash bin and put the burlap bag inside it.

The hotel was a hive of tourists; the restaurants were full, the gift shop was crowded, and every time an elevator arrived in the lobby, half a dozen people got off, and another half dozen got on. He didn't want to be seen on an elevator, so he walked up the stairs five stories and found the room number. The hallway was deserted; he put an ear to the door and listened for half a minute, checked the hall for traffic again, then picked the lock.

Once inside he listened again for signs of occupancy and heard none. There was a large living room and a terrace overlooking the plaza. He saw a pair of feet on a chaise longue on the terrace, but they weren't moving. He thought the owner must be asleep.

He removed the burlap bag from the box and got an answering rattle for his trouble. As quickly as he could, he walked into the bedroom, pulled back the covers on the bed, then emptied the snake onto it, pulling the covers up again before it could escape. He stood there for a moment, waiting for it to quiet down, then he left, taking the bag and box with him. On the street again, he deposited them both in the same receptacle where he had found the box, then got back into the car and left. He was a couple of blocks away when an ambulance passed him going the other way.

—

B
oris Tirov stirred as the late-afternoon sun found him on the terrace, and he began to perspire. He got up and went through the sliding door into the air-conditioned suite and into the bedroom, where he stripped off his clothes. In one motion, he pulled back the covers and lifted one leg to climb into the bed. The rattling froze him for just a moment; he didn't see the snake until it hit him on the thigh, then withdrew, remaining coiled and still rattling.

Tirov panicked and ran into the living room, looking for a phone.

“Front desk!”

“I've been bitten by a rattlesnake!” he shouted into the phone. “I need an ambulance right now!”

“What was that, sir?”

“Rattlesnake bite! Ambulance!”

“Yes, sir, right away.”

Tirov hung up the phone and watched as the snake slithered from the bedroom and headed toward the terrace. The sliding door was still open a few inches, and it moved outside. Tirov ran across the room and closed the door behind it, then he began thinking about his predicament.

He went into the bedroom, treading carefully, lest there were more, undiscovered snakes. He grabbed a necktie from the closet, wrapped it twice around his leg and tightened it. He thought for a moment, What else? You were supposed to suck
the wound, weren't you? But he couldn't reach his outer thigh to do that.

There was a loud knocking on the door, and he got up to answer it, holding the necktie in place. Before he could reach the door it opened, and a uniformed security guard walked in, to be confronted by a naked man with a necktie wrapped around his leg.

“Did you call an ambulance?” Tirov asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, averting his eyes. “Where's the snake?”

“On the terrace. I want you to suck the poison out.”

The man was appalled. “I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know anything about that.”

“You have to suck the poison from my wound, or I'll die.” He put one foot on a dining chair to make his thigh more accessible. “I'll give you a thousand dollars.”

“I'm sorry, sir, that's outside my job description. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Do you have a knife?”

“I have a pocketknife.”

“Make a cut where the fangs went in.”

The man fumbled in his pocket, came up with a Swiss Army knife and selected a blade.

“Quickly!”

The man offered him the knife. “You'll have to do it yourself,” he said.

Before Tirov could act, two men with a stretcher came into the room through the open door. “Where's the rattlesnake?” one of them asked, looking around nervously.

“On the terrace,” Tirov said, then he began to get dizzy.

“You get him to the hospital,” the guard said. “I'll deal with the snake. He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and started toward the terrace.

Tirov hobbled toward the stretcher, feeling ill, then he fainted and fell into the arms of an EMT.

—

B
illy Barnett drove north, turned off the main highway onto Tesuque Village Road, then he pulled over, stopped, and got a cell phone from the glove compartment. He got the number for the
Santa Fe New Mexican
, the local newspaper, and asked for the city desk.

“City desk, this is Peg.”

“The movie producer Boris Tirov, who is making the movie being filmed out at the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch, has been bitten by a large rattlesnake and taken to the hospital.” He broke the connection, then made a similar call to the sheriff's office, then he tossed the phone into the weeds beside the road and drove on to Gala Wilde's house.

—

B
oris Tirov woke up slowly on a gurney in an emergency room; a doctor was bending over him. “What happened?” he asked.

“You were bitten by a rattlesnake,” the doctor said. “We've given you the antivenom and, since you're awake, you're improving. How do you feel?”

“Sick,” Tirov said.

“What's wrong with your shoulder?”

“Bullet wound to the arm—accidental shooting on a movie set.”

“We'll need to report that to the police.”

“The sheriff's department has already investigated. Call them, if you like.”

“You know,” the doctor said, “I've been working in this ER for eight years, and this is the first time we've ever admitted a naked man with a rattlesnake bite and a gunshot wound.”

“I'm happy for you,” Tirov said.