Murder Take Two (12 page)

A favor, is it? And what might that be? “Yes, ma'am.” Her usual disdain wasn't apparent, but the promise of good things to come was a shade overdone.

“If you'll come over here, I'll explain. I might even tell you a few things you don't know.”

Oh, yes, lady, I'm sure you could. He bent his chin to his chest, squeezed the back of his neck, then stretched his head backward as far as it would go. He had a little dilemma here. He was due to pick up Mac in a few minutes. Within the confines of his edict—take care of these show biz folks—actors probably beat out drivers any old day.

What was clear was, he should tell Mac he couldn't make it and hie himself over to Ms. Sheri's hotel room.

He hauled in a breath on the wings of fatigue. Hotel room. Breathy coo. He wasn't important enough to warrant the usual attention that would suggest. In her opinion, he was just some clown hired to guard doorways, so what was the favor she wanted? Anything pertinent she'd lay on a higher-up. If she wanted information … Now there was a thought. She'd think he'd spill it. With the right lure. “How'd you get this number?”

“I went to a lot of trouble.” Sexy and cute.

Howie, he thought. His old friend Howie Gilbert, assistant manager at the hotel. If Sheri did her song and dance for him Howie'd give out state secrets, let alone a little thing like Yancy's home number. Yancy wished he wasn't so tired, he could think better if his brains weren't mashed potatoes. He was curious about what she wanted, but too tired to trot into her room, the mouse accepting the cat's invitation.

“Well, ma'am. I sure am sorry but I'm on my way to pick up Mac.”

“Who's Mac?”

“Ms. Edwards's driver. Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't you join us? We're going to get a bite to eat.” Boy, would she be a hit. “You like barbecue?”

“It doesn't sound like my kind of place.” Her voice was losing some of its warmth. “Call this Mac and tell him you can't come.”

“Well, yeah, that's an idea all right, but he's nowhere I can reach him. How 'bout I come right over to the hotel as soon as I can.”

“That'll be too late.”

Too late for what? “Oh, gee, yeah, it will be getting late. Tell you what. I'll see you first thing in the morning.”

There was a frosty silence, then she said in a tart, irritated, dealing-with-the-help voice, “You just made a mistake.”

He probably did at that. And he probably wouldn't get another chance either. He stripped off his uniform and got in the shower. If this favor had to be granted right now, it most likely couldn't be about the investigation. Mac would have been routinely questioned, but Yancy wanted to get at questions that Mac probably hadn't been asked. Like had he seen the lieutenant near the barn.

Toweling dry as he went, he padded to the bedroom and pulled on jeans and a blue knit shirt long enough and loose enough to cover his gun. Hot as hell up here. The ficus plant his sister had given him was dropping yellow leaves in the corner.

This old Victorian was a great place to live: lots of space—bedroom, kitchen, living room, everything sparse and barren, the way he liked it. Hardwood floors, bookshelves in the bedroom floor-to-ceiling that he'd put up himself. Gray couch and chair in the living room, round table to rest his feet on when he watched television. Built-in desk. Walls papered in gray stripes with dark gray and dark rose trim around the top. No pictures, no knickknacks.

He thought about getting up at five in the morning and wondered how late barbecued ribs with Mac would run. How did actors do it? The hours alone would kill him.

He shoved keys, change, and wallet in his pockets and headed out. Moths were flying around the light intent on suicide, and a couple of june bugs dive-bombed the door. He accidentally stepped on one and it made a loud crunch. He hated the things, big and lumbering.

Mac was pacing up and down the walkway in front of the hotel. When he saw Yancy's Cherokee, he stepped into the street. Late forties, big belly and flat butt, dark hair receding up his forehead and hanging long around his ears. He wrenched open the door and slid in.

“Hey, buddy.” With a friendly fist, he punched Yancy's shoulder. In the interests of projecting male bonding and macho toughness, Yancy did not flinch.

*   *   *

Rose. Laura my beloved. The universe is rose. He stood under the trees and watched the taillights, red eyes of the evil spirits, retreat down the street. He was careful not to get directly in their path. If he did, they'd see into his soul and scramble his plans. He must never allow that. They were forming, falling into place. The universe had told him the most humane way was a gun. Now it told him he had to kill that cop and take his.

*   *   *

This close to eleven, the Blind Pig wasn't overflowing with business. Red padded booths ran along two sides, tables in the middle. Western flair for decoration—ten-gallon hats, spurs, tack on the walls. Tex Ritter sang in the background.

“I should warn you,” Mac said as he slid into a booth, “I take barbecue sauce very seriously.”

The waitress brought menus and a basket of hush puppies. Yancy looked the place over.

“Cops always do that?” Mac asked.

“Do what?”

“Check the place out. Like you're looking for felons, or escape routes.”

“Yeah.” He wondered what kind of a cop he was. Now that he was here, he figured he probably made the wrong call and should have gone with Sheri Lloyd.

Mac ordered the ribs with the picture of a red-horned devil holding a pitchfork beside it. Yancy went for a milder version.

“Tell me about this movie,” he said, slyly working up to his questions.

Mac took a slug of beer, leaned beefy shoulders against the seat back, and raised his eyebrows. “What, kid? You all of a sudden getting star struck?”

“I'd like to know what your thoughts are about this bunch.”

“One thing you gotta understand. There are the top cats and there are the rest of us. Except for what's strictly necessary, like driving all their crap out on location and driving them around, we don't have anything to do with each other.”

“Well, thanks. That's a big help.”

“You gonna ask me if somebody was jealous of the big cheese, wanted her out of the way, was itchin' for the part. Hell yes.”

“Who?”

Mac laughed. “That's what I'm telling you. Jealousy, fighting back and forth, spreading dirt—it goes with the territory. It's a given. Just the same as cameras and mikes and clapboards. As to specifics—” He shrugged. “There I can't help you. The fat cats don't hobnob with the rest of us.”

The waitress plunked steaming platters of ribs in front of them, refilled Yancy's iced tea, and brought Mac another beer. Mac pushed up his sleeves, gave Yancy a look of this-better-be-good good, and grabbed a rib dripping sauce. He chomped down and chewed. Tears sprang to his eyes. He swallowed, grabbed his beer, and took a long drink.

“Not bad,” he allowed. He pulled off another rib and worked his jaws.

Yancy did likewise with his sissified version. “Who had it in for Ms. Edwards?”

Mouth full, eyes streaming, Mac shook his head.

“Anybody feuding with anybody?”

“Well, I'm not one to be sensitive about atmosphere and pretentious crap like that, but I gotta admit these clones didn't give out like happy campers.” Mac wiped his greasy fingers on the oversized napkin. “All covered up and hidden away poison was coming through somebody's pores.”

“Whose?”

“Don't know. I'm just a driver. I go where I'm told. It's all these other folks with sensitive souls that'll have to tell you about that. I know Fifer had a sling-out fight with his big box office star.”

“Ms. Edwards?”

“Naw. The other one. Nick Logan.”

“When was this?”

“Right after we got here.”

“Where?”

“Out there in that barn. Everybody else had split. The director asked his big moneymaker to hang back a minute. And then told him to get his ducks in order.”

“Meaning?”

“Oh, hell, how do I know? I walked in in the middle of it. The director was saying it took more than reputation to carry a career.”

“What did that mean?”

“My big guess would be Fifer wasn't real ecstatic with Nick's performance.”

“What did Nick say?”

“Laughed a not funny laugh and said, ‘Go careful. It wouldn't be much of a movie if you lost your star.' That's when I blundered in with my big feet and they both turned around to look at me. I got out of there.”

Yancy hadn't picked up anywhere that Fifer was dissatisfied with Nick's performance. On the contrary, he was under the impression both stars were doing great and the director was dancing around hugging himself. “What were you doing there?”

“Laura sent me in to tell Nick she'd be at the hotel.”

“Is she hard to work for?”

“At her level, they're all hard to work for.”

“You ever have any trouble with her?”

Mac, greasy rib between thumbs and forefingers, looked at him. “What are you getting at?” Everything changed: voice, eyes, posture. He went from good ol' boy to steel-jawed driver/bodyguard.

Yancy wouldn't care to tangle with him, he could see how Mac would be good at this job. “What did you do, make a pass at her?”

Mac snorted. “That'd get me killed. No, I was late picking her up. The car wouldn't start. A kid from a service station came out and replaced the battery. It took him a while. She threw a hissy. Wanted to fire me.”

“You're still here.”

“Yeah, well, she cooled off and threatened, ‘Once more and you're gone.'”

“Why'd she do that?”

“It gave her an edge.”

“Edge?”

“Something to hold over my head.”

Artfully, Yancy changed direction. “Around noon, were you anywhere near the barn?”

“Yep. Well, part of the time. You gonna ask me next if I smuggled a saw in there and cut through that railing?”

“No smuggling was required. The saw was already there. I was going to ask if you saw anybody.”

“Like who?”

Like the lieutenant. “Anybody.”

“Naw. I didn't see anybody sneak into the barn, but back at base camp Nick was in and out of his trailer, Laura Edwards too. And Clem Jones, our director's assistant with the personality plus.” Mac cleaned the meat off the last rib, then picked through the bones making sure he hadn't missed anything.

“Nobody else?”

“Who you getting at?”

Yancy shook his head. “Just wanting to know.”

“Well, you gotta remember I wasn't exactly standing there with my eyeballs glued to the barn door.”

So much for checking up on the lieutenant.

Mac finished up with apple pie and ice cream.

By the time Yancy dropped off Mac in front of the hotel and started off for home he was so tired his eyes were beginning to cross. Five
A.M.
wakeup. Ah, the glamorous life of moviemaking. His mouth opened with a wide jaw-creaking yawn that nearly unhinged it. Side vision caught a dark shape staggering in front of the headlights. He stood on the brakes.

There was a thud.

“Oh, shit.”

10

Yancy hit the street. Oh, Jesus, the man wasn't moving. Crouching, Yancy shined his flashlight in the guy's face. It was Robin McCormack, the stunt girl's boyfriend. He ran the light over Robin's T-shirt and cutoff jeans.

Robin stirred, put an elbow over his eyes, and muttered, “The moon in June is goddamn soon.”

“Don't move.” No blood, arms and legs seemed to work all right the way he was thrashing around trying to get up.

“Stay where you are,” Yancy said. Alcohol fumes rolled over him like fog.

“Can't.”

“Can't what?” Yancy felt eyes staring at him from the darkness. A quick glance didn't spot anybody.

“Can't stay. Have to find the bastard pushed me.”

“Somebody pushed you?”

“Didn't fall over … er … er.”

“You hurt anywhere?” Yancy couldn't see any injuries, just grime from the street.

Robin made swimming motions trying to get up; Yancy held him down. “Did you hit your head?”

“Quit helpin' me, man. I can do it.” His arms flailed and he tried to roll.

Christ, if he was injured, this was making it worse. “Robin?”

It took him a long time to respond, processing through a thick soup of alcohol. When he did answer, his voice was slow and sleepy.

“Yesss … sss … sss?”

“Robin? I want you to lie still. You understand?”

“Yes. Fine … ine … ine.”

“Robin, don't try to get up.”

“What?”

“Stay where you are.”

“No,” he said. “I have to go … go … go.” He tried to crawl.

“Robin—”

“Stop calling me Robin!”

“It's your name.” Yancy shined the flashlight in Robin's face. “Look at me!”

“Fuck off!”

He grabbed Robin's chin and held his head still. Pupils reacted sluggishly, not surprising as smoked as he was.

“Knock it off.” Robin closed his eyes. “Tired.”

“I can see you are. What day is this?”

“Today.”

“What is the date?”

“Monday. It's the Monday of June.”

“Robin, where are you?”

“Never been here. Kay. Never Kansas.”

The poor bastard was just soused out of his mind, Yancy thought, but that left him in a little bit of a quandary. He had no radio on him, none in the Cherokee. He didn't think this guy was hurt, but he wasn't a doctor. Concussion. Spinal injury. Fracture. To get Robin to stay lying down, he'd have to sit on him. If he left Robin to go into the hotel and ask somebody to call an ambulance, Robin would get up and stagger around, further aggravating any possible injuries. Loading him in the Cherokee could do the same, plus Yancy might have a fight on his hands. Or if Robin passed out on the way, there was nothing Yancy could do. Or any way to stop him if he got it into his head to get out of the moving vehicle.