Reel Stuff

REEL STUFF

A
LSO BY
D
ON
B
RUNS

S
TUFF
S
ERIES

Stuff to Die For

Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Stuff to Spy For

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Too Much Stuff

Hot Stuff

S
EVER
M
USIC
S
ERIES

Jamaica Blue

Barbados Heat

South Beach Shakedown

St. Barts Breakdown

Bahama Burnout

A
NTHOLOGIES

A Merry Band of Murderers
(editor & contributor)

Death Dines In

(contributor)

REEL STUFF

A N
OVEL

DON BRUNS

Copyright © 2013 by Don Bruns

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-60809-096-9

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing, Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Reel Stuff
is dedicated to Metropolis Books in L.A. and Mystery Book Store in Westwood. Your doors are now closed, but I have wonderful memories.

Thanks to Mary O'Connor, Hugh Hefner's secretary, for championing my writing and setting up the first movie pitch at Henson Productions, and to Ed Thomas from Book Carnival in Orange County who by his love of the books encouraged me to keep writing. You will both be greatly missed. Thanks to Scott Howell for technical information, to Sue Waronker, Kathy Bavely, and Betsy Timmermeister for becoming characters in the novel. Your donations to charitable organizations are much appreciated.

REEL STUFF

CHAPTER ONE

“Sometimes it's just stupid to do your own stunts.” The director let out a long sigh, shaking his head. He looked at me and said, “We've got stunt guys who can do this jump with their eyes closed, so why the hell does this prima donna think he should do it himself? Damned actors. Life would be a lot simpler without them.”

And you'd be out of a job
, I thought.

Randy Roberts pointed at the steel scaffolding that in the last two days had sprung up around the outdoor soundstage. Seventy feet above us in the full hot sun of a Miami morning, a male actor paced back and forth on the metal framework. The same actor Roberts was railing against. The man would stop, spread his arms like a bird on the wing, then put them down and pace again. Two grips stood on the grating, watching the scene unfold.

Roberts clutched his aluminum coffee mug, nodding to me. “Big Hollywood star, hotshot likes to be able to say he never uses a stuntman. So the risk goes up, we pay a whole lot more for insurance, we've got to have a medical team on hand—” He
glanced at the green-and-white ambulance parked in the grass just a few feet away. Two uniformed medics were looking up, waiting for the big moment.

Once again, the actor paused, spreading his arms, looking beyond the sparse crew that was anticipating the shot. The set was guarded, protected from passersby, but a handful of actors, security people, and staff were around to witness the event. After all, the jumper was Jason Londell.

“The bag's fully inflated?” Roberts shouted to a young man dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and sporting a scruffy beard.

“Checked it five minutes ago.”

“Jesus, I wish he'd use a double.”

Again he directed his statement to me, as if to overly convince me that he wanted to put a halt to this madness.

Randy Roberts had no idea who I was. I just happened to be the closest person standing next to him, and he was venting his frustration. Squinting as he gazed at the scene high above us, he wiped at the sweat on his face with the sleeves of his shirt. It was only nine a.m., but sweat trickled down the big man's cheeks and his denim shirt had dark circles under the armpits.

Under his breath he muttered, “If I'd slept with the right people in this business, I'd be a lot further ahead.”

Always having heard that women slept their way to the top, I found it a strange statement coming from the male director.

My understanding of the shot was that it was to be quick. It was only going to take three or four seconds. Londell was to run a few steps on the scaffolding, turn his head looking behind himself, and dive off, landing safely on the soft cushion of a tethered air bag inflated with helium fifty feet below. The bag was weighted down and so big, I assumed it was an easy target. But what do I know? I get dizzy looking out over a second-story balcony.

A cinematographer with a large, handheld camera was
perched on the catwalk, waiting to capture the action, and another camera mounted to a tripod was about thirty feet from me to get a second angle as the body plummeted to the ground.

Roberts spoke in measured tones, his wireless microphone transmitting to Londell's earpiece.

“Okay, Jason, run, look over your shoulder, then stop. Let's do it at least three times so we get the angles right. I don't think either of us wants you to do the jump multiple times.”

From above, the actor nodded.

The camera guy on the scaffolding crouched down, shooting up at Londell.

“Action.”

Londell was jogging, not going at any great speed, but there was only maybe thirty feet of room to run. And besides, that metal walkway was very narrow.

The actor glanced over his shoulder and pulled up short.

“Camera one, you set? Ground camera?”

Roberts wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushed his sleeves up even higher on his thick arms, and once again spoke to Londell.

“Okay, Jason, let's try it again. Cameras will roll, but it's just a dry run.”

Roberts took a swig of his coffee, rumored to always be laced with a healthy dose of brandy, and nodded.

“Camera one,” he paused, his eyes glued to a screen in front of him. On that screen I could see the actor above, ready for his run. “Shoot this one. Okay. Action.”

Londell ran, faster than before, almost sprinting, and there was no furtive glance over his shoulder this time. Looking up I watched him veer slightly to his right, throw his hands in the air and leap from the scaffolding, the sun glaring off the metal framework, and for a moment I was blinded. I blinked, not
believing I'd actually witnessed the jump, and saw the body, plunging to the earth.

There were shrieks and a wild scattering of the support staff as Jason Londell hurled through the air. The screams grew in intensity when his body slammed into the ground with a sickening thud, roughly twenty yards from where the giant air bag waited.

CHAPTER TWO