Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
Didn’t blame him.
Snatching up the whiskey bottle, I yanked the cork out with my teeth, then spat it on the dirt floor. I guzzled down half the bottle in a few gulps, slopping the excess down my chin. Felt no kick from it, though.
The bartender was right. I had no friends in this room. I’d be better off taking my chances in the street.
Time to go. Time to fight. And to die.
Taking a final pull from the bottle, I tossed it aside. Sucked in a ragged breath, squared my shoulders, then pushed through the doors into the morning sun’s pitiless glare.
Miller was waiting across the dusty street in the doorway of a dry-goods store, his flat-brimmed black Stetson pulled low to shade his eyes, his full-length yellow duster flapping in the prairie wind.
He swept his coat open to reveal a fancy, two-gun concho rig, with both holsters tied down. His guns were a matched pair of ’73 Remington Navy .44s, nickel-plated. The holsters were lined with metal, cut halfway past the cylinders for speed. A serious professional’s rig. A gun hand’s rig.
Damn.
“We don’t have to do this,” I called. “You can just ride out.”
He didn’t bother to reply. Just spat, in total contempt. He wouldn’t be riding off. He was here for me, and we both knew the play now.
Stepping off the porch, I began walking slowly towards him. He hesitated a moment, then did the same. At ten yards apart, we both stopped dead in the middle of the street. Waiting. For some unspoken signal that would trigger the killing—
A tumbleweed blew between us. Miller blinked, and in the same instant went for his gun. His hand flashed down so fast it was only a blur.
I drew too, but I was already a split second late. My Colt had barely cleared leather when Miller fired. Something exploded against my chest. A gout of blood spurted outward, and then another as Miller fired again.
I staggered backwards, dropped slowly to my knees, then toppled the rest of the way, firing my Colt uselessly as I fell, dying face down in the street, with a gun in my hand.
I lay there, utterly still. Dead as a beaver hat. Miller loomed over me a few seconds, making sure I was done, then did a triumphant pinwheel, spinning both Remingtons neatly into his holsters. Then he just stood there, stone-faced, staring down at me.
For what seemed like a goddamn year.
He let his coat fall closed. And still he stared. And still I lay there. Dead as a doornail.
What the hell was the holdup? How much deader could I get?
“Cut! That’s a wrap!” Marv Kirske, the assistant director, called at last. “Nice job, Toby. Way to die.”
“I damn near died of old age waiting for you to call it, you putz,” I growled, getting to my feet. “It blows the take if your corpse sits up gasping for air.”
“Pain is temporary, movies are forever,” Marv shrugged, sauntering over to help me brush the dust off. With his stylish stubble, faded fatigue jacket, and citron scarf, Marv could pass for a gay street hustler, but he’s a brilliant second-unit film director with a rep for the best action scenes in the biz. The staffers on Big Mack McCray films are all crème de la crème.
“That really was a dynamite death scene,” Marv sighed. “Too bad we can’t use it.”
“Why can’t you? You just said it was good.”
“It was terrific, Toby,” Marv agreed, “but it wasn’t exactly revolutionary. Cameron Mitchell got shot in a hot tub, Eastwood shot three gunnies from a barber chair. All the cool shootouts have been done, pal. This is my eleventh Big Mack western, and the studio wants something edgy to generate some media buzz. Word I’m getting is, they want us to shoot a real gunfight.”
“Real? What the hell does that mean?”
“We’ll retake the street scene with you and Clete, but instead of blanks, you’ll both be shooting wax squibs filled with Technicolor blood. Afterward, we’ll tweak the script so whoever wins will advance to the final shootout with Big Mack.”
“What is this? American Idol with guns?” I asked. “It won’t work, Marv. Any pro gunman can hook and draw in three-fifths of a second. So fast the cameras can barely catch it. We’ll wind up shooting each other, and then what? Big Mack has a gunfight with himself?”
“We’ll keep doing retakes until we get a winner.” Marv shrugged. “The studio doesn’t care who wins, Toby. What matters is, the trailers can call it THE MOST REALISTIC GUN-FIGHT EVER FILMED!”
“Ah. Got it.” I nodded. “Damn. I need a drink. Buy you one?”
“Can’t,” Marv sighed, “I’ve got to meet with legal and our insurance people about our liability with the wax squibs. They’ve had issues with them in the past.”
“Whoa up! What issues?” I called after him. He just waved over his shoulder without turning.
Issues? Terrific.
Now I definitely needed a drink.
“Mr. Gates? Toby Gates?”
I almost didn’t answer. I’d spent my morning getting killed as Hack Wilson.
“Wait up, please,” the woman said breathlessly, overtaking me. She was pert and perky in a trim business suit, dark eyes, dark hair. Holding up a press credential.
“I’m Leah Bronstein, with the studio publicity department? We’re collecting background for press releases. Could you spare me a few minutes? I’ll buy the coffee.”
I would have preferred a real drink, but extras never say no to publicity and we were miles from the nearest real saloon anyway. We were filming on location, in a dusty desert ghost town a few miles outside Kanab, Utah. Over the years, more than a hundred movies have been made in the area. The Outlaw Josey Wales, Stagecoach, The Lone Ranger. Hell, even Planet of the Apes was shot a few miles south. Rural Utah has canyons, deserts, forests, mountains, plus three complete western towns, all within easy driving distance of bustling downtown Kanab.
The catering wagon was still serving and the line was short. Bronstein collected two coffees and we adjourned to a corner with an umbrella, away from the mob of extras scarfing down goodies from a smorgasbord table piled with doughnuts, rolls, yogurt cups. She was eyeing my shirt uneasily, and I realized I was still bleeding, in Technicolor, from a blood packet over my heart.
“If that was really my blood, I’d be a zombie, miss.”
“It certainly looks real,” she said warily. “Looks like it hurts.”
“It’s supposed to. Are you new to all this?”
“I’ve never done an interview on location before. I’m mostly an in-house flack. Have we met, Mr. Gates? You look familiar.”
“You’ve probably seen me get killed a few times. In The Hired Gun, I’m the thug who spits just before Big Mack blows me off the stagecoach with a twelve gauge.”
“That’s right!” she nodded eagerly. “And in Sagebrush Stranger you take your sweet time pulling on your gloves before Mack guns you down.”
“Actually, I killed myself in that one.”
“You... sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I’m not an extra, miss, I’m a fast gun. It’s an uncommon skill these days. Critics call Big Mack the new John Wayne, but Mack can’t even fake a fast draw. In the Sagebrush shootout, the camera panned to my hands as I pulled on those black leather gloves, then it cut back to Mack. No gloves. Then they split the screen, as the gunmen drew and fired, one wearing gloves, one not. But the hands that drew and fired on the split screen were mine, on both sides.”
“So in the big shootout scene, you were shooting yourself?”
“Welcome to showbiz, miss.”
“But this morning, you faced a real gunman.”