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:
“Clete Peterzak playing... somebody Miller.” I nodded. “Clete’s a gun hand too. The split-screen business won’t fly twice. Been there, done that.”
“I would think most western scenes have been done. How many have you been in?”
“Only three. I got out of the army after two tours in Afghanistan. My Uncle Jocko’s a horse wrangler on Big Mack films. I landed on his doorstep, he got me the job.”
“So you basically just showed up in Hollywood and said I’m your huckleberry?”
“Huckleberry?”
“The line from Tombstone. Val Kilmer says, ‘I’m your huckleberry’?”
I shook my head. “Must have missed it.”
“Doesn’t every cowboy extra know Tombstone by heart? It’s a classic.”
“I grew up on a ranch in the Yukon Territory, miss. Whitehorse. We saw movies in town maybe once a month. There was no TV, and definitely no huckleberries. When was Tombstone in theaters?”
“Early nineties?”
“I was in grade school. And by the way, I’m not an extra. I’m a stock wrangler and a gunman. Skilled trades.”
“Which were probably in high demand, back in the nineteenth century.” She smiled, sipping her coffee, watching me over the brim. “When we were kids, western movies had a big following, but nowadays they’re pretty much passe. Mack McCray flicks are the only westerns that do consistent box office and even his popularity’s been slipping. Pickings must be a bit slim for an extra with your particular skill set.”
“I’m not an extra, I—” I stopped.
She was good, but a gunman’s life can depend on reading faces. And I caught the faintest glint of amusement in her eyes.
“—but you already know that, don’t you, miss? Along with everything else I just told you. You’re not with public relations. Interviewing extras is a job for an intern, and you’re a tad too old and a lot too smart. Who are you, lady?”
Instead of answering, she slid a business card across the faded Formica table. Leah Bronstein, Massif Film Productions, Studio Security Section.
“Security?” I said “You’re some kind of studio cop?”
“I’m an attorney, actually. A troubleshooter, Mr. Gates. My job is to resolve minor problems before they become major.”
“How am I a problem?”
“Your name came up in an inquiry. One concerning Noreen McCray, Big Mack’s wife. And your involvement with her.”
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Felt like I’d been kicked in the belly.
“I’ll take your silence as a confirmation, Mr. Gates,” Leah nodded, watching me intently. “Ordinarily the studio brass couldn’t care less about the love lives of their employees, but Mack McCray’s audience is centered in the Bible Belt. A flurry of negative news stories could demolish his franchise overnight, and cost the studio millions. You have to end the affair, Mr. Gates, or face some very serious consequences.”
“End it?” I echoed, feeling slightly better, but getting angrier by the moment. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why? Because it’s love, true love?” she said, with a mock sigh. “Reality check, Mr. Gates. Noreen McCray was a high-priced escort before she landed Big Mack. She’s still a gold digger at heart. And while you look good in jeans and have a certain raffish charm, you’re only an extra, Toby. She’ll never leave her husband for you.”
“I wouldn’t expect her to.”
“Then I don’t understand. If you’re hoping for a payday, the studio can probably arrange for a small consideration—”
“You’re offering to buy me off? Wow, I can definitely see why they sent you, miss.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re smart as a whip, lady, and very pretty. And if you were a man, you’d be spitting out your teeth! I can’t break up with Noreen McCray, miss, because I’m not seeing Noreen McCray. There’s no affair, no nothin’. We’re not even friends. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Have we, indeed?” she said, not backing off an inch. “Then perhaps you’d care to explain this?” She slid a photo across the table. For a moment, I didn’t realize what I was seeing. And then I did. Sweet Jesus.
“Big Mack was in New York last weekend, taping the Tonight Show,” Bronstein went on, leaning in, keeping her voice down. “Mrs. McCray spent a few happy hours on location in his trailer. That’s her car parked in front of it. And unless I’m mistaken, that’s your car parked right beside it.”
She wasn’t mistaken. I drive a customized Jaguar XK-E, bought with my army separation pay.
“A Jag with a bucking-bronco hood ornament is hard to miss, Mr. Gates. Care to explain what you were doing there?”
“I, um—” I stalled out, still staring at the picture. “I guess someone must have borrowed my car.”
“Who?”
“I... don’t know.”
“So it was stolen?”
“Nothing like that. Kanab is five hundred miles from L.A., lady. Most of the crew gets here on the studio bus, and we all crash at the Red Desert Lodge. It’s tough to rent a car in this burg, so those of us who drive leave their keys at the desk as a courtesy. Everybody does it.”
“So you claim you don’t know who used your car?”
“I don’t claim anything, miss. It’s the truth.”
“Then I strongly suggest you find out.”
“Wrong skill set, lady. I’m a gunman and a stock wrangler. I’m not a freakin’ detective and I’m definitely not a snitch. Mrs. McCray’s love life is your problem, not mine.”
“I’d rethink that, if I were you, Mr. Gates. In the past two years you’ve only worked on five films, total. That number could easily drop to zero. A few years ago, a Brit named Trenton played a Confederate officer in The Bounty Soldiers. After a fling with Noreen, he never worked again. Anywhere. He was blacklisted, even back home in England. Committed suicide last year.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m just the messenger, Mr. Gates,” she said, rising, looking down at me. “Bottom line, Big Mack McCray’s westerns generate substantial cash flow for the studio. An ugly divorce could destroy his brand. Media trolls would have a field day with it. We need to snuff this out!”
“Sorry. I can’t help you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” she asked, sizing me up.
I shrugged at that.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Mr. Gates.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice, Miss Bronstein. Or is it Mrs.?”
“It’s miss. Why?”
“I’m hoping you aren’t immune to my ‘raffish charm.’ Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Forget it, Mr. Gates, and forget me. I’ve been married twice, to actors both times. Never again.”
“Then it’s lucky I’m not an actor. I’m a gunman. Maybe I’m even your... what did you call me? Strawberry?”
“The line from Tombstone is: ‘I’m your huckleberry,’ ” she said evenly, her dark eyes locked on mine. “Doc Holliday says it to Ringo just before he shoots him in the head. You have my card, Mr. Gates. Call me when you come to your senses.”
“I’d rather call you after this blows over.”
“It’s not going to blow over, Toby, it’s going to blow up. And when the dust settles, you’ll be gone. Be smart. Get out from under this thing before it buries you.”
I didn’t say anything to that. She shrugged and stalked off toward the parking lot. A pert woman in a business suit, mysterious eyes, hair dark as a raven’s wing. She looked as good leaving as she had coming on.
“Be smart. Get out from under this before it buries you.”