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:
“Wow,” he said, turning back to his beer. “Who whizzed in your soup?”
I quickly recounted my meet with the studio lawyer, Bronstein. What she said, what I said. Jocko said nothing. Taking it all in, absently massaging his cheekbone just below his eyepatch.
Which he only does when he’s troubled.
“Does she know about you and Noreen McCray?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, Unc. That was just a weekend fling a couple of years ago. Back when I was too green to know better. Bronstein didn’t mention that at all. Only that my car was at Big Mack’s trailer.”
“I’ve heard of this Bronstein,” Jocko mused. “People say she’s really sharp. With luck, she’ll figure out it’s Clete doin’ the deed with Mrs. Mack and you’ll be off the hook. If not, I’ll drop a dime on this punk myself. The last place you want to be is on the wrong side of Big Mack McCray, not if you ever want to work in a Western again. Ask Bones.”
“Who?”
“Bones Benedict. He was the prop master on Mack’s films until a few years ago. He handed Gene Hackman a loaded shotgun by mistake. Gene fired a round into the air and blew out ten grand worth of spotlights. Glass and sparks raining down like a hailstorm. Bones hasn’t worked a movie since, until this one.”
“This film? Since when?”
“Since the brass decided to punch up the gunfight scene. They needed somebody who’d worked with wax bullets before. Bones is a rummy, but he’s the only guy Stony could think of who had experience with them wax slugs. They ain’t been used in years.”
“Marvin said he was meeting with studio insurance people, that they’d had issues with them.”
Jocko shrugged. “They sting some, but it’s nothin’ a country boy can’t handle. But a wino handling weapons on a set? That’s bad mojo, Toby. Maybe you should pull out.”
“Quit? Are you serious?”
“Tell ’em your mama’s sick, or your cat. Tell ’em any damn thing. I’m gettin’ a bad feeling about this.”
“More likely a bad hangover. What’s the problem?”
He mulled on that a moment, then swiveled on his stool to face me.
“Bottom line, son? You can’t beat Clete Peterzak. You’re quick, but Clete’s won fast-draw competitions all over the country. And them wax bullets aren’t a hundred percent safe. They can take out an eye, flatten your nose—”
“That can happen on any stunt, any day of the week, Unc. I need the work. And I damn sure won’t run from Clete.”
“It’s your funeral.” Jocko sighed, turning back to his liquor. “Big Mack wants to see you.”
“Me? About what?”
“What do you think? Your car, most likely. You think studio security told you and not him?”
“Jesus. Do you think Mack knows about the thing two years ago?”
“It’s hard to tell what Mack thinks. I still think you should blow this pop stand. Hell, I’ll even go with you, if you want. We’ll say it’s a family emergency.”
I chewed on that a moment. “No,” I said slowly. “I’m only jammed up if Big Mack knows. Running will make me look guilty.”
“You are guilty, numb nuts.”
“Of being green as grass two years ago, maybe. And if I’m in trouble for that, I’d rather meet it head on.”
“You had better sense when you were fourteen.”
“You’re the one who’d know. You taught me everything, back then.”
“Then you’ll remember how Wild Bill Hickok got kilt, right?”
“He was shot in a poker game, holding aces and eights. Why?”
“If Big Mack asks you to play poker? Don’t.”
Big Mack McCray’s trailer was twice the size of a city bus, parked off the lot in a reserved area with a half-dozen others. It was hard to miss, metallic green with a gigantic white Stetson painted on the side. Its square footage would match most homes I’ve been in. For Big Mack, it was just a handy place to play cards with a few buds between takes.
I rapped once. Somebody yelled something, so I stepped in. The decor was even wilder West than the Desert Lodge. Mexican saddles, a gun rack stacked with collectible weapons, an oversized Oscar in a cowboy hat, made of solid gold. It was probably the only Oscar Big Mack would ever get. Critics hate his films, but his fans love ’em. And him. And they pay up. At a glance, I guessed I was looking at five million bucks’ worth of stuff in this room alone.
“In here.”
I followed the voice into a combination kitchen/dining area every bit as posh as the front room. Big Mack McCray and a few cronies were at the kitchen table, playing poker, middle of the day. Drinks all around, cigars too. The air purple with stogie smoke. All five were dressed Western, jeans and boots, faded flannel shirts. Big Mack was the only one wearing a hat, his signature Stetson. Stony Greco, the hard-eyed prop master, his head shaved hairless as a cue ball, was doing the shuffling.
“Young Toby Gates,” Mack called. “Heard you died a righteous death today. Marvin was over the moon about it.”
“Ain’t hard to get Marvin to flash you a moon,” Greco cracked, earning chortles around the table.
This card game was legendary, floating from one Big Mack picture to the next. Same faces, all instantly recognizable from old films. Serious money on the table. Ten, fifteen grand in a single pot. They could all afford it. Mack had been a star for decades and he was famous for taking care of old pals.
“Uncle Jocko said you wanted to see me, Mr. McCray.”
“Mister McCray?” Mack snorted. “Jesus, this is our third picture together, son. I’ve killed you twice. I’m Mack, you’re Toby, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me sir, either. Makes me feel old.”
“You are old,” Greco said.
“Up yours, you Greek prick,” Mack shot back. “Did Marvin brief you on the new gunfight, Toby?”
“He said Clete and I will be shooting it out for real, with wax bullets.”
“Ever work with wax squibs, kid?” Greco asked, frowning at his cards. “No sir, never have.”
“I used ’em once, years back, in a spaghetti western, shot in Spain. Most of them Italians had never seen a six-gun, let alone fired one. Couldn’t hit a barn from the inside. Had to use marksmen firing from off camera to make sure the right guys got popped. It was like the wildest paintball game you ever played.”
“I’ve never played paintball.”
“You’ll be playing it tomorrow, kid, more or less. Wax bullets with Technicolor blood instead of paint. Wear your hat low to protect your eyes. Those wax squibs sting like killer bees.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Greco, thanks. Was there anything else?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were up to speed on the scene,” Mack said. “I’ll see you out,” he added, levering himself up from his chair. It took some doing. He’s a big man. Six five, pushing two sixty. New York critics call him the new John Wayne. They mean it as a slur, but to folks in the heartland, John Wayne is still an icon. So is Big Mack McCray.
At the door, he seized my upper arm, jerking me around to face him.
“Did you drive your Jag here today, Toby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it’s been here before, right? Studio security showed me pictures of it.”
“They showed me the same ones. My car was here, Mack, but I wasn’t. I’ve never been here before. I give you my word.”
“Your word?” he snorted. “You give me your freakin’ word? This ain’t the movies, kid. If you weren’t here with my wife, who the hell was?”
I met his eyes dead on. It was one long and damned uncomfortable moment.