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:
“So you know who it was, but you won’t tell me? That’s a big mistake, son. You don’t want me for an enemy.”
“No sir, I don’t. I’m sure studio security will find out anything you want to know. But not from me.”
His face was darkening as it suffused with blood. He was only a heartbeat away from putting me on the deck...
He looked away instead, shaking his head slowly. “That incredible bitch,” he sighed. “I swear that slut would bang a baseball team for an autographed hat. But I can’t give her up. Have you ever cared for anyone like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Count your blessings, kid. Love can be the best thing that happens to you, or the very, very worst.” He punched me in the arm, then turned and shambled back to his card game. Seriously drunk, I guessed. As they all were.
Releasing a ragged breath, I quietly let myself out.
But as I walked to my car, it occurred to me that I’d heard that “very worst” line somewhere before. In one of Mack’s movies? I couldn’t recall.
But somewhere. And I couldn’t help wondering if I’d really dodged a bullet? Or played a scene with a big star, without seeing the script.
I didn’t drive back into Kanab, afterwards. I took a narrow, two lane dirt road out to the South Coyote Buttes instead, one of the eeriest, most desolate landscapes on the planet. Its surreal rock formations, red sand, and wind-sculpted bluffs have played Mars, Venus, and a dozen other alien worlds in sci-fi flicks.
My Jag rides too low to risk leaving the road, so I parked in a turnout and walked out into the barrens a hundred yards or so, until I found a sand dune as tall as a man.
Then I strapped on my Colt and went to work. Placing a dime on the back of my gun hand, I practiced dropping the coin, then drawing and dry firing my Peacemaker before the dime hit the sand. A full thirty minutes of steady practice, and I was beating the dime every time. No thought involved, all reflex. Hook, draw, and fire as soon as the gun cleared leather.
I could feel my speed picking up as I practiced, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. Clete was definitely a hair quicker, no question. He’d competed all over the country, beating the fastest guns alive, and had the trophies to prove it.
But tomorrow wouldn’t be a fast-draw contest. It would be very close to a real gunfight, so maybe, just maybe, accuracy might matter more than speed.
I couldn’t beat Clete to the draw, but I might be able to outshoot him. If his first shot missed, or wasn’t fatal, I’d have a fighting chance.
I drew a Clete-sized silhouette in the sand, loaded my Colt with live rounds, and began firing for effect. Six rounds, as fast as I could pull, then twelve, then two dozen more.
At the end, I was shooting on pure instinct, and nailing center mass every time. I simply looked at the target, and my reflexes did the rest.
And that was it. As much prep as I could do.
Driving back to the lodge, I stopped at a party store to buy a DVD.
Tombstone. Starring Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer.
I watched it alone in my room.
It was a fun movie. Russell made a boss Wyatt Earp. Val Kilmer played a quirky Doc Holliday, and he actually said that “I’m your huckleberry” line a couple of times, when he was ready to fight. Good line. I enjoyed the flick.
Maybe a little too much. Because after I turned in, the movie kept replaying in my head all night, jumbled and out of sync.
And in the gray light, just before dawn, I snapped wide awake, jolted out of a vivid and terrible dream.
In the final shootout between Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo, Kilmer shoots Ringo in the head, then hauls the mindless, dying gunman around, urging him on, until he falls.
It’s a powerful scene. But in my dream, it wasn’t Kilmer doing the shooting, it was Clete. And the dying man was me.
I took a long shower, then went back to bed. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. The dream kept replaying in my head, over and over, as I died, then died again.
Uncle Jocko said he had a bad feeling about this fight, and now I had it. And for the first time, I seriously considered taking his advice and pulling out.
But I couldn’t. Backing out would look like cowardice and in a business that markets appearances, the obvious explanation would be the right one. I’d showed yellow, and screwed up a shoot. My career didn’t amount to much anyway, and a rep as a troublemaker could be the end of it.
Clete was sure of himself, and eager for this fight. It would be winner take all, and the winner might take a lot. Internet buzz, studio public relations building up your name. And I was at a place in my life where I needed a break.
A few more films as an extra, and I’d be Jocko. Hanging on in L.A., hoping to get work with Big Mack’s next movie, or a part in some indie flick that would pay the rent for a few weeks. I love my uncle, but I don’t want to be him.
My father was a ranch hand who did hard manual labor his whole life.
He died digging a drainage ditch, buried alive when the walls caved in. He never had the chance to better his life with a wax bullet, fired in the blink of an eye. But I didn’t have to wonder what he’d say.
He’d say go for it. Take the shot I never got.
And I decided to take his advice. Because bottom line? I had no other choice.
At ten A.M. the cast and crew gathered in the saloon set before the shoot. Marvin stood on a chair to brief us. He’d blocked out enough time for five takes. Hopefully we’d have a clear victor in one or two, but we’d take all day to get it right if we had to. We needed this shot, no matter what.
“I understand these wax bullets can sting, guys,” Marvin went on. “If you’re struck by a squib, try to react as if it were real.”
“Take our deads, you mean?” Clete cracked.
“Basically, yes,” Marvin nodded. “Fall if it’s fatal, otherwise roll with what happens, and play it for realism. Let’s nail this sucker, guys. Take one in ten minutes.”
“One take’s all we’ll need,” Clete chuckled, serenely confident. Which actually brightened my morning a bit.
Yesterday, he’d been practicing in front of a mirror, working on his speed. But he was already faster, and we both knew it.
My best hope would be Clete’s cocky overconfidence. In his rush to outdraw me, if he missed his first shot, or inflicted a wound that wasn’t fatal, I could keep fighting, and make damn sure my return fire was on target. With luck, the scene would be dramatic as hell, Marv would print the first take, and I’d come out on top.
And if not, at least I’d know I gave it my best shot.
Literally.
Clete and I collected our weapons from Stony Greco’s prop van, parked off the set behind a livery stable. It was the first time I’d seen Bones Benedict, the wax-slug expert, up close. Jocko called him a rummy and he definitely looked it. Bones’s eyes were bloodshot, cheeks windburned from years of boozing. Looked like he’d slept in an alley last night.
Stony Greco, the bullet-headed prop master, looked hung over as well, and even surlier than usual. I wondered what time Big Mack’s poker game broke up.
Bones had our guns laid out and waiting on the weapons table beside the van. I checked my prop Colt closely. The cylinder chambers were sealed with red wax and the loading gate was locked shut properly, to prevent tampering. The cylinder spun freely and the hammer cocked and released, slick as a whistle.
“Everything okay, Gates?” Stony asked.
“I’m good, Mr. Greco.”
Clete turned away to check the actions on both of his pistols, making sure they were functioning smoothly. He saw me watching and did a fancy twirl, both guns a blur as he spun them into his holsters. Then he gave me a mock salute, touching his hat brim, utterly confident he’d win.