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:
I nodded slowly, getting it. “And you’re with studio security. Which is why you’re here. Okay. What’s my storyline, Bronstein? What do you people want me to say?”
“It’s not like that, Toby,” she said, avoiding my eyes.
“It’s exactly like that, lady,” I snapped. “It’s okay. I want them to go away as much as you do. Just feed me my lines.”
So she did.
I couldn’t remember the fight clearly. (True.)
I wasn’t aware of Bones Benedict’s previous problems with alcohol. (A lie, but a little one.)
“And above all,” she stressed, leaning in, “there’s to be no mention of Noreen McCray’s involvement with... anyone.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said.
“In return, the studio will—”
“Damn it, they don’t have to pay me to do the right thing, Leah, I’d do it anyway. I’m sorry you thought you had to ask. Is there anything else?”
“No,” she said, leaning back, “that’s it.”
“Then go away, please. I was dreaming and — never mind. I’d like a few minutes to clear my head.”
She paused in the doorway, looking back at me. “You know, when we met? I thought you were — some kind of a throwback, Toby. An honest to God cowboy, the kind Big Mack plays in movies.”
“Mack’s an actor, Leah. I’m a gunman. A real one. There’s a huge freakin’ difference. Ask Clete. And I really need to rest now.”
“Of course.” She nodded. And left. And I went back to Whitehorse, to play cowboys with my dead brother, in troubled dreams.
But this time Clete was playing too. And he wouldn’t take his “deads” either, damn it! The dream kept replaying in an endless loop, over and over, until I finally slipped into a deeper darkness for a while.
I woke in a very different world.
No Leah Bronstein this time. A heavyset guy with white muttonchop sideburns was in the chair at my bedside. He was watching a television mounted above my bed, with the sound off.
Black business suit, black tie. Rimless glasses. Looked like an undertaker. Maybe he was. He sensed my eyes on him, and turned to face me.
“Good, you’re awake. My name is Chester Maleski, Mr. Gates. I’m an attorney, senior staff in the studio security section.”
“What happened to Leah?”
“Ms. Bronstein was — called away. We need to talk. The situation’s changed. In the last hour, the video of Clete Peterzak’s death has gone viral on the Web. It’s essentially a snuff film, shot in living color by a gifted director. It’s taken ‘reality TV' to a whole new level.”
“My God,” I said.
“The police are waiting to question you, and they’re getting impatient. I understand Ms. Bronstein — briefed you?”
I nodded. “I’m good, Mr. ...?”
“Maleski. Chester.”
“All right, lunger, let’s do this.” It’s another line from Tombstone, but Maleski didn’t get it. Looked at me like I’d flipped out. Maybe I had.
Chester moved to the door to let the police in. Two detectives, in polo shirts and sport coats. Salt and pepper, young white guy, older African American. They questioned me at length. I wasn’t much help. It was just another shoot. I played the scene the same as the day before, same as the times before that, in other films.
Did I check my weapon before the scene?
Only the action. You can’t check the rounds. The loading gate’s always sealed to prevent tampering.
If the weapon was tamper proof, how did Clete Peterzak end up dead?
At this point Maleski stepped in. studio security had determined that Bones Benedict deliberately loaded our weapons with live rounds, then plugged the cylinder with wax to camouflage it. There was no way we could have known. The whole crime was on video in high def, and they had Benedict’s written confession, left behind when he fled.
Where was Benedict now? I had no idea, only met the man once.
And that was that. The detectives asked a few more questions, but they didn’t lean hard on me. Didn’t have to. It was an open-and-shut case, or would be when they caught up with Bones. He’d vanished after the shoot. They had an APB out for him, but he’d apparently planned this carefully.
Gone without a trace.
Maleski ushered the lawmen out, and let an unruly mob of reporters in. A dozen of them crowded into the room, elbowing each other for position, surrounding my bed like a pack of jackals, shouting questions as they came.
“How does it feel to kill your best friend? What were Peterzak’s last words? Did you know the bullets were real when you killed him? How does it feel to be famous for—”
And I lost it. Swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, I struggled to my feet, and it took every ounce of my self-control to keep from clocking one of ’em.
Reading my mood, Maleski shooed them out, then called for a doctor, who checked me over, then ordered me back to bed. I told Chester and the doc to screw off. After they left, I rescued my clothes out of the closet.
I was washing the blood out of my shirt when Big Mack McCray showed up, with Stony Greco and my Uncle Jocko in tow.
Big Mack brought me a big bouquet of flowers, but only to conceal a pint of Old Crow. He uncapped it and we passed the bottle around like old friends.
“Jesus, you’re really a piece of work,” Mack said. “Up and around already?”
“Tougher than a rented saddle,” Uncle Jocko said.
“I’m okay,” I said, lying in my teeth. “What’s happening with Bones? Have they found him yet?”
“Nah, that sumbitch did a righteous job on me for firin’ him all them years ago,” Big Mack said. “You should have left him in the gutter, Jocko.”
“Hell, you said get him, Mack. I got him. I thought he was okay.”
“So did I,” Greco put in. “He snowed us all, Mack. It ain’t on Jocko.”
On the TV, the silent newscast suddenly switched to a video of the shooting, as Clete and I faced each other in the dusty Utah street.
Stony started to turn it off.
“No,” I said. “Let it play.”
On the screen, Clete and I faced off in the street, then slapped leather. Clete beat me by half a sec, firing his right-hand Remington as it cleared leather. His eyes widened as the slug swung me around. It was only an instant, but for a gunman, impossible to miss.
“Goddamn,” Stony Greco said quietly, moving up beside me. “That bastard knew, didn’t he? When that slug spun you, he knew damn well he was firing live rounds. Could’ve yelled cut, and stopped it. Instead he pulled his second gun and cut loose, trying to finish you off.”
“He rushed his shots,” Jocko added. “Toby didn’t. But that definitely makes it self-defense no matter how you figure it.”
On the screen, Clete took a single round to the chest, stumbled backward, and toppled, firing as he fell.
Facedown in the street. Dead as a coal bucket.
I turned away, swallowing bile, trying not to throw up. Feeling... I had no idea what I was feeling.
“Why don’t you boys wait for me outside,” Mack said. “I’d like a private word with our young friend here.”
He waited till Jocko and Stony cleared the room, then turned to me.
“Maleski said you did good, talking to the police. Kept my wife’s name out of it. I appreciate that. The way things stand, nobody can blame you for Peterson’s death—”
“Peterzak,” I said automatically. “His name was Peterzak.”
“Whatever.” Mack shrugged. “Still, you bein’ blameless? That could change in a hurry, if it came out that the two of you were really fighting over Noreen.”
I stared at him.