Cover-Up Story (18 page)

‘Yeah,' Bart said thoughtfully. ‘Yeah.'

‘This is no time for temperament,' Sam went on. ‘Let's bury the hatchet.'

‘Yeah.' Bart smiled at me, leaving me in no doubt where he would like to bury it. ‘Sam's right, boy. You tell Uncle No'ccount to be on hand, jest like usual. We'll get this pilot film done first, then we'll take care of the other details.'

‘I'll tell him.' I had no intention of admitting that I didn't know where he was, or how to reach him. ‘But I can't guarantee that he'll show up. He was rather upset. He didn't like seeing his wife bruised.'

There was no doubt at all. I must never stand at the top of a flight of stairs, or walk down a dark alley, with Bart behind me.

‘You jest
get
him here, boy,' he said softly.

THE PHONE WAS ringing when we returned to the flat later that morning. A voice began without preliminary when I picked up the receiver.

‘How'd he take it?'

‘He managed to refrain from chewing the carpet,' I said. ‘But then, there were quite a few witnesses.'

‘Crystal has been pretty worried,' he said drily, ‘but I promised her Bart would survive.'

‘That's more than might be said for some of the others,' I told him. ‘We've been there most of the night. Lou-Ann took an overdose of sleeping pills.'

I knew we were still connected, I could hear him breathing. After the silence had gone on for quite a while, I said tentatively, ‘Hello ...hello . . .?'

‘I'm still here,' he said slowly. ‘You see now why I wanted Crystal out of there?'

‘Then I haven't been imagining anything. You think so, too.'

‘I don't think nothin'.' The voice was instantly guarded and retreated into the uneducated vernacular. ‘ 'Tain't up to me to do no thinking. All I called for – I was jest wonderin' – do I still have a job?'

‘You've still got a job,' I told him, ‘but don't try any heroics – like turning your back on Bart if he's got a knife in his hands.'

‘Don't worry, my mother done trained me never to accept no candy from strange men. An' he's about as strange as they come . . .' Again, there was silence, punctuated only by breathing. Then: ‘Lou Ann, is she ...?'

‘They got her in time,' I said. ‘Sam went up to the suite to check over a couple of points in the script. He called a doctor. They may have to write her out of the opening script, but she ought to be able to appear in the next one.'

‘I see ...'

Perhaps he did, but I hammered it home. ‘That's why Bart has declared a truce over you. If the ranks get too decimated, the Public is likely to notice it.'

‘Or the Agency,' he said, his voice crisp again.

‘It wouldn't look too well for both you and Lou-Ann to be missing, so Bart is expecting you at the Studio at 2.00 p.m. They're planning to work right through until the show is in the can – regardless of the overtime. The Agency can stand it.'

‘You gonna be there, too?'

‘We'll all be there,' I promised him. ‘The entire staff of Perkins & Tate, what's left of the Troupe, plus assorted cameramen, lighting experts, technicians, et cetera. You'll be surrounded by well-wishers and – more important – witnesses. It ought to be safe enough.'

‘I wasn't thinking of that,' he said cryptically. ‘I'll be talking to you there.' He rang off.

At first, I thought they were joking. Because it hadn't been part of the original plan to film in this country, Sam must have had to settle for whatever studio he could find. It looked like an overgrown gardening shed at the bottom of a suburban garden. But inside, picking our way through the cross-hatching of lighting cables along the floor, it was fitted out nearly as professionally as one might wish. In the old days – seven or eight years ago – almost every shed had harboured a Group, recording demonstration records, hoping to hit the Big Time. These days, every ambitious lad who could focus a camera was filming pilots or documentaries – still hoping for the Big Time.

Except that Black Bart and the Troupe had it made already. Their shows were sold, and filming was a formality. There were a few hungry-looking individuals sitting along the walls, eagerly watching the proceedings. Evidently the original inhabitants of the studio, who had subleased to Sam, retaining visiting privileges in the hope of learning something, or meeting someone. The usual bored technicians, tootling about their business, were the same all over the world.

‘Hot in here, isn't it?' Penny, festooned with her protective armour of flashbulbs, picked her way gingerly among the cables.

‘It's all the lights. It will get hotter before filming is over for the day.' I had no idea how prophetic I was being. I spotted Gerry over by No.1 camera, waved, and we began making our way over to him.

We didn't get far. An arm descended around my shoulders with unpleasant familiarity. ‘Well, now,' Black Bart said, ‘ain't this great? And you brought the little gal along to run our errands, I see. That was real smart of you, boy.' Penny writhed uncomfortably beneath his other arm.

I wasn't cut out by nature to be a pimp. If I'd ever had any doubt of that, my revulsion now would have set me straight. Penny was here because Perkins & Tate might need her – besides which, she had pleaded to come because she had never seen a television show being filmed. It had seemed safe enough – I had assumed that the Client would be too busy to bother with her today. I had reckoned without the enormous arrogance of the man. The world was his oyster, and he was eternally poised with lemon juice and spearing fork.

Gerry spotted us and started towards us. Before he could reach us, the outer door opened and something happened behind us. Across the room, people looked our way, and beyond us. I saw the Cousins grin and nudge each other. Nothing good could have happened, I knew then, they were enjoying the situation too much.

The Client may not have been sensitive to some atmospheres, but he could tell when a storm was brewing. He removed his arm from my shoulders and, more slowly, the other arm from around Penny. He swung about slowly to face the door, and I turned with him.

Lou-Ann moved into the studio, Sam trailing proudly behind her. ‘She made it, after all, folks,' he said. ‘So we can go back to the original script. She's a real Trouper.'

Bart murmured his own opinion of what she was, under his breath. It was a syllable too short for ‘Trouper'.

‘I couldn't let you down, Bart.' Lou-Ann came up to him trustingly. ‘I'm sure awful sorry for what happened. I jest can't understand it, but it was some kinda accident. Honest, it was. I never would do a thing like that to you.'

With everyone watching the scene, Bart slipped into his role. ‘Don't you worry your pretty head about it, honey.' His arm snaked around her shoulders with somewhat less enthusiasm than it had encircled Penny's. ‘ 'Course I knowed it was an accident. You was overtired, an' forgot you'd already had your pill. That's how these things happen.'

‘No, Bart.' Lou-Ann's forehead creased. ‘I only took
one
pill. Honest, I did.'

‘You forgot, that's all.' He gave her a shake that wasn't so gentle as it might have looked from the distance. ‘You forgot,' he said again.

‘Maybe you're right, Bart.' She smiled shakily, eager for his approval. ‘Maybe I did forget.'

‘ 'Course you did.' He beamed down at her fiercely. ‘It happens all the time. I'll jest have to take better care of you from now on.'

‘You do that, Bart.' Her smile was stronger now. She didn't notice Sam's expression, and I wished I hadn't.

The outer door opened again, and Crystal came in with Uncle No'ccount. Bart shot them a nasty look. ‘Well, well,' he said, ‘the gang's all here.'

‘Howdy. Bart.' Uncle No'ccount sidled past uncomfortably. Crystal walked by without speaking. The bruises were still visible beneath her make-up.

‘Don't take some folks long to get high-and-mighty on a little bit of success.' Bart looked after them darkly.

‘They better be pretty careful.' He raised his voice to follow them. ‘They could be ridin' for one damn' big fall!'

While Bart's attention was distracted, Penny had taken the opportunity to slip away with Gerry. They took up a position on the far side of the studio, and Gerry made motions towards loading his camera.

‘I'll learn 'em.' Bart turned back to me now, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe I'll learn you something, too, boy,' he said. ‘I don't go for that lah-di-dah talking – and ain't that jest the
cutest
little old striped tie.' He flicked a finger under my tie and pulled it out of my waistcoat.

‘Easy, Bart.' Sam stepped forward nervously. He needn't have worried. I wasn't going to let myself be edged into a fight. Every time Black Bart exhaled, the fumes of bourbon almost sent me reeling. He was nearly drunk, and nasty with it. We'd be lucky if he managed to finish the day's filming successfully.

‘Bart.' Lou-Ann put her hand on his arm. ‘Bart, I'm still kinda weak. Can't you find me a chair, so's I can sit down?'

He would rather find her a coffin. The unguarded look of pure hate that flashed across his face said so. But he was instantly in control of himself again, and the genial husband once more.

‘Why, sure, we'll find you a chair, honey. Boy,' he snarled to me, ‘get her a chair!'

Sam had already moved away and taken possession of one of the chairs along the wall. He brought it back and set it down behind Lou-Ann.

She sank into it gratefully and looked up, past Sam. ‘Thank you, Bart,' she said.

The director called Bart on to the floor for a run-through of his first song. The Cousins were already out there, tuning up their instruments. After Bart took up his position, Uncle No'ccount ambled out to join them. Perhaps because it was just a rehearsal, or perhaps as an act of defiance, he left his teeth in throughout the number. It didn't escape Bart, he was frowning heavily as the number ended.

Lou-Ann applauded softly from behind the cameras, which seemed only to increase Bart's bad mood. Sam leaned over her chair and murmured something to her. I was standing too far back to catch it. But then, I'd been taught at an early age that three could be a crowd – an elementary fact which Sam didn't seem to have grasped yet.

The director held a brief conference with the lighting and camera men, then signalled for a take. Bart and the Cousins regrouped themselves, leaving Uncle No'ccount slightly to one side for better camera focus. As the Cousins took up the beat, Uncle No'ccount took the red bandana from his hip pocket, hiccoughed his teeth into it, replaced it in his pocket, and breathed achingly into his harmonica. There wasn't going to be open rebellion just yet.

It was a perfect take. The director mimed satisfaction and instructed them to carry on. He was going to shoot all the numbers at one go, then splice in the dialogue and comedy bits later. It could be a lot cheaper, if it worked, than shooting in sequence. With Bart and the Troupe all warmed up and going well, there was no reason why it shouldn't work.

During ‘Tribute to Maw', Crystal crossed over to stand by Lou-Ann's chair. She bent to say something to Lou-Ann, but Lou-Ann made an abrupt brushing-away motion with both hands, and Crystal straightened, frowning.

Bart was frowning, too. He had never approved of the alliance between his sister and his wife. Now that Crystal had defied him, he would loathe it more than ever.

Just in time, he remembered that the cameras were on him. He managed to make his expression look like part of the song and stepped back suddenly, in an unrehearsed move, jostling Uncle No'ccount roughly. It could have been an accident. It was going to look all right on film, for Bart turned quickly, grappling with Uncle No'ccount, turning it into an impromptu, affectionate-looking wrestling match for a moment.

Perhaps I was the only one to notice that, in the unrehearsed confusion, Bart managed to lift the bandana containing Uncle No-'ccount's teeth from Uncle No-'ccount's hip pocket and transfer it to his own pocket.

It was neatly – you might say, professionally – done. I had never inquired about Bart's early career, always feeling that I would be happier if I never knew. Now, however, I felt that a lot had been explained. It was easy to visualize Bart mixing with a Fairground crowd, jostling the fat-looking suckers. A watch here; a wallet there; perhaps a ladies' purse, for light relief. With his lazy, arrogant good looks, he would have been the perfect small-time pickpocket and confidence man. Until he found he could con more money out of the suckers' pockets by singing to them.

There was nothing I could do while Bart and the Troupe were out in front of the cameras. Perhaps there was nothing I could do anyway, but I ought to try.

I edged my way over to where Sam was standing, and tapped him on the shoulder. He shrugged me off impatiently. I tapped again.

‘What the hell do you want?' Immersed in his own private problems, Sam was in no mood for politeness.

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘I just thought you might like to know the name of a good dentist.'

‘Dentist? Are you crazy?' Sam turned and surveyed me suspiciously. ‘I haven't even needed a filling for the past five years. What the hell would I want with a dentist?'

I nodded to the scene over his shoulder, and he whirled around just in time to get his answer.

The set of songs had ended. Just as No. 2 Camera shut off, Bart eased the bandana with the teeth out of his pocket and let it fall to the floor behind him. He wound up the song with a flourish and stamping of feet. Very carefully gauged, each stamp landed precisely on the red bandana. The noise of cracking, crunching plastic sounded through the studio in the sudden silence as the guitars ceased.