The Martini Shot (22 page)

In the scene as written, Constance was in the Homicide offices, talking to Cobb McCord about a case, after hours. She was sitting, of course, on the edge of his desk, and he was seated in his chair, looking up at her with “male intent” (apparently McCord had yet to wake up one morning and “think” he was gay). McCord asked Constance if she'd like to discuss the case over a beer at Hawk's, the squad's local watering hole.

Susan didn't want to say that last line. We did many takes, and she said something different every time, but not those words. Lillie had tried to get her to do it, and so had Lomax, but to no avail.

“Will you go in?” said an exasperated Lomax, turning to me in the Village.

I walked onto the set and got up close to Susan, keeping my voice low, keeping our conversation private. The crew and Andre Robbins, the young actor who played McCord, instinctively stepped out of range.

“Uh-oh,” said Susan. “They sent in the heavy artillery.”

“What's the problem, Sue?”

“That line, ‘I have beer at my place.' Why is she being so sexually aggressive with this guy? I mean, she's supposed to be repressed, isn't she? That's how you guys defined her in the bible.
The emotionally stunted daughter of a cool, distant father, Constance has trouble with romantic relationships,
blah blah blah. I just don't think I would say that.”

“You're not saying it. Your
character
is saying it.”

“Okay. I don't think my
caricature
would say that.”

Despite my growing impatience, I smiled. She always called her character her “caricature,” and she was correct. Her character was not a recognizable human being, but a type. Susan was a smart young woman with good instincts and a keen sense of humor. But I had to do my job.

“Well, we've done it several ways now, Sue. Do me a favor and give it to me the way it's written, so we can have a take or two that way as well.”

“But if I say the line as written, that's the take you'll use when you cut it together. I know how you all do.”

“True,” I admitted.

“I don't want to say that line,” said Susan Pine. “That's my position.”

“So, in other words, that's the Sue Pine position.”

“The Supine position,” she said, crossing her arms and giving me a charitable smirk. “I've never heard
that
before.”

“I'm quite the wit.”

“I'm still not saying the line, Vic.”

We stood there and tried to stare each other down. I knew she wasn't going to budge, and we had to get through the day. I gave in to move things along. Plus, she was right.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll give that line to Andre. He'll say to you, ‘I have beer at my place.' And then your caricature can fork him.”

“Thank you.”

“Let's get back to work.”

“Vic?” She touched my arm. “How come you never asked
me
out for a beer?”

“I'm not supposed to fraternize with the talent,” I said. “Matter of fact, I think it's in my contract. But thank you for that. You made my night, Sue.”

The truth was, she wasn't my type. And anyway, I only had eyes for one woman.

I was spoken for.

Later, as were shooting the singles of the last scene, I went over to the prop truck, backed against one of the warehouse bays, and walked through its open gate. Brandon was inside, doing some paperwork back in the office, called the Gold Room, probably because it held a safe. In the safe were real, operable guns.

I moved past bins and totes labeled with character names. Tanner's bin held his badge, cuffs, rings, watches, and his plastic Glock, while Hart's held her reading glasses, her favorite pens, and the jewelry she wore in every ep. There were entire bins devoted to sunglasses, and jewel cases of wedding bands and fake diamond rings. Steel shelves held multiple jugs of grape juice and apple juice, which doubled for red and white wine, and bottles of nonalcoholic beer to be poured into bottles of Bud and Heineken for our bar scenes. One drink cart, now folded and up against a wall, could service hundreds of extras. All of the non-effect illusions we sold to the public emanated from this relatively small truck. Brandon had a boss, who worked from the office, dealt with our EPs, and attended tone meetings, and he had an assistant and an on-set dresser as well. But he was the main man who placed the props in front of the camera from call to wrap.

“Sir.”

“Brandon.”

He had been seated at a desk, but stood to meet me. Behind him, on the wall, was a bulletin board showing cards of the current day's scenes, detailing the props that would be needed for each.

We shook hands.

“Just Vic tonight,” I said. “Okay?”

“Sure. You want a drink?”

“No, I'm good.”

The prop truck doubled as the unofficial bar for the crew who were so inclined. Especially on stage days, when there were no moves, select crew members began to control-drink late in the day and continued to drink until wrap. I knew it, and it was understood that I knew and wouldn't rat anyone out. As long as everyone did their jobs and made sound decisions, I was good with it. We were all adults.

Brandon was tall, blue-eyed, and fully bearded. He looked like a dude who drives a windowless van from the woods and steps out of it with bong smoke and a teenaged girl trailing behind him. But he wasn't a stoner, or not much more of one than anyone else on the crew. He had a master's in English lit and was better read than I would ever be. Not that he was destined to be a professor or a writer. He was born and bred to do the job he had now.

How Brandon had gotten here was a common story in prop departments: it was a family business. His father had been a prop master for thirty years, and Brandon had grown up working on his old man's truck. Further, Brandon was mentally suited for the job. He had the kind of mind that could recall a watch worn by a day player four seasons back, or the exact type of weapon a tender kept hidden beneath the bar in an episode long since forgotten by the rest of our crew.

“Sit down,” I said.

I took a chair and pulled it over to his desk. We stared at each other for a while. He looked away, then looked back at me.

“Well?” he said.

“I think you know what this is about. Let's not waste too much time on this, Brandon.”

“You here as a producer?”

“I'm here as Skylar's friend. If you're straight with me, you and I don't have a problem.”

“Ask me anything.”

“You gave him some prop money, didn't you.”

Brandon nodded.

“Why?”

“He was my friend, too,” said Brandon. “He was in trouble, and I helped him out.”

“That was pretty stupid.”

“I know it was, and I told him so. But I couldn't change his mind, and I couldn't say no. I guess I should have been stronger.”

“Laura told me that he had mixed the counterfeit with the real. How did he expect to pull it off?”

“He put real bills over fake, for starters. It's called a Jamaican roll.”

I made a mental note of the term. “Okay, but…”

“Right. Whoever he was dealing with, they were gonna find out eventually. He said he only needed a couple of days. He'd tell them he was unaware the money was counterfeit, that he'd been tricked, too. Then he'd pay them in full, with actual money, soon as he got flush.”

This checked out with what Laura had told me. I nodded and said, “But how did he expect to fool them from the get-go?”

“I do good work, Victor.”

“
How
did you do it? Doesn't it say, right on the bills,
‘
for motion picture use only' 
?”

“It's in the same small font as the type on a real bill, so it's not too noticeable. But, yeah. There's the other kind that switches the president's face with the denomination; they put Ben Franklin's mug on a twenty, like that. I use the first kind.”

“Prop money looks fine on camera, but when you hold it in your hand, you know it's not right.”

“I age it. Some guys use nicotine spray. I use tea dye. Steep tea bags in water, then soak the prop money in it and let the money dry.”

“Wardrobe does the same thing with clothing, don't they?”

“Same process. It adds a yellow-brown tone to the paper and it softens it up, makes it feel real.”

“So at first glance, and touch, you can get away with it.”

“Maybe.”

“Until someone tries to spend it.”

“I told Skylar that, too.” Brandon fished a cigarette from the breast pocket of his Western-style shirt, but he didn't light it. “Do you know who he was dealing with?”

“A couple of collection guys. That's about it.”

“The police talked to me. Apparently my initials were in Skylar's ledger book.”

“Did you tell them about any of this? Did you talk about what kind of mess he was in?”

“I didn't tell them a thing.”

“Neither did I.”

We stared at each other again. This time, Brandon held my eyes.

“Skylar fronted a pound of weed to a guy on our crew,” I said, “and the guy didn't pay him for it.”

“Yeah. The guy rotted him.”

Rotted.
That was a new expression to me. I made note of that, too.

“Who was it?” I said.

“Barry in security,” said Brandon, without hesitation.

“Black Barry?”

“Yes.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette. He wasn't supposed to smoke on the truck, but he had been jonesing for it and I made no comment. His eyes had filled with tears.

“Don't be too hard on yourself, Brandon. You were just trying to get him out of a jam.”

“I shouldn't be thinking of me, anyway. I'm here, alive and working. I'm going home to my wife and baby tonight. It's him who's dead.”

“That's right.”

“I wish I could do something.”

“You can,” I said. “You could lend me a gun.”

“Fuck no,
sir.
You know I can't open that safe for you. I'd be looking at time if one of my guns had a body attached to it and got traced back to me.”

“I'm not talking about a real gun. I'm talking about one of those fake-ass plastic guns you give Brad Slaughter.”

“What would you do with it?”

“Will you give me one?”

He nodded slowly and dragged on his cigarette. “Vic?”

“What?”

“You think those guys murdered Skylar?”

“I don't know.”

But I knew I was going to find out.

After we wrapped, Annette came up to my suite. I had lit some candles, put on some music, and opened a bottle of Rodney Strong. I was ready for her as she came through the door. She was dressed in sweats and had a large leather satchel swung over one shoulder.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled sweetly.

“Hi.” I kissed her, and nodded at her bag. “Are you staying for the weekend?”

“I need to use your bathroom. Pour me a glass of wine, handsome.”

She closed the door behind her as I retrieved two short glasses from the kitchen cabinet. I poured Merlot for the two of us and waited. It seemed to me that she was taking a long time. Maybe I was anxious. We'd skipped a night of intimacy, which was unusual for us. Since we'd been together, we'd rarely gone a day without making love.

Annette emerged from the bathroom, shutting the light behind her. She'd changed her clothing. She was now wearing a low-cup black bra, lace black panties, garters, black fishnet stockings, and simple black evening shoes—ankle straps with small rhinestones across the bridge. She walked toward me, languorously, with a feline sway. Her breasts heaved bountifully in her bra, and her thigh muscles rippled as she moved.

I felt my heart beat in my chest. It was hard to breathe.

Annette came into my arms and we kissed.

“Goddamn, girl.
Thank
you.”

“I want to talk to you,” she whispered. She didn't look pleased.

“Later,” I said.

We made out for a long while, standing there on the carpeted floor. I could have kissed her for hours. But somehow we moved into the Magic Room, along with the music, the wine, and the candles. Then I was between her, both of us in fluid motion, my hands entwined with hers above her head, her hair spread out on my pillow, our chests damp with sweat.

“Can I get on top?” she said.

“Yes.”

I withdrew and turned over onto my back. She moved onto me quickly, like an animal to prey. Her heavy breasts, long free from restraint, bumped my chest. I had torn her panties off her in a moment of impatient lust, and she had kicked her evening shoes to the floor. Only her stockings and garters remained.

“I'm gonna fuck you, Victor.”

“Get on it,” I said.

But first she went down on me, hungrily licking my balls and shaft.

“I can feel your vein with my tongue,” she said, lifting her head to smile at me. “And you've got that bend in the river.”

My rod was throbbing and slightly bent below the head. An overzealous woman had scarred me in bed one night, long ago.

“Are you complaining?” I said.

“You know I like it.”

“Stop talking, then.”

“Don't you want me to talk to you?”

“Yes, I do. You know I do.”