Way of a Wanton (11 page)

I suddenly noticed how quiet it had become. My voice was abnormally loud because I'd been trying to talk over the buzz of conversation and sound of people moving around. Some men were still working on the set, moving the altar now. I glanced around. Everybody near us was looking our way, standing motionless as if expecting some fireworks. It seemed likely that they'd get to watch some.
 

King was about six inches from me and now he said, “I'm gonna tell you something, Scott. I'm gonna break your damn neck.”
 

That was all he said. Somehow I'd expected more. Then he put a large hand on my chest and shoved me back about six inches.
 

That's all it takes. Because of some peculiar quirk in me, that is the easiest way in the world for anybody to bring out my worst side. I could feel my cheeks get hot and it was almost as if I could hear the blood rushing through my brain. I balled up my fists and started to lunge back at him just as Raul said frantically, “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” and at the same instant I realized what I'd been about to pull.
 

I didn't know for sure that I could take King in a brawl, though after last night I thought the odds were in my favor. But even if he threw me to the floor and jumped up and down on me I couldn't afford to clobber him. If I so much as gave him a fat lip, all hell would break loose: Bruta, the star of the show, wouldn't be able to emote in front of the cameras and Bondhelm would practically die of happiness. This was exactly what Bondhelm had hinted at last night: “If, by any accident, you should interrupt shooting...” Involuntarily I shuddered, and my fists peeled open. It seemed suddenly as if everything was ganging up on me in this case. And I couldn't think of anything to do about it.
 

King had his head stuck forward on his trunklike neck and his ludicrous chin was pushed forward, making a beautiful target somewhat like a ledge of granite. Everybody was still looking at us, waiting for the fearless Shell Scott to tear King limb from limb, or vice versa. And here I stood wondering what the hell. I'd had it. I was stuck in the damn tree and the beavers were mad at me.
 

“King,” I said, and stopped. I didn't know what I could say. I tried again. “I told you once before, let's not be silly. Haven't you got anything better to do?”
 

He grinned widely. He figured he had me crawling now. “Scott,” he said, “let's settle this once and for all. I said I was gonna break your neck. Didn't you hear me?”
 

“I heard you.” I could hardly get the words out, I was so mad. I could feel the sweat starting to come out on my face, and my hands were again squeezed into fists so tight that I could feel the pain where my fingernails cut into my palms.
 

We stood facing each other, staring into each other's eyes from about six inches apart, and finally after what seemed like an hour King's lips curled and he said, “Well, well.”
 

He took another breath, let it out, then turned his back on me and swaggered slowly away. With the tension abruptly ended, conversation swelled up again. I could imagine what was being said.
 

Raul started barking orders to his crew and I just stood there behind his chair for a few seconds, feeling a little sick inside and not wanting to look at anybody. Then I turned and walked back to Sherry. She looked curiously at me. I might have imagined it, but I thought she looked disappointed. In me.
 

“What was all that, Shell?”
 

“King wanted to break my neck. Didn't you hear him?” My voice still wasn't under control.
 

“I heard him, Shell. You sound funny.”
 

“I feel funny. King and I had a beef last night, after you left. Guess he wants more. Let's forget about it, huh?”
 

She didn't say anything else. Neither did I. We were standing in semidarkness about thirty feet behind where Raul sat, the two of us by ourselves now. Swallow had wandered off somewhere. I wanted to talk to Swallow some more, and also to others who were here now, so Sherry and I stood quietly while preparations were completed for shooting the next scene.
 

Raul shouted, “Get this one and we knock off for lunch.” Things quieted down and I could see Helen and two other women standing in front of the cameras. Some of the lights were moved and one of the shirt-sleeved electricians standing about twenty feet from Sherry and me adjusted a junior spotlight that lighted up the background behind the three women.
 

As I watched, my breathing went back to normal and the dryness eased out of my throat. I'd had just about enough, I was thinking. First a guy shooting at me, and now this mess with King. The thought of that bullet hole in the side of the Cad started the tenseness pulling slightly between my shoulder blades again and I looked around the spot where we stood, looked into the grayness and the shadow, at the unused equipment looming darkly in the gloom. Nothing moved, and I realized that I had actually been looking for something moving near us. I shrugged. I was getting too jittery. It was the dimness in here, the lack of reality and the shadows.
 

Finally Raul called, “Action!” again and the scene got started. I watched for a minute, then thought I heard something overhead. It seemed a little unlikely, but in the quiet as the take proceeded I had thought some kind of noise had come from above us. I glanced at Sherry, but she was intent on the action before the cameras. I looked up.
 

There was one of those catwalks overhead, almost hidden in the darkness high above us, and squarely above Sherry and me there was a heavier blob of shadow. For one queer moment I remembered that darker shadow I'd seen as I swam through the water of Raul's pool, and then that heavy blob above us moved.
 

I strained my eyes at the movement, hardly believing what I was seeing, and just as I decided that the shadowy outline must be that of one of the huge arc lights, it toppled from the catwalk and plummeted toward us.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

FOR A fractional part of a second, only a breath of time, I stared as the bulky metal hung on the edge of the catwalk and started to fall. Then I yelled, “Look out!” and leaped to my right, my hands outstretched as I crashed into Sherry and sent her sprawling forward. Her scream knifed through the silence as the rending crash came from behind me when the light hit the floor.
 

Raul shouted something, but I didn't hear what it was and I was only barely conscious of the other shouts and cries, for even as the light crashed behind me I was leaping for the spotlight that the electrician stood by a few feet away. I grabbed the edge of the spot and felt its heat against the skin of my hands as I swung it around and up toward the ceiling.
 

The light fell on the narrow catwalk and I saw a man racing along it toward the far wall. I trained the strong beam of light on him and saw his hand go up before his eyes, trying to block out the blinding glare. Then he stumbled and yelled hoarsely as one foot slipped over the edge of the catwalk. For a moment he hung there, with his arms waving frantically, then fell, screaming. His body dropped through the beam of light and into the darkness beneath it, then thudded sickeningly against the floor as the scream stopped abruptly.
 

I felt a little sick. I pulled the beam of light down till it splashed over the crumpled body several feet from me. Several of the cast and technicians were moving either toward me or the man on the floor, and I left the spotlight trained across the room on the unmoving figure there, then walked toward it. I heard voices crying, “What happened?” “What the hell's going on?” and a woman's voice repeating, “He
fell!
I saw him fall!” as I walked past those who were already in front of me. Two men were standing between the man on the floor and me, and as I stepped around them somebody found a switch and lights brightened this whole area of the sound stage.
 

There was no doubt that the man was dead; his neck was twisted and bent at an impossible, almost comic, angle. His horn-rimmed spectacles lay a few inches from his nose, one lens shattered, the jagged pieces of glass reflecting the light that poured over him. The little bald spot had eaten its way outward as far as it ever would. Apparently I hadn't lost the little man in the green Chevy this morning; I'd lost him now. I knelt by him. There was no breathing, no pulse. I looked at his staring eyes; one pupil already appeared larger than the other. He was one dead little man.
 

Raul pushed through the gathering crowd of shocked and curious people. He put his hand on my arm and said, “For God's sake, what happened, Shell?”
 

I turned and looked at him. I was so jittery that for a moment I even searched Raul's face to see if I could read any guilt or insincerity there. Then I realized I was being silly and answered him, “I don't think I know exactly, Raul.” I pointed to the catwalk above us. “What kind of screwy setup is that up there? Where does that thing go?”
 

“Huh?” He followed my pointing finger. “Oh, that? Goes over to the wall. Runs into another one over there, too.” He pointed to another catwalk that led off at right angles from the one above us. “Damn things are all over the place. Why, what's that got to do with—with this mess?”
 

“The little guy there tried to drop a light on my head. That was the crash you heard. I guess he meant to take off in the confusion. Or get down and back in the crowd. Who is he, anyway?”
 

Raul looked at the little man and swallowed. “Think his name's Henson. He's a grip.” He swallowed again. “He was. You put the spot on him?”
 

“Uh-huh. That wasn't in the script. I wasn't supposed to be able to jump around.” Suddenly I thought of Sherry. I swung around and headed back to where I'd left her sprawled on the floor, then I saw her standing a few feet from me, leaning against a wooden beam. I walked over to her.
 

“You all right, honey?”
 

“I guess so.” She managed a weak smile. “Some—some more bruises, but I think that's all.” She paused and then added, “Thanks to you. What happened, anyway? What does it mean?” She looked back to the crumpled arc light that had narrowly missed us.
 

I didn't get to answer her.
 

A door at the side of the room crashed open and Genova descended upon us like a thin Napoleon. His booming voice preceded him. “What's the matter? What's the matter? What happened? What happened?” He was getting unstrung again. Apparently somebody had reported to him that there was confusion on the set and he'd come to add some of his own to it. “Raul,” he yelled. “
Raul!
”
 

Raul was kneeling by the body. “Here, L.G.” he said, and Genova wheeled and walked up beside him. He spotted the dead man and stood looking down at him, speechless for a few seconds, then he said rapidly, “What's this? Who is this man? What happened?”
 

I gave Sherry's arm a squeeze and walked over to the center of activity. “He's dead, Genova,” I said. “He was up—”
 

Genova snapped his head around at the sound of my voice and his bushy eyebrows crawled up his forehead like black snails. “You!” he roared. “
You!
You did it! You're trying to ruin me! I'll have—”
 

It was my turn to interrupt. “Shut up a minute, Genova. Get it through your head that the guy's dead. This isn't any picnic; that little man just tried to kill me. Come over here.”
 

I spoke so roughly and sharply that my voice cut through the confusion and Genova followed me to the broken light on the floor. “Take a fat look at that,” I said. “The dead guy pushed it off the catwalk there"—I pointed and Genova looked up and then back at my face—"and I was just lucky enough to hear him. I swung a spot on him and he fell. Get it through your head, Genova: He was trying to kill me.”
 

It was relatively quiet now. Genova stared at me for a moment, his mouth sagging a little. He looked dazed. Finally he said plaintively, “Do you know what this is costing me? Three thousand dollars. Every hour it costs me three thousand dollars.” His voice got stronger; this was something of which he was positive. “I'll be ruined,” he said loudly. “You're trying to ruin me!” He turned and looked at all the others standing a few feet away and shouted, “He's working for Bondhelm! Ask him! Ask him!” There was an exclamation point after every word.
 

Raul walked forward. “Look, L.G.,” he said quietly. “I'm not sure what happened here, myself, but I don't see how it could have been Shell's doing.”
 

“He's working for Bondhelm,” Genova muttered uncertainly. He just couldn't get all this through his head.
 

I said, “Genova, listen to me a minute. I've told you what happened. I sure as hell didn't plan it. The person responsible is that little guy on the floor, or somebody he was doing his dirty work for.” I looked slowly around the room—at King's dark face, Helen in her brief costume, a couple of other women's faces I recognized, then back past Raul to Genova again. “Somebody here,” I added. “Somebody in this room who wanted me dead.”
 

It got as quiet as the inside of a coffin. I heard the rustle of cloth as a woman moved slightly, and change jingled faintly as Raul took his hand from his trousers pocket. I said, “This is for the police now.”
 

Genova mumbled something softly and looked pained, and spurts of conversation shot up again. Suddenly I remembered one face I hadn't seen in the group.