“D’you know who the fuck I am?”
McNulty leaned against the counter, just out of Number Two’s fighting arc.
“Replaceable.”
Number Two ignored the truth of that statement.
“I am the guy going on camera in fifteen to face off against the star.”
McNulty found what he was looking for but kept it behind his back.
“You’ve been listening to Alfonse too much. He isn’t a star yet.”
Number Two forged ahead.
“He’s the hero cop in a cop movie.”
McNulty straightened against the counter.
“Yes. And I’m the guy who makes him look like a cop.”
He unscrewed the lid of the foundation cream with one hand.
“Teaches him how to deal with bad guys.”
He paused as if something had just occurred to him.
“How many lines you got?’
That seemed to bring Number Two back down to earth. His voice was smaller.
“I don’t got no lines.”
McNulty pushed off from the counter.
“A nonspeaking part.”
He brought the tube of cream from behind his back.
“You won’t be talking any more shit then.”
He reached over and pinched Number Two’s nose between strong fingers. Number Two’s mouth reflexed open and McNulty squeezed the tube. Thick brown cream squirted down Number Two’s throat, jerking him forward as he was sick in the washbasin. McNulty tossed the empty tube in the waste bin and walked out of the door.
There was no round of applause or hero’s welcome, but Amy Moore nodded her thanks and Alfonse Bayard looked at McNulty with newfound respect. McNulty ignored the actor and spoke to Amy.
“He wants to apologize.”
She nodded again and climbed the steps. McNulty turned to the star of the show.
“How’s the walk coming?”
Alfonse looked at the technical adviser.
“The walk’s fine. I want you to teach me what you did in there.”
McNulty walked a cop’s walk away from the trailer.
“I didn’t do anything in there. It’s for makeup.”
Alfonse fell in step with him, copying the walk and the stance and the body language. One man copying the other. The other man trying not to be himself. The sun finally broke through and signaled the restart of filming. Merrymount Parkway became a hive of activity as people shouted and the film crew hustled. Diffused arc lights came on. The camera dollied back to the start of the track. Everything changed. In the short walk to the set the actor became the cop and the cop became the hero. McNulty’s job was done. Larry Unger shouted from the camera position.
“McNulty.”
The owner of Titanic Productions broke free of the bustle and guided McNulty to one side. Once he found a quiet spot, he lowered his voice.
“We got another problem.”
TWO
McNulty considered the other problem at the Furnace Brook Diner during a break in filming. Just down the road next to Veterans Stadium, which was more like a football field than a stadium with its single stand. McNulty accepted the American propensity for exaggeration without a second thought. Saying that filming had gone well was an understatement though; Alfonse Bayard had knocked it out of the park.
The wiry detective hadn’t needed to run to catch up with the petty thief. The robber wasn’t trying to get away so much as blend in with the background extras—a crowd of spectators leaving the football stadium. The first robber had gone in the opposite direction leaving the detective following Number Two. He added a burst of speed that was no more than upping the pace as he glided toward the robber. On the balls of his feet. Like Sean Connery stalking a henchman. The henchman looked uncomfortable, his throat constricted and his face twisted in pain. He was very convincing. The tension built as the robber was about to be caught. The look on his face betrayed his discomfort. Then the detective stopped him with a harsh word and a promise of violence that proved unnecessary.
The robber stopped. Alfonse Bayard got his man. The director yelled, “Cut. Check the gate.” And Larry Unger nodded his approval. The detective wasn’t walking like a duck anymore. He wasn’t walking like John Wayne either. He was walking like a cop.
Click here to learn more about Final Cut by Colin Campbell.
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Here is a preview from Wrecked, the fifth Gus Dury crime novel by Tony Black.
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Chapter 1
Things were on the up.
Sort of.
Couldn’t say I was closing in on the Seven Series Beemer, but at least I had wheels. How long they stayed attached to the motor was a whole other story.
‘So what’s the problem?’ said a beer-gut, shoving a wedge in his sky-rocket that could settle a few rounds at Bilderberg.
‘It leaks oil, by the bucket. I drove it here with the temp in the red the whole time.’
Hands.
I got shown palms—and they looked suspiciously clean for a man claiming to be a grease-monkey. ‘Never leaked when it left here, mate.’
Did I tell him I wasn’t his mate? No. Better to keep something in reserve at such a delicate stage in negotiations.
He leaned on the wing of my new Golf—well, new to me, Jimmy Savile was wining and dining with Prince Charlie and Sir Cliff when this one rolled off the line. ‘Look, mate, you got a nice little run-around there. If it’s a bit greedy for oil then you should keep it topped up.’
‘It’s a leak. If I pump any more Castrol in there it’s going on my boots.’
A shrug.
I got shrugs and a shake of the head—guys like him, it’s as if they think life’s a contest for the world’s biggest bell-end. He sprung off the car, turning to walk away.
‘Well, that’s what they call “buyer beware,” son.’
I didn’t like the son bit at all. And it came with a sneer.
‘Caveat emptor…that’s what you’re giving me?’ I shoved it back at him, he looked perplexed. ‘It means buyer beware.’
He stopped, weighed me with his eyes but had no answer. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving me. He kept about an inch of air between his beer gut and myself, but I wasn’t playing ball, said, ‘Have you ever heard of caveat rectum?’
‘What?’ That look of the scoobied, the thrown.