The guide took the gun and stepped out in the street. Russell stepped out and faced him. “Think you can hit me from fifteen feet?”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
The schoolgirl giggled nervously.
“And draw!”
Russell drew an imaginary gun and aimed his finger.
The guide fired.
Blood gushed from Russell’s chest. He jerked backward and collapsed in a heap.
There were gasps of shock and awe.
“Oh, my God!” the guide said. He rushed to the fallen man.
Russell leaped to his feet with a ta-da! gesture. “And he’s still alive!” he declared. “Movie magic. You knew it was coming and you still bought it. That’s why I showed you the real bullet. So in your mind, for a split second, you’d think I mixed them up.” He pointed to his bloody shirt. “It’s a blood bag and a squib, of course. I set it off with a detonator in my pocket. Pretty neat, huh?”
The tour group applauded halfheartedly. It was good theater, but it wasn’t making up for the fact that there were no actors.
“So when do we see the cast?” Slythe said.
“I told you,” the guide said, “they’re filming inside today.” A chorus of disappointed murmurs coursed through the crowd.
The guide continued, “But if you’re still in town tomorrow, they’ll be shooting outside in the vicinity of Sunset and Main, on a construction site. Russell will be working, because they’re actually filming a gunfight on a five-story-high steel girder. That’s a shoot-out between Devon and Leonard Kirk.”
The schoolgirl wasn’t impressed. “Who?” she said.
“Those are the names of the characters in the movie. Leonard Kirk is an actor named Mark Weldon. And Devon”—the guide drew it out, teasing her—“is the star of the movie, Brad Hunter!”
There were oohs and aahs. The schoolgirl practically swooned.
“Hang on,” Slythe said. “That won’t be the actors. That will just be stuntmen.”
The guide put up his hands. “Brad Hunter’s scene on the high beam will be shot with a stuntman. Mark Weldon is a stuntman, so will perform himself. But Brad and Mark will both shoot the same scene on a low girder just a few feet off the ground. They’ll actually shoot most of it there. The high beam is just for the stunt.”
“And what’s the stunt?” Slythe wanted to know.
“Oh. Brad shoots the bad guy, and he falls off the beam, down five stories to his death.”
Slythe smiled. “No kidding.”
70
Slythe was waiting in his rental car outside the Centurion gates when the shift ended. After a few minutes Russell came out talking and laughing with a couple of production-crew types. They hopped into their cars and took off.
Slythe followed them a few miles down the road to a workingman’s bar, complete with shuffleboard and a pool table. All were greeted by the bartender and ordered draft beer.
Slythe bellied up to the bar and ordered one, too. He was in luck. Russell’s buddies started shooting pool.
Slythe slapped a goofy grin on his face and pointed. “Hey, aren’t you the guy?”
Russell grinned. Clearly this had happened to him before.
“The gun guy with the special effects. From the movies? That was you.”
“You were on the tour.”
“Damn right. Is that part of the job? You gotta do the tour when you’re not on the set?”
Russell grinned. “You a cop? No, it’s not part of the job. They slip me a little on the side to entertain the tourists. It’s hokey, but they gotta give them something to make up for not seeing the actors.”
“No offense, but it doesn’t.”
“No kidding. Well, tomorrow I don’t have to do it.”
“You’re working the construction site?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have to go up on the high beam?”
“I hope not. I’m hoping I can check their guns on the ground, before they go up and shoot the scene.”
“What time do you think they’ll shoot it?”
“It should be the first shot. If they can’t get that, there’s no point shooting the other stuff.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“The director will figure out something else that does work, and shoot that. And the stuff on the ground will be shot to match. If you shoot the stuff on the ground first and the stunt doesn’t work, you’re screwed. Nothing will match.”
“What do you mean the stuff on the ground? I thought the scene was five stories up.”
“They’ll shoot some of the scene on a lower beam a couple of feet off the ground, so they can get some shots with the actors’ faces. They won’t put them at risk doing the actual stunts. The stuntmen practice on it, too, to get the footwork right. Running on a narrow beam isn’t easy.”
“Will they be using the same gun you were using today?”
Russell snorted. “Hardly. The bad guy will be using a .38 snub-nosed revolver, but Brad will be using a Sig Sauer P320 nine millimeter. He thinks it looks stylish. Can you imagine that? Stylish. All that means is some other actor used it in some other movie and he wants to be like him.”
“Are you saying the guy’s an asshole?”
“Absolutely not, and you didn’t hear it here.” Russell set his empty glass on the bar. “Guess I better go. Six AM call with the prop man, and he’ll bust my chops if I’m late.”
“He a hard-ass?”
“Sometimes, when he’s stressed. Tomorrow’s a big job—we gotta load our supplies and get to location by seven AM to be ready for shooting.”
“No sweat, then. Take it easy. Have one on me.” Slythe tossed money on the bar, said, “Give this man another beer,” and went out.
Slythe got in his car and checked his cell phone to see if Fred Russell’s address was listed. It was. Good.
He wouldn’t have to follow him home.
71
Winston Sporting Goods had very poor security for a place that sold guns. Slythe had no problem disconnecting the alarm system, smashing a bathroom window, and letting himself in.
With a pencil flashlight he made his way to the firearms section. He was pleased to see a Sig Sauer among the guns hanging on the wall. He didn’t take it, but began pulling out drawers below the countertop. They held nothing but bullets, from BBs to buckshot to assault rifle magazines.