In the middle drawer he found what he wanted: a box of 9mm cartridges. He opened the box and dumped a pile of bullets out on the counter. He took the Sig Sauer off the wall and loaded it just to make sure they fit.
When he was done he popped the magazine, thumbed out the bullets, and ejected the one in the chamber. He slid the empty magazine into the gun and hung the Sig Sauer back on the wall.
He put a dozen bullets in his pocket and returned the rest to the box. He closed the box and put it back in the drawer, underneath another box of identical shells.
He swept up the glass, locked the bathroom window, and went out the back fire door, pulling it shut behind him. He reset the security alarm, hopped in his car, and drove off.
It couldn’t have gone better. With luck, no one would notice there’d been a robbery. Certainly not before tomorrow.
After that it wouldn’t matter.
* * *
—
Fred Russell was up at five o’clock. It was a huge tech day, and he had to be at the studio at six, and the set wasn’t at the studio—it was at the top of a five-story-high construction site. A technician’s nightmare to set up.
He pulled on a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and running shoes, his standard attire. He didn’t stop for breakfast, he’d get coffee and a Danish from the catering truck on the set. He checked that he had his money, his keys, and his wallet. He pulled on his cap and opened the front door.
A man stood in the doorway. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Russell couldn’t place him. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a baseball cap worn backward. Otherwise—
Russell’s eyes widened.
The man from the bar.
The man Russell had just recognized stepped in with a straight razor and cut his throat.
72
Slythe drove down to Centurion and bluffed his way onto the back lot. It wasn’t hard. The guard at the gate was half asleep and not expecting to do anything but check IDs.
“Who?” he said.
“Tim Dale. I’m supposed to check in with the prop department.”
“No one said anything about it.”
“I was just called in, someone phoned in sick. The union sent me instead.”
“I don’t know . . . ”
“There’s a big shoot today, and they told me to get my ass down here and report in. If they lose a day shooting they’ll be blaming me. You know how it goes with these types,” Slythe said, trying to appear like just another blue-collar guy who worked among a lot of people with more power and money than he’d ever have. “Who’s the head of props?”
The guard picked up the phone. For a moment Slythe was afraid he was calling the union to check up on him, but he was actually calling a production assistant to drive him to the set.
Slythe reported to the head of the prop department, who wasn’t pleased to see him. Leon Gerber was a small, wiry man, always suspicious that someone was after his job. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“The union sent me to fill in for Fred Russell.”
“No one told me.”
“It just happened.”
“Why’d they send you?”
“I answered the phone.”
Leon snorted in disgust. “We have a tech-heavy shoot on location at a high-rise construction site. A shoot-out on a five-story-high girder, between a bad guy and the star. I can’t tell you how important this is.”
“Where’s the equipment?”
Leon unlocked the prop room. As Slythe expected, the weapons to be used that day were laid out on the prop table. There were two guns, two boxes of blank cartridges, and two dozen squibs and blood bags.
“Don’t tell me,” Slythe said. “The star’s using the Sig Sauer. The snub-nosed revolver is the evil bad guy’s gun.” He cocked his head at the prop man.
Leon smiled. “You’ll do.”
* * *
—
Slythe caught a ride to the location with some of the other prop men. No one cared about him much, and when he told them he hadn’t done a feature in years, they left him alone. That was good because one of them was one of the guys who’d been playing pool in the bar while he was talking to Russell. Luckily, the man clearly didn’t recognize him.
They got to the set to find Leon already standing on the sidewalk. Slythe walked up to him and said, “Where are we setting up props?”
Leon said, “There’s a table in the crew trailer where you can spread everything out, and someone will always be assigned to watch them.”
“Who did Russell have doing squibs?”
“Jackson.”
“He can do them today, then. I’ll load the guns myself.”
“We got a guy to load them for you.”
“It’s my first day. If something goes wrong, it’s on me. I’ll load them myself. Where’s the trailer?”
“Show him, Jackson.”
A teamster handed down a box of equipment from the truck. A prop man took it and said, “Come on.”
Slythe followed him to the crew trailer, where the props department had been allotted the kitchen table to spread out the day’s props.
The prop man unloaded the guns and cartridges and squibs onto the table.
“Where are the backup guns?” Slythe said.
“On the truck. We won’t bring them out unless something’s wrong with these.”
“Are you the guy who does squibs?”
“Yeah, I’m Jackson.”
“Good. You’ll be doing them today. I’ll check them, of course, but you rig them. Just let me know when you’re done.”
“There’s only one squib.”
“One?”
“Only one guy gets shot.”
“Who’s that?”
“The bad guy. The star shoots the bad guy. He doesn’t get touched himself, so there’s only one squib. You don’t need any help with the guns?”
Slythe picked up the Sig Sauer, popped the magazine, checked that there was no round in the chamber. “Let’s see. Sig Sauer, nine millimeter. Looks like a P320. And a snub-nosed revolver. Any other weapons?”
“Not today.”
“Then I’m all set.”