Slythe finished his coffee. He crumpled his cardboard cup, tossed it in the garbage, and wandered off in the direction of the Porta-Potties. He detoured around them and strolled casually in the direction of the landing balloon.
Up close it was enormous. Slythe couldn’t even see over the top.
Slythe glanced around. Back in the street, the crew was still unloading the trucks. Cameras, lights, and reflectors were being set up. Huge lights on tripods were being braced with sandbags.
No one was paying any attention to him. Still, he was within sight lines. He strolled around toward the far side of the landing balloon.
A policeman was standing there.
Slythe managed a smile. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Okay. You with the crew?”
“Props. You guarding the set?”
“I’m on traffic control, but there’s nothing to stop until they begin filming. You know when they might start?”
“Not for a while. They’re still setting up. You know, there’s coffee over there—doughnuts, cheese Danish—if you wanna grab something.”
“Not a bad idea,” the cop said.
Slythe watched him go. He reached in his pocket, slid out his straight razor, and flipped it open.
He stepped up to the balloon.
“Tim!”
Slythe froze. His hand with the razor dropped to his side. He turned calmly, a seasoned pro, ready to size up the situation and react.
It was only Jackson. And he didn’t look alarmed.
“What’s up?” Slythe said.
“The director wants to see you.”
76
Peter Barrington sized Slythe up. “You’re filling in for Russell?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry if I’m not up to speed, but I just got the call. As I understand it, you’re filming a gunfight on an I-beam.”
“That’s right. We’re shooting the stunt up there, then close-ups later on a low beam. I’m particularly concerned with the shot up there. It’s the first shot of the day. We’ll have four cameras rolling. The villain shoots three times before the hero spins around and blasts him, and he falls. I’d like to get it in one take because it’s a huge setup and I don’t want the actor to have to do the fall twice. I need you to check the guns carefully just before the shot to make sure everything is in order.”
Slythe pointed. “Up there?”
Peter frowned. “You have a fear of heights?”
“I don’t like them. Do I have to be up there?”
Peter considered. “Well, Jackson has to be up there to set off the squib. But the guns . . .”
“Can’t I just give them to the actors before they go up?”
“They have their guns in their shoulder holsters for the wardrobe check. Tell you what. How about you check them just before they get into the construction elevator?”
“Great. Thanks.”
Slythe smiled.
Perfect.
77
Teddy nearly fell asleep in his makeup chair. He’d been on the go so much lately and the movie trailer was a safe space, a place where he could zone out and relax.
Teddy snapped awake when they came back to check his squib. Something was different, and he was attuned to notice anything out of the ordinary. He knew what it was immediately: the prop man. The guy checking his squib wasn’t Russell.
“You’re new,” Teddy said.
The prop man nodded. “Tim Dale. Russell phoned in sick. Help me out here. If you’re the guy with the squib, you must get this.” He held out the snub-nosed revolver.
“Right you are,” Teddy said. He took the gun, flipped it open, and spun the cylinder. He flipped it shut and stuck it in his shoulder holster. “I’m Mark. That’s George. He gets the other one.”
“Here you go.”
George took the Sig Sauer and slipped it into his shoulder holster.
The prop man went out.
Teddy relaxed, relieved that the thing that had him on guard was something as simple as that.
Even so.
“Hey, George,” Teddy said.
“Huh?”
“Let me see your gun.”
“Why?”
“Just curious. After all, you’re going to shoot me with it.”
George handed over the gun.
Teddy popped the magazine and checked the blanks. He ejected the shell in the chamber. It was a blank, too.
Teddy stuck the magazine back in the gun, chambered the round, and handed the gun back to George.
Teddy felt foolish, but only a little. You didn’t need doubts in your mind when you were five stories up on a twelve-inch-wide girder, about to fall off.
78
Slythe came out of the trailer feeling good. He’d carried off his masquerade as a prop man well enough to fool the director and both actors, including the one who was presumably Billy Barnett. Slythe wondered if he really was. He didn’t look much like the man he’d seen emerge from the burning house, but that man had been a fright. This man was in costume and makeup.
But it had to be him. According to the bar girl, Mark Weldon was Billy Barnett, and she had been trying to impress him with her insider knowledge, and too drunk to lie.
Slythe glanced around. No one was paying any attention to him, nor was there any reason why they should. He’d done his job. No one would need him again until they were ready for the shot. He was on his own.
Slythe walked over to the landing balloon. The cop was back, but some of his buddies had arrived, and they were out in the street, probably planning traffic flow. No one seemed the least bit interested in a prop man hanging out between tasks.
Slythe slipped his razor out of his pocket and cut a twelve-inch horizontal slit in the side of the landing balloon. He stepped back to inspect the damage. Air was hissing out slowly. The balloon was deflating, not so fast that it would be noticeable too soon, but not so slowly that it wouldn’t do its job.
Slythe walked all around the balloon, adding a cut here and there, before heading back to the catering cart for a coffee.
79
Places, please!”
The assistant directors hurried around importantly, banging on doors and summoning everyone to the set. Or rather to the base of the construction site. The actual set was on the fifth floor, but no one was up there yet.