What had I learned this morning? Movie-making was fucking slow. That was one thing. Nick Varnos was not on set posing as an onlooker or infiltrating the crew or pretending to be a Teamster. That was another. Mobster Louis Licata definitely had a more than casual involvement with Tiffany Goodwin. And that was about it.
Still standing there at the bottom of the little Winnebago steps, I had just decided to head over to my car and not waste any more time here, when I realized I’d left out a group when I was considering where Nick Varnos wasn’t.
He wasn’t pretending to be an aging biker.
These guys weren’t pretending either, but their fierce expressions were so ridiculous they might as well have been. They were clinking over my way-the chains and other metal doodads on their black leathers and boots made a little gypsy dance noise-having been…well, somewhere. Walking the periphery performing their idea of security. Ginger was better at it.
They deposited themselves on either side of me, coming to a jingling stop. Both six footers easy, not towering over me, but good-size.
The one on my left, in your regulation black leather jacket, had a bandana over what I would bet was thinning reddish-blond hair; he had a scraggly reddish beard, a bulbous vein-shot nose, tiny dark blue eyes hiding in pouches, and a pale complexion, meaning he spent more time in bars playing at biker than actually riding in the sunshine. Other than a beer belly, he wasn’t fat, exactly, more like beefy.
The one at my left, bony in a black-leather vest, had long greasy salt-and-pepper hair ponytailed back and little black shark eyes that went just fine with a tobacco-stained wolfish grin. Skinny, even skeletal, with a Fu Manchu beard and dark-lensed granny glasses and a gold earring, he smelled like beer. No. He smelled like beer puke.
So the scarecrow was grinning at me, and the beefy bandana fucker was glowering at me. It was the worst rendition of the classic tragedy and comedy masks ever.
“Hi fellas,” I said, wondering which would turn out to be the leader. Traditionally it would be the guy on the right, but I didn’t see much going on in the bandana boy’s bleary blues. So I was betting on the one at my left.
And I was right, because it was the scarecrow who first spoke: “What the fuck you doin’, man?”
“Just standing here. Why?”
Bandana boy said, “What the fuck you doin’ in Miss Goodwin’s trailer, asshole?”
Scarecrow said, “You was in there forty-five minutes, man. That’s a loooong fuckin’ time, man.”
Making no sudden moves, I edged forward and turned, so that I was facing them. No, I was not preparing to execute a Billy Jack karate kick. I was just tired of swinging my head left and right to talk to these dipshits.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
Bandana boy was frowning stupidly. This conversation had taken a bizarre and unexpected turn, as he saw it. “There could be! There could be… ass — hole!”
“Easy, Juke,” the scarecrow said, patting the air with a leather riding gloved hand. “Be polite. We ain’t heard his explanation yet.”
“Okay, Skull, okay-but I don’t like his fuckin’ face.”
I’m afraid I laughed. “Skull,” as a biker nickname, had been so on the nose, it made me smile. And now Juke-as Skull’s bandana-sporting compadre was apparently known-was bitching about other people’s faces. I mean.
Skull’s eyes popped-even so, they still were pretty small-and he got right in my face, the wolfish yellow teeth exposed but no longer smiling. He was shaking, like a Hell’s Angel version of Barney Fife. Maybe a touch scarier.
“Okay, laughing boy-you explain yourself or we stop askin’ and start walin’. ”
Waling? Really?
I just looked at him and he backed away and crossed his skinny tattooed arms and jutted his pointy chin.
I summoned as genuine a smile as I could muster. “What’s the problem here, gents? I assume you’re security. I’m Jack Reynolds, unit publicist. Just started today. You can check with any P.A. I’m supposed to grab interviews with the stars for publicity purposes. What was I doing in Miss Goodwin’s trailer? I have been interviewing her. What do you think I was doing? Getting blown?”
They both stood there with slitty eyes, processing that for maybe ten seconds. Naturally the scarecrow’s circuits cleared first, and he said, “You’re a PR guy?”
“Right.”
He took a deep breath, let it out, reassembled himself and his dignity. “Okay. Well. See, we been told to make sure nobody bothers Miss Goodwin.”
“Particularly men,” bandana boy put in.
“I wasn’t bothering her,” I said. “Who are you working for-Mr. Licata?”
They glanced at each other, obviously disturbed that I possessed that information. Even the smarter one wasn’t sure how to respond.
So I saved them the trouble: “Listen, guys, where Miss Goodwin is concerned, I’m no threat to Mr. Licata or anybody else. I’m one of those show biz types you hear about-boys who like boys?”
Bandana boy blurted, “You’re a fuckin’ queer?”
His partner slapped his arm. “Be nice.”
I wondered who they were in their daily lives, when they weren’t out playing road-company Bowery Boys. Nobody was a biker for a living, and they sure didn’t do security work as a fulltime gig. Being an eternal juvie in a biker gang did not pay well, unless they were running dope or something. Which I supposed was possible. Might be the Licata connection at that.
The scarecrow hauled his pal off by the arm, the guy taking it but not liking it, and called back, “Sorry, man! You’re cool. We’re cool…”
I was just standing there, chuckling to myself, when I realized somebody else was standing next to me.
Eric Conrad.
He was so handsome close up, he might have been his own exhibit in a Hollywood Wax Museum-chiseled features, cleft jaw, roman nose, bright brown eyes.
Short, though-I’d give it five seven at best. Close up, that bronze tan had the telltale touch of orange that meant the sun hadn’t had anything thing to do with it. He was in a black dressing gown belted at the waist.
“So you’re Jack Reynolds,” he said.
His voice had that radio-announcer mellowness lots of leading men possess.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did Art mention me? That I’d like to interview you for PR purposes?”
“No, Ginger alerted me you were on set.” He nodded over toward where they were still prepping the next angle on the fight. “Man, I wish they’d let me do my own stunts. Back on my series, the first year, I did all of them. Then I pulled a hamstring and they went ballistic. The star goes down, the whole company goes down.” He shrugged fatalistically. “ C’est la vie.”
I nodded toward the two bikers who were stalking along the highway now, trying to look important. “Did you see those jackasses?”
“Yeah. I was in my trailer. I heard it all. I’d have come out and kicked ass if you’d got in a scrape. I liked how you handled those idiots.” He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me half a dazzling grin. “You weren’t afraid at all.”
“No,” I admitted.
He shook his head, smirked over toward the gas-pump sequence about to start shooting again. “That’s one of my big action scenes and I’m barely in it. It’s a crock…I’ll be free for at least an hour. Want to grab that interview?”
“Sure,” I said. “Not an interview, really, just want to get to know you a little. Strictly prelim. I won’t take notes or anything.”
The interior of his Winnebago was near the twin of Tiffany’s-her sofas and comfy chair had been green upholstered, his were brown, though the pattern was the same. I took the comfy chair and he settled on the couch. When he crossed his legs, there was a flash of pubic hair and dick, and I experienced the worst case of dйjа vu ever.
“Where should I start?” he asked. “I grew up on the east coast. My dad was a cop. Three brothers. We are big jocks-well, I’m not tall big, but I was a wrestler. Got a full ride scholarship at…”
But I had stopped listening. Just going through the motions. I did not see any way Eric Conrad played a meaningful role in the murder plot against his director. He was not Tiffany Goodwin’s lover, unless he was bisexual. Because, as my old man used to say, this guy was queer as a three-dollar bill.