“I agree.”
“Can I trust you, Jack?”
“Sure.”
“There’s nothing casual about this, Jack.”
“You can trust me, Lou.”
“You understand that I’m not just an investor in this project, I am the investor. The money man. The angel. It’s all out of my pocket book.”
“I get that.”
“So if I ask you to do something that contradicts instructions from the producer or even the director, will you follow my lead?”
I shifted in the booth. “That puts me in a tough position. Art and I have mutual friends, and that’s how I was able to hire on here. I owe the guy. He’s paying me personally.”
“I respect that. But this is an unusual situation. You see, they think I don’t want people knowing that Tiff and I are an item. I’m a married man with children. I’m a ‘mob’ guy, right? Notorious organized criminal and such shit. So of course they assume I want my name out of the press, and anything about Tiff and me squelched.”
“You…you just asked me to squelch such things yourself.”
“Yes. Because that’s what Kaufmann expects me to ask. But let’s get back to that word ‘exploitation.’ You’re a PR guy, Jack. You understand. So keep me and Tiff out of People and Us and off the wire services. But slip some photos of us on set to rags like the Enquirer and to the Rona Barretts of the world.”
“Why?”
“Because it interests people, Jack. It sells movie tickets and sells video tapes. Curiosity, prurient interest, sells.”
“What about your family?”
“Which one? Annette and the kids? Or the family business I run that I inherited from guys who ran with Jack Dragna and Ben Siegel?”
“Lou…Mr. Licata…you have me thoroughly confused.”
“My wife knows about Tiff. My wife lost interest in sex maybe two kids ago. She’s fine with me tending to my needs. She also understands I have an image to maintain, to build. I’m a Hollywood animal, Jack. I have to be a star. My guys have to see me sleeping with today’s version of Marilyn Monroe… capeesh?” The last word was delivered with considerable irony. “Rivals of mine need to see that. Flamboyant. A star, a fucking superstar. Like Gotti in New York. If you help me with my image, Jack, I will give you a bonus that…what’s Art paying you, anyway?”
“Fifty grand.”
“Generous,” Licata admitted. “How would you like another fifty?”
“Yes.”
“Then no matter how much shit you get from Stockwell and Kaufmann over it, leak photos of me and Tiff on the set of this flick to the right rags. You okay with that?”
“I’m okay with that.”
The very white smile flashed under the dark mustache. “By the way, these rumors that Eric and Tiff are having an affair behind my back? Don’t deny those with the sleazier media types, either. It’s bullshit, but any ink is good ink. Exploitation, Jack. Exploitation.”
We shook hands on it, then we went back out to the set, Lou’s arm around my shoulder like we were old buddies; he smelled good-some fancy designer cologne, no doubt. The crew was getting ready to move the camera to the other side of the roulette table as we approached.
When Tiffany in her white Marilyn dress spotted Lou, she practically ran into his arms. They didn’t kiss, but they were openly affectionate. He did not seem like an uncle greeting a favorite niece, either, unless it was the kind of uncle Marilyn herself used to run into, time to time. Licata certainly made no pretense of separating himself from her. Some local photographers were catching shots of them, before Ginger and several P.A.’s chased them off.
I made sure Licata saw me approach one of the photogs and ask for a card.
Ginger had told me that the change of camera set-ups meant at least half an hour, and I got to Stockwell’s side and said I needed a moment. The director seemed anxious to get some fresh air-the smoke-laced air conditioning was nothing human lungs had been designed for-and out back we leaned against somebody’s Mercedes Benz and talked.
In the t-shirt and jeans, with his short unbrushed hair, his leading-man features puffier than ever, he looked like anybody but the general of the small movie army carrying out his orders indoors. He lit up a cigarette, which defeated the purpose of fresh air, but the director was tense and tired, and I would hardly deny him any small relaxation.
“We’re halfway there,” I said.
“How so?”
“I caught our guy in your room trying to switch your Percodan with his own.”
“Christ. Poison?”
“Or a concentrated overdose.” I shrugged. “Same difference. Point is, the two guys sent to take you out are out of it themselves.”
“What do I need to know?”
“About what I did today? A guy down the hall from you had an accident in his bathroom. Fatal one. I don’t look for the hotel or the cops to make much of a fuss.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a casino town. Resort town. Dead guests aren’t good for business. You have any idea, Art, how many people die in hotels in this country every year? Neither do I, because the hotels quietly haul the stiffs out the back way. The local cops are goodwill ambassadors for Boot Heel, too, so knocking on a lot of doors asking guests questions isn’t very likely.”
“You take this so…so dispassionately.”
“Do you jerk off when you’re shooting a nude scene? I plan to stick around a day or two, and try to figure out who was behind this-okay?”
“Yes! Christ, yes. Do you think it’s Licata?”
“Maybe. I just had an interesting conversation with him. I’m happy to say he seems to like me. We hit it off.”
“Lou is a likable guy. But I never forget who he is and where he came from.”
“That’s good. Because we had an in-depth talk about Tiffany Goodwin. He actually doesn’t mind that people know he’s banging a Playboy playmate. Including the missus. He’s kind of proud of it, and he even asked me, strictly sub rosa, to feed photos and leak info to the Enquirer and other shit rags.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“Not the way he explains it. What’s most interesting, I think, is that he referenced the rumors that Eric Conrad is having an affair with Tiff, but not about you and her.”
“Eric? He’s queer as a two-dollar bill.”
“That’s a dollar less queer than I was thinking, but yeah, tell me about it. Why wasn’t Licata concerned about you and his mistress? You really did have an affair with her.”
“Maybe…maybe he doesn’t know…”
“Maybe he does know,” I said. “And that’s why he didn’t mention it.”
“Because…he’s the one who wants me gone?”
“Maybe. I have a hunch to play out, and then we’ll see.” I gestured around the parking lot. “Where’s your honeywagon and the two Winnebagos?”
He sighed cigarette smoke and gestured with his cigarette-in-hand. “We don’t need them here. Eric and Tiffany are staying at the Four Jacks, and have suites far nicer than their Winnebagos. And there’s restroom facilities and anything else we might need on site.”
“How’d you wrangle the run of the place?”
“I thought you knew, Jack-Licata is one of the owners of the Four Jacks. How do you think we got to shoot in a casino? That’s a notoriously hard location to secure. Nobody in charge of a casino likes anybody hauling cameras in. Privacy issues if nothing else. We were able to clear some press photographers today, but…why do you ask?”
“It’s helpful information.”
“Helpful how?”
“Helpful for playing my hunch. You better get back on set. You go deal with your melodrama, and I’ll deal with mine.”
NINE
I hung around the casino watching them shoot for several hours. I overheard the director tell Eric Conrad and Tiffany Goodwin that a major camera move was required for what would be the last shot of the day, and they might want to go up to their suites until they were needed.
Tiffany, however, hung around signing autographs for fans and being attended by Licata. The smooth, mustached mobster from California continued to show no signs of wanting to distance himself from his protйgйe, much less the prying eyes of onlookers.