“All right,” Fletcher said once the final exit scene was pulled off to his satisfaction. “I think we’ll keep that one.”
They took a break and then everyone got ready for the next scene, which would take place up in the spare bedroom. It was shorter scene, its purpose mainly to introduce a little male flesh for the female viewers of the project. Action was called and Greg pulled off his outer shirt, throwing it on the floor, leaving his upper body in a plain white T-shirt. On his waist was a holstered Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol—Haverty’s off-duty weapon (which would feature significantly in a later scene). The gun was real (it had been loaned to the studio by Sergeant Mackle) but there was nothing in the magazine or the chamber currently and Greg had been given clear and explicit directions not to remove the gun from the holster under any circumstance. Haverty ripped the holster out of his belt and tossed it carelessly onto the nightstand. He then whipped off the t-shirt and stood facing the camera for a few moments, displaying his well-toned chest and abs, his impressive arm muscles. He cut a very good pose. And then the door opened and Delores entered the room, initiating part two of the argument. The scene ended with Haverty pushing her roughly out the door and slamming it in her face.
This scene, though simpler, took longer to film. Fletcher was never quite satisfied with the way the gun landed on the table, the way Greg’s expression looked as he whipped off the shirt, the way Marlene expressed her dismay. They went through it ten times before an acceptable version was declared. By this time, it was approaching nine o’clock. Everyone was hungry and out of sorts from the thirteen-hour day.
“All right,” Fletcher said with a sigh. “Back to the police station at eight o’clock sharp for more patrol scenes. And then we’ll head back here after lunch for a few of the daylight domestic shots.”
The studio staff all trooped out to the vans for the trip back to the hotel. Greg, Marlene, and Fletcher all climbed into a limousine that appeared right after Fletcher made a call on his cell phone. The two armed guards remained behind. One would be stationed outside the house and one inside. The two actors had left their wardrobe clothing in the house and had changed back into casual clothes—jeans and a blouse for Marlene, tan slacks and a dress shirt for Greg.
The trip back to the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Chicago took just over twenty-five minutes. The limo dropped them off at the lobby entrance and the three of them headed for the bank of elevators. Greg signed three autographs before he was able to board the lift, Marlene two. They did it good naturedly, even though neither wanted to even see a member of the public right now, let alone interact with them.
Greg’s suite was on the forty-sixth floor of the skyscraper. Twenty-one hundred square feet in size, it featured a large sitting room, a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub, a full bar, and a large walk-in closet. It looked out over Lake Michigan and the other buildings of the Magnificent Mile. He thought it adequate for his needs, though perhaps a bit small.
He was tired, but he was also hungry and wanted a drink or two to help him get a good night’s sleep so he would be reasonably alive when the wakeup call came at 6:30. He stripped down, showered, and then dressed in yet another set of slacks and dress shirt. He then headed down to the Lakeview Dining Room on the thirty-third floor. This particular part of the hotel had been reserved by the studio for the exclusive use of studio personnel and actors so they could dine and drink and socialize with each other unbothered by fans and other looky-loos.
The Lakeview lived up to its name. The entire north wall was essentially a picture window that looked out over Lake Michigan, though at this time of the night there was nothing to be seen but a sea of blackness dotted by the occasional lights of a ship or a navigation beacon. There was a curved bar in one corner of the room and a scattering of white cloth covered dining tables of varying size. Since the day’s filming had just ended, the room was starting to get crowded. There were a half a dozen crew members at the bar, sipping beers or other alcoholic beverages. About half of the dining tables were filled with other production or management personnel. Greg was given a few nods as he entered the room and made his way to the maître d’s podium.
“Good evening, Mr. Oldfellow,” the suited maître d greeted. His name was Daniel, and he was a tall, balding guy with a neatly trimmed mustache.
“Good evening, Daniel,” Greg replied. “Looks like the place is filling up quick.”
“Indeed,” Daniel said. “Can I show you to a table?”
“Maybe in a few minutes,” Greg said, knowing that Daniel would hold a table for him even if the place filled completely. He was, after all, the star of the film. “First, I think I can use a drink or two. It’s been a long day.”
“Certainly, sir,” Daniel said. “Just let me know when you’re ready to be seated.”
“Thank you. I will,” Greg told him.
He walked over to the bar and sat down on the far end, as far away from other people as he could get. The bartender, a tuxedoed younger man named Keith, immediately dropped what he was doing and rushed over to serve him.
“Welcome, Mr. Oldfellow,” Keith said, a faint Irish accent tinging his diction. “What can I get for you?”
“Glenfiddich,” Greg told him. “A double. On the rocks.”
“Very good, sir,” Keith said, pulling a glass from beneath the bar. He then turned to the display of top-shelf alcohol behind him and selected a bottle of single malt scotch that had aged for sixteen years in an oak cask before being put into said bottle. He put ice in the glass and then poured two healthy shots of the amber liquid over it. He then set the glass on a napkin before Greg and asked if there would be anything else.
“Not at the moment,” Greg told him. “Thank you.”
Knowing that Greg was not into small talk with the servants, Keith retreated, leaving him to enjoy his thirty-dollar beverage which, like everything else ordered by anyone in this dining room, would go on the tab of the movie studio. Greg took as healthy of a sip as he could take without violating propriety, relishing the smooth and gentle burn as the liquid trickled down his throat.
When approximately two-thirds of his drink had been put down the hatch and the effects of the alcohol on his empty stomach were beginning to tingle his brain, he started to wonder whether or not it would be gauche of him to simply order a cheeseburger for his dinner instead of something classy like a filet mignon or the braised halibut. He had developed a taste for working class cuisine during his two weeks of ride-alongs with the patrol officers, who, he had found, favored greasy mom and pop restaurants to dine in during their dinner breaks since most of those places provided the meals free or at least half price for uniformed cops. It was a practice that was in violation of several department policies regarding gratuities, but one that was so prevalent and traditional that pretty much everyone from the sergeants to the watch commanders participated in it and everyone above that, the captains, deputy chiefs, division chiefs, all the way up to the big chief himself overlooked it with a smile and a wink. This was just one of many details about being a patrol cop that he had picked up to help get him into character.
His musings about dinner were interrupted when his peripheral vision caught a shapely female form entering the room and walking to the maître d’s podium. Instinctively, he turned to look and saw that it was Mindy Snow. She was wearing a sleeveless royal blue blouse that accented her delectable breasts quite nicely and a pair of beige knickers that clung to her alluring legs and outlined her curves. Her rich brunette hair was loose around her shoulders. Her eyes caught Greg’s and her face, which had been neutral in expression, suddenly broke into a smile. She waved at him. He returned the smile and waved back, feeling a little burst of sexual attraction flaring inside of him. She really was an attractive woman; a little older than when she and Jake had been together (both officially and unofficially), but, if anything, she’d only become sexier with maturity.