Scuzzy stopped at the head of the asphalt quarter mile between office and hangar. “How do we show we’re friendly?”
“Stop in the light, get off, and wait.”
“Elegantly simple.”
“Mm hm, but you’d better get into character.”
“The Pirate King; right.”
We chugged sedately into the security lights around the hangar, dismounted, and Scuzzy flipped the massive bike up on its stand with a negligent twitch. Then he cut loose with his natural bullhorn: “Dike? It’s Megaton and Stoney. Gotta talk about some hassles up at Calisher.”
Silence.
“Bull? Check us out, man.”
A muzzy baritone from the shadows: “I don’t know you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Stand still; Weevil’s comin’ out.”
A pause, then a slightly blacker rectangle opened on the hangar’s end wall and a rat-faced little man scuttled into the PAR lights. Scuzzy cocked fists on hips and I imitated him. Sidling crabwise to keep us both in view, the little man crept close enough to pat us down, with special care for our pant legs, beneath which bikers snuggle knives in hidden pouches. Then he backed off and, still eyeing us, waved an arm.
Another shadow slipped out of the black doorway and limped slowly into the light. “What kinda hassles?” Just a backlit silhouette at first: cowboy hat with side brims pinned to the crown, the obligatory hair, and a slender, knotty-looking body.
Scuzzy started around him.
“Where you going?”
“To where you catch the light. I don’t talk to no ghosts.”
Bull turned. “Okay?” The cross-light raked a middle-aged face with a nose once flattened and never quite fixed, above waxed mustachios and a parody VanDike beard. His eyes blinked behind glasses from the fifties with clear plastic frames. He looked middling drunk.
Scuzzy nodded. “Now how ‘bout some Crossbones hospitality for a visiting bro?”
“What kind?”
“A place to park my ass and whatever you’re drinking. A toilet too; them twisties ridin’ in here like to shook the piss outta me.”
“Kill a bush.”
Scuzzy gazed at him, then urinated on the ground two feet from Dike’s shiny boots.
Dike waited out this ritual without expression, then slowly grinned. “Okay, come on. What’s his handle?”
“Stoney.”
“He ain’t a bro.”
“He’s okay.”
Dike turned and limped unsteadily toward the opening, a man-sized cutout in the huge corrugated hangar door. We followed and Weevil scuttled behind.
The interior was a murky vault full of abstract shadows: wheels and wings and disembodied tails backlit by the yellow splash of a hanging light at the opposite end. We wove among the aircraft - Dike especially - to an improvised living area: bed, Formica table, and four chairs. Dike plopped down in one, Weevil slithered into its opposite, and Scuzzy and I claimed the others.
Ignoring me, Dike studied Scuzzy, squinting to focus. “Whaddya want?”
“Little conversation.”
Dike looked around disgustedly. “I wouldn’t mind. Know how long I been holed up here? Seventeen days. Seventeen days with Weevil’s cookin’ and no ass and not even TV reception.”
“Little vacation?”
“L’il... business problem with some boys from Colombia.”
Automatically, Scuzzy quoted, “A greedy eye puts a man out of the world. Rabbi Joshua.” I shook my head at him.
Dike stared at Scuzzy.”What?”
“Rabbi Joshua.”
“That’s, like scripture?”
“It’s from the Talmud.”
“No kiddin! Hey, you Jewish?”
“Is it important?”
Dike’s grin was sincere, if boozy. “Me too. We must be the only ones.”
Scuzzy’s characterization was slipping: “Oh, there’s a scattered few.”
“No, no, no: the only bros; the only righteous Harley-humping Jewish bros. How come you know Scripture?”
Patiently: “The Talmud. I study it.”
Despite his scholarship, I thought Scuzzy’s Judaism was about as pervasive as my Methodism. Culturally, we come to be Californians first, clerks or cops or lifeguards second, and ethnics last. Whether it takes three years or three generations, the process is patiently inexorable.
“No shit? My uncle use to say that stuff. Know any more?”
Scuzzy glanced at me, caught my nod, considered. “There is no man who does not have his hour and no thing that does not have its place. Rabbi Ben Azzai.”
Dike produced a sentimental sigh. “Beautiful. How’d you get to be a bro?”
“I like the freedom.”
“Yeah!” Dike grabbed a bottle on the table and poured a hefty dram into a filthy tumbler. He pushed it toward Scuzzy, who eyed it doubtfully. “Go ahead; that’s Jack Daniel’s.”
Scuzzy raised the glass, hesitated, glanced in my direction, looked unhappy, drained the glass. Dike watched, then downed his own with a flourish. He smiled and shook his head. “Hm; takes me back.” Whether he meant the quotation or the whiskey was unclear.
Dike grabbed the glass from Scuzzy’s reluctant fist and refilled it. “So how come you an’ this civilian come to see me in the dark?”
“Stoney’s the production manager on the movie up in Calisher. I’ll let him tell it.”
Dike turned and looked at me with mild contempt. He listened without expression as I inventoried the suspicious “accidents,” concluding with, “And every time, Pits Caudle was hanging around.”
No response.
“Pits works for you.”
Boozy blankness.
“So what’s your reaction?”
A long, squinty stare, then: “Bullshit.”
I tried a direct attack: “Your invoices are all faked. Greystoke’s running them through his books at face value and paying you ten cents on the dollar.”
“Bull.... Shit.” Weevil giggled at the boss’s eloquence.
Scuzzy raised an eyebrow and I nodded.
He folded his arms on the table and leaned his ursine head into the light. “Bull, my friend, this guy is not a bro.”
“Obvious.”
“Obvious. Just look at him.”
“Do I hafta?”
Scuzzy roared at this thigh-slapper and his laughter caromed off the arcing walls in corrugated echoes. Dike grinned at his success and poured a drink. He saluted Scuzzy and knocked it back.
Scuzzy looked dismayed but followed suit. “There, Bull, you see a cager. A classical tight-ass cager.” Dike refilled both gasses “But Bull, the Rabbi Hillel said, Do not pass judgment on your comrade until you have stood where he is.”
“Beautiful.”
Scuzzy added Dolby to his already awesome voice: “And the Rabbi Yose Bar Judah of Kefar commented, Don’t look at the bottle, but what’s in it. There are new bottles full of old wine and old bottles that don’t even have new wine.”
Dike inspected the whiskey bottle reverently: “Wow.” He drained his glass again, then looked at Scuzzy, who gestured be my guest. While Dike was pouring, Scuzzy glanced at me and I mouthed “Pirate King,” to warn him that his character was slipping again.
He nodded. “Now, Bull, this here civilian ain’t a bad guy.”
Dike bobbed his head in solemn comprehension: “When you stand where he is.”
“You got it; and all he wants is to make his little movie and go away.”
“Go away.”
“But someone, Bull, is jerking Stoney around. And that ain’t our way. The bros are baaaad, Bull, but we ain’t sneaky.”
“That ain’t righteous.”
“Correcto! So what’s the story?”
Dike’s look wavered between the two of us. He shook his head. “I dunno.”
“You can tell me, Bull. I mean, how many are there like us?”
“Bros?”
“Like you an’ me, Bull; how many?”
; “Just you an’ me.”
“Just you and me, Babe.” Scuzzy raised his glass and Dike mimicked him. They drank.”So what’s the story?”
“What’s yer handle again?”
“Call me Ton.”
“Okay Ton, this clown don’t know shit.”
“Right.”
“I mean about them bills. Greystoke is paying us one hunnert cents on the dollar.”
“No!”
“Better believe it Ton: hunnert percent.”
“Mighty steep, Bull; how come he’s payin’?”
“Who can figure? But he’s payin’. Know how much that comes to?”
Scuzzy looked wise: “Big dough.”
“Millions, Ton; that’s what, millions.”
“Wow.” With admiration: “You sure know how to work ‘em over.”
“You ‘preciate that.” Dike’s gratitude produced another round of drinks. Neither I nor Weevil had been offered a drop. “Okay now with that kinda bucks, why would I screw it up with pissant accidents?”
“You gotta point there, Bull.” Scuzzy placed a mighty hand on the biker’s forearm. “So you are telling me, bro to bro, that Greystoke is paying those invoices?”
“We are fuckin’ cleaning up.”
Scuzzy shook his head in amazement. “Making out like bandits.” He appeared to have a sudden thought: “But Bull, I gotta problem: if you ain’t screwing the movie, who is?”
Dike considered this with fuddled care, then: “Maybe some sicko - I dunno. But I tell ya, Ton, it ain’t us!”
“Bros ain’t sneaky.”
“Right.”
“Okay now Bull, I’m calling on the honor of the Crossbones.”
“Right.”
“These civilians don’t want trouble. They don’t care about you or Greystoke. They just wanna do the job, take the dough, and run.”
A passing sneer in my direction: “Run.”
“So you sing your song, they sing their song, and nobody bothers no one.”
“Wow! Who said that?”
“Me. That a promise, Bull?”
“On my honor.”
“I can see why you’re the jefe, Bull.”
Puffing at the compliment, Dike slugged his drink. He pushed the bottle over. “Go ahead.”
Scuzzy rose with a regretful smile. “Long putt down the hill, Bull; time to motivate.”
“Damn, yer the first bro I seen in seventeen days. Just one more.”
“Hang in there, Bull.” Really into character by now, Scuzzy staggered slightly as he turned.
Dike peered up at this wobbly mountain. “One thing: how come you study all that old Talmud stuff?”
“The Rabban Gamaliel said, It’s righteous to study the Torah and be a bro at the same time, because working on both of them keeps your head straight.”
“Beautiful! Did the Rabbi really say that?”
“In his quaint Talmudic way, well, approximately.”
“Sonsabitches knew everything.”
* * * *
I was soon careering down the mountain with five hundred pounds of steel beneath me and three hundred pounds of Scuzz in front, clearly the worse for wear. “Hey, take it easy!”
“Have you any consumption of what eight ounces of whiskey does to my system?”
“Don’t turn your head to talk, Scuzz; in fact, don’t talk.”
“My size is no help, y’know; it’s my metabolism.”
“Brakes!” Squealing, wobbling, skidding. “Too much brakes.”
“Humiliating.”
“You drank in a good cause. Curve!”
“I shouldn’t be driving.”
“Want me to?”
“Hah! You trying to ride this bike sober’s worse than me drunk.”
“Another curve!”
“Yeah, two a them!”
* * * *
Sitting with Diane by the feeble river, I dropped a pebble in a little side pool and watched the new moon shatter. “The whole expedition was a waste of time.”
Seated against a tree trunk, Diane propped elbows on long Levi thighs and watched the river. “You never know until you try.”
Trite but true. “And we’re worse off than before. I believe Bull Dike: the Crossbones have no reason to sabotage us.”
“Then who?”
“Exactly. And why did Dike say Greystoke was paying full freight when Greystoke all but admitted the invoices were phony?”
“You’re tired.”
“A day full of sound and fury.”
“Yeah, yeah, signifying nothing.” Diane wrapped an arm around my shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze. She seemed to have forgotten her earlier anger and tonight I felt a novel sense of ease and warmth.
Diane leaned back against the tree. “A great day for me though; shot fifteen pages. I haven’t felt so good since we started.”
“After twenty miles on Scuzzy’s bike, I feel like an old milkshake.”
“Poor baby.” She gripped both shoulders this time and pulled me down sideways so my cheek rested on her thigh. I rotated onto my back and watched the stars fandancing behind the eucalyptus leaves. The night was unusually warm for April.
Diane draped an almost protective arm across my chest. “They’re like a different crew now. Everybody hustles.” A chuckle. “Even Stogie.”
“That must be a sight to see.”
A silence while we monitored the night. The notch of her thigh was warm beneath my neck and her breathing brushed my cheek with denim stomach. I was thinking: tomorrow’s Sunday; we could sleep in. How does she sleep with all that hair? Would she braid it up again, afterward?
“What are you thinking about, Stoney?”
“Just relaxing.”
“No you’re not. Your eyes are moving like wide-awake R.E.M.”
“Hm.”
“Then what are you seeing?”
Pause. “Double convex foreground colored plaid. A cave beneath because you’re missing a button.”
“Hey.”
“Too dark to see in.” I shifted my gaze upward. “Too close to focus anyway.”
“What else?”
“A tan escarpment; that’s your jaw. Two small nostrils. And your ears stick out.”
“Smooth, Winston.”
“Big cat’s eyes with wicked lashes.”
“Oh bull; you can’t see lashes in this light.”
“I’m remembering.”
“What else do you remember?”
“Pigtails. Fingers making drinks. The way your hip cocks left and your spine arcs right when you peer over the cameraman’s shoulder.”
“No more; I’m operating it now.”
“Yes, how’d it go?”
“No problem.” Another pause. “Funny how different men and women are.”
This insight didn’t call for comment.
“I’ve noticed how your eyes catch everything. Your strange orphan speech that doesn’t belong anywhere.”
“It was British, years ago.”
“Is that it? Hm.” She glanced down again. “Now what are you thinking?”
“How to hit on you. The moment seems right and neither of us is talking about what we’re thinking about. But what’s the right move?”
“Whatever it is, it isn’t talk. Let’s just say good night, Stoney.” She pushed me gently off and stood erect, brushing her jeans. “Thank God tomorrow’s off.”
“Maybe we could do something.”
Diane shook her head. “I have a week of scenes to plan. Take care.” She rustled off through fallen eucalyptus leaves.
Whatever it is, it isn’t talk.
I’ll just keep that in mind.
Chapter 12
One day off is worse than none at all, especially for a film crew prone to bibulation and eventually just prone. They wore their heads with wary care this morning, wincing and glaring as if the Monday sunshine were a personal affront.
Diane loped about as always, to the general disgust, preparing a shot in
front of the seedy cabin rented to play Hallie Sykes’s home. “Not too much fill, Alf.”
The gaffer-turned-cameraman peered at the cabin porch, screwing his eyes almost shut to simulate the contrast range of color film. “Any more shadow and you’ll lose it for TV.” He offered her the contrast viewing glass that he never used himself, relying on his Spectra meter and his eyeballs.
Diane refused the smoky monocle: “You’re the boss there.”
Pleased by her acknowledgment, Alfonso tilted a foil-coated reflector about 1.003 millimeters, effecting a light change visible only to him and to Eastman color negative film Type 5247.
“Lights are set.”
“Let’s make one.” Diane stretched out on the ground to look at the porch and yard through the camera, which was mounted on a high-hat, a stubby metal stool bolted to a plywood plate on the ground and secured with sandbags. “Places.” She unlocked the pan head and grabbed the handle while Lee knelt beside her to pull focus. Behind the camera, Hallie stood beside a makeshift platform on which Crabs and Chains crouched in readiness. Three other bikers took positions farther back.
The camera rolled, the shot was slated, and Diane called action.
Hallie Sykes ran into the shot from frame-right, juggling purse and grocery bags. She turned and looked above the camera, evidently terrified; then spun about and stumbled toward the shack, shedding groceries heedlessly. On her porch, she dropped both bags, wrenched the door open, disappeared, and slammed it.
Cued by me, the three bikers charged after her. Then Crabs and Chains leapt off their platform and dropped into the frame three feet ahead of the low camera. They pounded up on the porch, helped the other bikers ram the door, and stormed inside. One second, two seconds, three seconds the camera kept rolling while Hallie’s voice screamed and pleaded. Eight seconds, nine, ten: more thumps and screams and sounds of smacking fists, while the implacable camera stared at the empty scene.
At my next cue, a leonine Harley growl faded up as Scuzzy roared into frame, skidded to a stop before the cabin, jumped off, and surged onto the porch and through the door. The abandoned cycle toppled over and bounced in the dust.
“Cut!” Diane was beaming. “Not too shabby, kids.” She jumped up, dusting her hands together. “How was timing?”
I checked the script girl’s stopwatch. “Thirty-one seconds and change. Looked good.”
“You should have seen it: when the grocery bag broke, an orange rolled right into the foreground, big as a moon. Then Crabs squashed it when he landed in the frame. You couldn’t have staged that. Beautiful! Okay, let’s go inside.”
Sooner said than done, since the shack’s porch was two miles away from its interior: a set improvised in an empty warehouse back of Calisher’s only store. In films, the opposite sides of a wall need not belong to the same wall.