Toughnut Blowback

By Kirk Alex

                 When Fade Out . . .  
                          Means You're Dead!

 

Neophyte stunt man Lem Buck dies performing a dangerous fall from a San Fernando Valley rooftop that may or may not have been rigged improperly. A car skids off Mulholland Road during a chase sequence that results in two more fatalities.

Foul play? If so, who's behind it and why? Aging director–– with booze issues––Denby "One Take" Bramlett? or vengeful stunt coordinator DirkTurpin? Better yet, the trio of Euro producers with out-of-control substance abuse problems in town desperate to score big in Hollywood any damned way they can?

Set photographer and former assistant to industry fixer Lenny Macaroni, Buster "Red" Lobster is scapegoated and fired. Reduced to driving a cab for grub money, Lobster is determined to do all he can to clear his name and rescue what's left of his director friend's reputation and career––at the risk of putting his own life in jeopardy.

For fans of Lee Child, Vincent Zandri, Derek Raymond, and Charles Bukowski, who prefer their urban tales sprinkled with a fair dollop of dry humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucumcari Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989488759

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I was under the impression that I was acting and rigging stunts slated for a PG-13 thriller, Mr. Bramlett, said stunt coordinator/sometime actor Dirk Turpin. He was attired in suit and tie, as was the other actor there: stocky Gino Skizz Fettuce. Fettuce’s nose was bent and lumpy in all sorts of ways, hair was dyed jet black and brushed back. Fettuce was a former wrestler, part-time truck driver. Out of Chicago. Currently a leg-breaker and Lenny Macaroni associate. Macaroni and his two other henchmen, not here presently, were in charge of set security.

Turpin was in his late 30s, Fettuce ten years older. Both scheduled to appear in a scene to be filmed later that afternoon. They were in the backyard of the aging, financially strapped film director’s Bel Air mansion this sunny Monday morning. Bramlett had been compensated handsomely for making his property available for a couple of scenes, in addition to what he was paid to re-write and direct said contemporary thriller.

Denby Bramlett, in his mid-60s, was a filmmaking veteran of two dozen pictures, most of which were noir type crime dramas such as this one. He was slumped in his canvas chair. Had been dozing, more or less. His 1st AD, Bifford Biff Whipple, a mid-40s squat fellow, was the one basically supervising the actors.

There were other people there: cast and crew that totaled about sixty, among whom was skinny, 28-year old unit photographer Lobster Red Lobster; his equally thin, same age, assistant Max Suschitzky. Lobster was called Red for a reason: besides having a head full of corkscrew blond hair (that was closer to the color of oranges than it was to lemons), and dangled down the sides of his face and over the collar of his pink shirt. Lobster had a face that was perpetually sunburned. He was seldom seen without his trademark red coveralls and sneakers. The unit photographer’s nose, usually sunburned like the rest of his features, was fairly prominent.

I don’t understand, Mr. Turpin, said Bramlett.

Turpin pointed a finger at the actor and actress: Molly Cutts and Lemuel Macaroni, aka Lemmy Mack, both in their early 20s, making out in the swimming pool a mere thirty feet in front of the 35mm crew and certain members of the cast.

Well, it looks like to me that they might be going too far, sir. Just might be begging the MPAA to slap this picture with a hard R.

How so, Mr. Turpin?

Molly is practically topless. There is a child present.

Mr. Turpin, I don’t see an issue at all, said the director. Lem’s face is to camera. Ms. Cutts is facing him. They are kissing. Ms. Cutts is in a bikini that’s perfectly acceptable. Besides, my daughter is preoccupied feeding her pet chicken way the hell over there by the roach coach a good fifty feet in back of us, not that she would be interested in any of this.

Nevertheless, she is present, sir, insisted Turpin. Kids these days are super aware. Never miss a thing.

Bramlett sighed. Looked at his wife Lorna, who had a supporting role in the picture. Lorna Le Fave—who did not look a day over 35—was 25-years younger than her director hubby who looked every bit his age. She wore a platinum beehive for her supporting role in the picture and was attired in suburban housewife garments.

Hon, will you please have the babysitter take Marliece to my RV?

"You’re letting a stuntman—who does bit parts when he can get them—tell you how to direct this picture, Denby? Since when?"

Now, Lorna, please, said the director. No reason to get excited.

"Someone needs to show spine and put a stop to this lunacy," said Lorna. "It’s grating as hell, Denby! In no way are the actors guilty of any wrongdoing!"

Calmer heads must prevail . . . when others are losing theirs, said Bramlett with a smile. I’m paraphrasing, of course.

"Who did you steal that one from, Denby? August Strindberg?"

In this case, Lorna dear, credit must be attributed to Rudyard Kipling—from his poem ‘If’.

How about if you ‘If’ this, Denby? shrieked Lorna. Flipped him the bird and walked off to fire up a joint.

Chapter 2

Several motor homes about sixty feet to the right of where they were sat parked against the high wall. A late model Mercedes Benz drove up from the front of the property, swung a U-turn right, and backed and stopped inches from the first RV’s front bumper. Dude at the wheel looked Hispanic, about 30. Dressed in white shirt, black tie. The heavily made-up woman on the passenger side looked about 50. Olive complexioned. Appeared to be well dressed.

There were two men sitting in the back. The one on this side, with the indigo ponytail was armorer Ajax Huttenschmidt. Late 30s/early 40s. Casually attired. The man on the other side of Ajax also appeared Latino, late 20s.

Ajax Huttenschmidt got out, walked to the RV that was the producers’ and entered without knocking. The woman stepped out herself, as did the driver and the other male. The male who had been sitting in the back was dressed in a nice suit. Woman was short and chunky, although attired in high-end everything: necklace, rings, watch; including heels. It was easy to tell the hair had been expertly coiffed, the hat not cheap.

She made a gesture for a smoke. The driver produced a pack, shook one out for her. The male in the suit provided the light. The woman, as were the men aware of where they were and that a movie was in the process of being filmed, did their best not to ogle or stare too long. She smoked. Appeared casual about it.

What’s the armorer doing here today? said Bramlett to no one. His services won’t be required until later in the week.

No idea, sir, said Biff Whipple. But you’re right: we’re not doing anything with guns for a couple of days.

Get me stills of the broad, the car; men with her, Lobster. Don’t be obvious about it.

Lobster followed through, snapped away, then pretended that he was merely also taking stills of the grounds. The minute the woman and the men with her noticed pictures were being taken they wasted no time turning their backs to the prying lens.

Hell’s he doing showing up in a Mercedes Benz with those people, when he and his wife can hardly put gas in the rust bucket they own? said the old man. Cursed under his breath. Lobster took another still.

I said not to be obvious about it, Lobster.

I’m not.

Do better.

Lobster lowered the camera.

Go and find out why Mr. Huttenschmidt is on the premises today, would you please, Lobster?

Lobster leaned in and spoke in the helmer’s ear in a low tone:

Eavesdrop, sir? I’m afraid I’m not good at that sort of thing, Mr. Bramlett.

"No one asked you to ‘eavesdrop,’ Buster, said the irritated director, rising from his chair, and walked in the direction of the roach coach tent. I need a cup of coffee. Actually, I need a lot more, but I’ll settle for a strong cup of Joe for now."

How then? said Lobster, following after the man.

"Don’t ask me ‘how,’ said the director, pausing long enough to respond. Go inside. Use this issue with Turpin as your excuse. Whatever you need to. Armorer is peddling contraband on my property, which clearly puts me and my people, my domestic help, that is, in danger—by potentially causing law to come snooping around my domicile. Then: That old broad is bad news. Seen her before: Corazon Mora. Dining at Spago, Morton’s, Drai’s, all the fancy eateries and watering holes; yet she’s not in our business. Not a talent agent or producer. Outsider. Makes me nervous."

Lobster started to make it toward the RV. Max wanted to go with.

Stay, Max, my friend. Please, said Lobster. Walked up to the motor home door. Tapped lightly, and went in.

Chapter 3

Producers were in their mid-40s. On a sofa against the wall in front of him sat Attila Bent, his brother Gert to the left of his left elbow. Attila’s cadaverous wife Vada sat to the left of Gert. The brothers were sandy-haired, the widow’s peaks pronounced.

Ajax, who was sitting on a portable stool to the right of the sofa, nervously shoved a baggie loaded with blow under his flight jacket (in a clumsy effort to conceal it). The brothers, exhibiting sniffles and bloodshot eyes, took turns snorting rails of coke through plastic straws on a foot wide/four-foot long coffee table. Vada was jabbing a needle into the crook of her left arm and having a tough go of it, yet refused to accept defeat as an option.

On the wall in back of the producers, as well as on other wall space and cupboards across from them, were framed stills and one-sheets from flicks that the Germans had made over the years, either in Canada or Europe: I P*ss on Your Corpse was one, I Sh*t on Your Grave was another. There was Ichi’s Revenge, My Mother Robs the Dead. Others: I Was a Whore for the CIA; Pigfarm was a Death Farm; I Am a Fugitive from a Toxic Vagina.

To the left of the left sofa armrest was a dinette with two bench seats. On the wall above the far bench seat were graphic, colorful, hardcore flyers prominently placed and impossible to ignore: Dr. Goodwood, starring Yuri Dostoevsky; The Spy Who Shagged Them All. There was one from a flick called Saturday Night Butthole Fever.

In the center of the flyers was a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks such as: Eddie Bunker’s Education of a Felon, Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, Nelson Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm; Leonard Jordan’s The Last Buffoon. Lobster also noticed two titles by Harold Robbins.

Rumor was the brothers had been pimps once back home in Düsseldorf, that they had also worked as gravediggers. Several faded B/W pics of them shoveling dirt in a graveyard, between slugs of Schnapps, were on display among the many images on the wall above their heads.

The porn and low-grade horror flicks were Regurgitated Celluloid efforts (evidently before the Bents became Wunderkind Productions). It was easy enough for Lobster to understand his friend Bramlett’s state of despair at having been forced to take on his current project for the paycheck. Had made a great effort to rewrite the lackluster screenplay with Gwen van Zyl, the script supervisor, that was doubtful would save it in the long run. It was also impossible not to notice the original version of the script that the Bents had a copy of on the coffee table at Vada Bent’s end. Jack B. Quick was the pen name on the cover. There was also another screenplay present beside it, the title embossed in gold: Toughnut—A Punk Western. Story attributed to the same nom de plume.

Vada slumped back against the sofa, eyes shut, as did Gert. Vada’s hubby Attila looked up at last. He was not glaring, neither was it a friendly welcome.

Were you raised by apes, Mr. Lobster?

I don’t understand, sir.

You do not knock before you enter someone’s residence?

I beg your pardon, Mr. Bent, but I did knock.

You knock like a mouse, then, Mr. Set Photographer, because no one here heard it.

Sorry.

What is it?

We have a problem.

The homosexual again? said Vada Bent. Her eyes were open here. What is it this time?

Chapter 4

She was asking, although Lobster knew that they were aware of everything that went on. They kept an eye on things via periscope that the RV’s roof had been equipped with, plus had additional means: stoolies (like Biff Whipple, others) who ran back to them with all sorts of info, genuine and otherwise, and were plied with toot as compensation.

He’s upset because Lem and Molly are making out in the pool and it looks way too convincing and believable, explained Lobster.

"He’s bothered because the kissing is convincing? said Attila. What is the matter with that sodomite?"

Turpin has the hots for Lemuel, said Vada. "Just more quatsch!"

And the old man can’t control the situation? said her husband. "The studio, Zeitgeist Celluloid, forced me to take him on: ‘We want the noir expert with the cult following!’ And he can’t handle a minor kerfuffle like this?"

He could, easily, but does not wish to overstep his bounds, said Lobster. He sent me out of respect, sir. Let you mediate.

"‘Mediate?’ Fire the fairy! Turpin has what?—Three words in the movie? Let him go. Replace him. What I learned a long time ago! On my first picture! That I shot on 16mm reversal stock with no money! MOS! Obnoxious actor starts some crap, causes problems? Fire the schmuck! Life is too short. Contrary to what some people think, not all Germans are Nazis; but we, my brother Gert and my wife Vada, sure can start behaving like Nazis if that’s what it takes!"

Dirk Turpin is also the stunt coordinator, sir, Lobster reminded him.

He is?

He is, darling, said Vada.

I guess he is, then, said Attila. I will be out shortly to fix it.

Thank you, sir, said Lobster. About to leave.

Just a second, said Attila. If you see me shouting like a Gestapo officer out there, it will only be to get the message across.

I understand.

"You understand? I want you to make certain that tired alcoholic out there understands. We are not Gestapo. All that sick behavior almost destroyed Deutschland completely. Left our country in absolute wreckage. Hitler was nothing more than a mentally ill procurer with a gas problem. He released backfires at the dinner table. This is documented. But because those present never made a peep from fear of being taken out and shot. He pimped the German people, our people. Convinced them it was their right to slaughter millions of human beings who did nothing to them. His only accomplishment: Strong orator, who released gas at the dinner table and thought nothing of it. Well, some Germans are like this. Vada, my wife, is this way—when she is not busy mainlining the best skag money can buy."

Blow gives me nose bleeds, my darling husband, said Vada. You know this, yet bring it up every time like a typical LA double-dealer.

"You are so full of mierda, Vada, said Attila. And are the reason Zeitgeist took me off the picture, my picture—that I wrote and created from nothing—and forced me to let a has-been like ‘One Take’ take control of my baby."

May I leave, sir?

Honestly? said Attila. "We wish you and that incompetent accomplice of yours, Max—is it?—the simpleton who would be incapable of blinking his eyes if not for the meds he’s on; we wish you would both leave the picture, my picture. The only reason you are here is because of Denby Bramlett, who insisted that we give you a job."

Zeitgeist requested us.

"You are lying! Max Suschitzky Sr twisted the studio’s arm to put his incompetent son on my classic thriller; and you are part of that team that my brother, myself and my wife were forced to take on! If you people, you and that old bastard trip up our first and only chance to make good in Hollywood USA, there will be hell to pay! We have a two-picture deal with Zeitgeist. If Stiffs to Bury gets flushed at the box office so does our chance to make the western! Toughnut is the western I have been trying to get made for close to ten years now! And should we lose it, there will be great hell to pay!"

I’m sorry you feel this way, Mr. Bent.

"You are sorry?" said Attila. "Is this why you barged in without knocking? So you can catch us doing something inappropriate? We are legitimate filmmakers! Have made over one dozen profitable pictures! Many of which have been successful throughout Asia and parts of Europe and even Canada! We don’t need Hollywood! We shaft Hollywood in the arschloch! Cinema critics in this country are full of caca! Innerer Schweinehund! Can’t wait to knock my pictures! Money is Gott in America! Zeitgeist executives are the basest degenerates who live to be urinated on and whipped like perverts. Saumensch! Wie bitte?"

"Are we talking about Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS?" said Lobster. That was a z-grade picture about Nazis, not Hollywood studio executives.

"I ask you, Mr. Pornographer: What is the difference? Tinseltown perverts and Nazis: same garbage!"

I was never a pornographer, sir, said Lobster.

You do stills on smut sets, do you not?

To put food on the table, said Red Lobster. That does not make me a pornographer.

"You see our one-sheets on the walls here? We got our start this way, in porn—and proud of it. Not quite. Sort of, anyway. Sort of. Porn is the gutter. We had no choice. In Europe porn is not even worth discussing. People fornicating on video tape? Who cares? In backward America? It is some big deal. Meanwhile, they shag like everybody else and participate in all sorts of sick shag parties behind closed doors. Hypocrites!"

He paused to do another rail. Made a hand gesture for Lobster to leave without raising his head. Lobster walked outside, relieved to be out of there.

Chapter 5

The large sign above the entrance to the roach coach tent the size of a bread truck read: Fenoglio’s Moveable Feast. All four of the flaps had been rolled up to the roof. To the left of the van were two rows of picnic tables to accommodate cast and crew for this picture. Lobster walked over to a narrow counter to the left of the server’s window where Bramlett was adding French Vanilla creamer to his large cup of java.

Coffee, lobster?

Thank you, sir.

This my second cup, said Bramlett. Gets to be harder and harder to stay awake.

Lobster was handed a cup by the Mexican vendor, and he and Bramlett walked to the right a few feet to one of the aluminum picnic tables in the middle. The director claimed the bench on the right in order to be able to keep an eye on the RV that the Bents were in. Lobster sat across the table from him.

One Take sipped from his cup. Hair was charcoal gray, thinning on top and disheveled. Old dude’s eyes were pain-wracked. What rarely failed to make Lobster nervous was the right one. Lazy. Always stared at something off to the side, while the other looked right at him. Lobster wondered if he’d ever get used to it.

He sipped at his coffee. Waited while the old man removed his bifocals, wiped the lenses free of dust and dandruff with his flannel shirt tail, and put them back on.

I don’t recall if you ever spent time in their motor home before this, Lobster.

No, sir. Never was any call to; why I made every reason to stay out of there.

How about those one-sheets?

It’s like they’re proud of the crap they’re known for, agreed Lobster. Ever see any of their pictures, Mr. Bramlett?

Not all the way through. Parts of some—and never laughed so hard in my life. Bad. Although not intentionally. Make Roger Corman look like a genius.

Actually, said Lobster, I like the early Corman pictures. They were decent.

I agree, said Bramlett. "Mr. Corman had ability. Did his best with limited funds. But the kraut crackheads? Haven’t got a clue. Been putting out dreck for years. Crap the man should be ashamed of, instead the hack is proud of it. Pimps, car thieves and gravediggers, for Christ’s sake. The grave digging I can understand; legit job. Somebody has to do it. Except in their case, they were probably grave robbers. What makes it perhaps even worse than that or equally evil: pimps. I’m working for pimps and grave robbers."

That’s what Attila said about Hitler: called him a pimp.

Hitler was far worse than a pimp, said Bramlett. Withdrew a white hanky, blew his nose. Wiped. Sipped more coffee. Lobster watched him shake his head. "As you know, I refinanced the house to distribute The Devil Will Collect. Picture before this one. No studio would touch it, or—more appropriately—Zeitgeist Celluloid International did a half-ass job and the picture tanked. I opted to distribute. It’s a good picture, Lobster. Still believe in it. But it’s cost me the property. Put me in the hole financially."

I liked the film, sir, said Lobster. Mystery, with just the right touch of dark of humor. Work of art. Love B&W.

Audiences stayed away. Lorna’s talking to a divorce lawyer. I suspect. Won’t say yay or nay.

There was plenty of pain in the old dude’s eyes.

"I wouldn’t be able to put the funds together to hire a top mouthpiece for custody of Marliece. It hurts. Situation with the other kids, ex-wives, is hopeless. I’ve gotten over it. Accepted it. This: marrying Lorna, raising Marliece—was my last chance to be a real husband and father, have a family. I botched it all the other times. Was always working; chasing the brass ring. It cost me. Being a dad means everything now."

Lobster nodded.

I’ve been loyal to the woman, said Bramlett. "Not to the others, but at least to this one. Trouble is, I might’ve married a whore. Find myself having to make shit like Stiffs to Bury to keep from going under. Then again, could be audiences, today’s audiences, have the patience of a fly. So we give them rubbish, celluloid akin to breakfast cereal loaded-with-sugar. Junk food to poison their arteries/pictures like this to cripple their minds."

Those early novels and film noirs you did based on them, said Lobster, will stand the test of time, Mr. Bramlett. I’m not saying this to suck up, either, but because I believe you to be one of the finest noir writer/directors ever.

The old man had no interest in being praised and/or worshipped for work done in the past. None of it helped his current standing in the industry, which was precarious at best.

Let’s have it, Buster. What’s going on in the RV?

Don’t look good, sir, said Lobster. I’d hate to see Ajax get fired. Got a wife, two kids.

Who’s going to fire him? If he gets fired it won’t be me who does it, said Bramlett. Actually, I did fire him and Bent re-hired him. At this point he looked up, and could see Ajax leave the RV, climb in the luxury vehicle’s backseat. The driver returned to the wheel. The squat broad looked about casually, yet cautiously, and reclaimed the passenger seat in front. The other male returned to his seat in the back, and the Mercedes drove off toward the main gate. Lobster turned his head briefly himself to see it leave the premises.

Dealing again? said Bramlett. What was it? Toot?

Cocaine. Yes, said Lobster. The brothers were huffing. Vada was mainlining. Heroin.

Christ, said the old man. "Sick of it. On my property, too. I mean it’s bad enough, but to be doing that on my land. In Bel Air, of all places. Bel Air. If my nosy neighbors get wind of this . . . they’ll petition to force me to sell . . . which I wouldn’t mind, actually; except the bank owns it, for the most part. Monthly income is 80k; my monthly expenses are over 200k. My accountant tells me I have no choice but to file bankruptcy, Lobster."

It was here that Attila and his brother Gert stepped out of their RV, flicking their noses casually and repeatedly.

Chapter 6

Turpin was still going at it again, having a heated discussion with the 1st AD and Lorna. He insisted that the 6-year old should not be present while the actors were making out in the pool. Trouble was, he was being louder than was called for. Lorna looked around. Asked for Denby.

"Where’s my husband? He’s the director and this is his call." Then looked at the PA, a young woman in her mid-20s. Dusty, will you please take Marliece to my husband’s RV? I am so sick and tired of all this bickering.

"No!" yelled Attila Bent, as he marched toward them."The child need not go anywhere, Mr. Turpin! Mr. Bramlett is correct: This is nothing! You are making a big deal out of nothing! Taking a mountain and turning it into a mole hill, or is it the other way round? Not that I give a rat turd what the stupid American saying is."

Turpin shook his head.

Can’t you see what is taking place, Mr. Bent? You’re the producer. They are going too far, way too far. Lem was penetrating Molly with his fingers. It can’t be seen because it’s being done under water, but this is what’s going on.

Relax your horses, sir, said Vada, who had joined her hubs and Gert. Please. Stop assuming. You are uptight—for no reason.

"‘Relax my horses?’ said Turpin. What’s that?"

Don’t be a fool, Herr Turpin. You know exactly what I mean: If horses have the need to defecate, why get in their way?

Several members of the crew stifled snickers. Bramlett and Lobster stepped out of the tent and walked toward the verbal mayhem. Lobster snapped several pics of the couple in the pool, who had remained calm throughout and were having a civilized chat about something. He also took stills of the verbal mayhem that was taking place behind the camera.

Bramlett fired up a stogie and claimed the canvas chair next to the one his sometime collaborator/script supervisor Gwen van Zyl sat in. Gwen was 42. Attractive lady with auburn hair.

With your kind permission, Mr. Turpin, said Bramlett, I’d like to go for a take.

Don’t let me get in the way of anything, Mr. Bramlett, said Dirk Turpin, clearly annoyed. My primary job is stunt coordinator, not helmer.

Bramlett gestured at sound and camera. The actors in the water waited. Scene was slated.

Action, said Bramlett.

The actors embraced. Kissed passionately. The director rarely looked at them as he concentrated on relighting and puffing on the stogie. After a while, Bramlett was satisfied.

Good enough, he said. Cut. Print.

Young actors these days made him want to blow his brains out, or—at the least—bang his head against the wall. Thespians of old: Eddie G. Robinson, Bogart, Cagney, Sidney Poitier, James Earl Jones, Jack Elam, Strother Martin, Greer Garson, Jane Greer, Vivian Leigh, Dorothy Dandridge, Cicely Tyson, Linda Darnell, et al; had charisma to spare. These shallow/lackluster current versions were a dime a dozen. Would’ve replaced Molly and Lem both, except there was nothing better to replace them with. Screen actors these days had less presence than a paper cup. It was hopeless. Industry he once loved was imploding. He knew it.

Lemuel climbed up the 3-step in-ground ladder and out of the water. Extended his hand to Molly, and helped pull her up. She gave him a peck on the cheek. Lem requested permission from the AD to run inside the guest house to use the restroom. Biff turned his head for Bramlett’s approval.

Of course, said Bramlett.

The PA had grabbed a couple of towels for the actors a moment earlier. Handed one to Molly, then went after Lemuel to give him the other. Turpin yanked the towel from the woman and hurried after Lem to hand it to him himself. Bramlett gestured to Lobster to lean in. He had a word to impart. There was a concerned look on the old man’s face.

Stunt coordinator has been causing us problems from day one, said the director. Looks like he and Lemmy might be involved. Should a scuffle break out, want you to do what you can to protect my domestic help. He added: Get stills of anything interesting, in case we’re forced to let him go and he attempts to sue the production.

Lobster nodded, and stepped back.

Mr. Turpin can be replaced, suggested Attila. "Why put up with this behavior? He watches Lem’s every move like a mother hen. It’s too much and so annoying, frankly. We don’t hate homosexuals. The way my wife Vada and my brother Gert feel: what gay men do behind closed doors is their business. We don’t give a hoot. They blow each other, shag each other; who cares? WHO REALLY CARES? They didn’t invent homosexuality. Lots of Nazis were and are homosexual, no matter how hard they tried to hush it up. Many Nazi officers took it up the backside. For sure. But this behavior here, what is taking place on this set, is a pain in the ass and costing us time and money."

Might put us seriously over budget to replace his team, said the 1st AD.

Mr. Whipple has a point, said Denby Bramlett. If I may suggest: We tolerate the BS a while longer, since we’re close to wrapping the picture.

"Stiffs to Bury will do but one thing for my career: ruin any lasting chance I might have with Hollywood studios," said Attila Bent. Cursed under his breath, while firing up a cigarette, and stormed off to the roach coach. Vada and Gert followed.

Guest house was about forty yards to the left of the pool. Lobster went in after the bickering Dirk Turpin and Lemmy Mack.

Chapter 7

Lobster entered the three-bedroom guest house. Lem and Turpin were in the living room. Latter was red-faced, shaking Lem by the shoulders.

What do you think you’re doing, Lem?

You need to get your hands off me, Dirk.

"You were finger-screwing the bitch!"

How could you tell?

Don’t play games with me, Lemuel! I’ve got eyes. This is unacceptable!

How about if you get off my back?

Hell are you saying?

"No, the hell are you saying? We were never together, man! I’m not like you! My drink was spiked. I was slipped a mickey. I can’t even recall what exactly went down— and you’re acting like we’re together? I’m with Molly! Get it through your head!"

Lobster took his stills, snapped away. Lem shoved the other man’s hands off of him, and walked down the hallway to a door on the right.

The Mexicans, married couple: Bramlett’s cook and landscaper respectively, had been sitting on the sofa watching tv. Sofa occupied a space in the middle of the room, tv console was against the wall on the left. Turpin glared at Lobster.

"I give you permission to take pictures of me?"

Merely doing what I was hired to do, Mr. Turpin, said Red Lobster. Taking stills—in front of, as well as in back of the camera. ‘Behind the scenes,’ as they say. Else I risk getting canned by the Bents.

"Yeah? Full of it! This has nothing to do with the picture! You take your stills of the actors during rehearsal or stunts when cameras are rolling, not personal moments like this!"

I take stills behind the scenes. What I was told.

And sell to the tabloids for cash! Like Chet Eager!

PR/reporter Chet Eager entered with his photographer Wadley Wetherbee, about to raise his own camera. Eager was in his early 40s. Casually dressed in sport coat, white shirt, jeans.

Chubby Wadley was about 45, bald. Wore a red ball cap turned backwards. Rest of his attire consisted of baggy jeans, blue denim shirt, and a tan sleeveless vest over that, with lots of pockets bulging with rolls of film.

There were times he reminded peeps of either Elmer Fudd or Mr. Magoo. Maybe a combo of the two. He belched loud and long to startle just about everyone. Evidently Eager was used to it and didn’t react. Turpin stormed out.

Looks like we missed the action, said Eager.

Didn’t miss much, said Lobster.

So you claim.

Lobster walked outside. Max followed.

Chapter 8

Lunch was KFC chicken in a box and handed out to members of the production inside a tent provided for by Zeitgeist Celluloid and had been set up in back of the roach coach. Leads and principles were treated to meals brought in from other sources and delivered to proper RVs.

They were filming in one of the bedrooms in the guest house less than two hours post lunch. Very few members of the crew were allowed to be present. Lem was in bed, rehearsing a scene with Molly. No one suspected—or maybe did and didn’t give a damn—that actual lovemaking was taking place under the covers. Lemmy was caressing Molly’s kitty as part of the foreplay phase (prior to actually penetrating the actress). They were into it. Thoroughly engaged. Drawn to one another emotionally and for real, like true lovers—because they were.

Bramlett sat in his canvas chair by the monitor that had been setup in the living room, eyes half closed, not bothering to hide his lack of interest. Biff, in the bedroom, with the sniffles, hardly paid attention himself. DoP Henrik Laszlo was a Hollywood vet with close to twenty pictures under his belt. He was also aware that if Bramlett didn’t care for the way the shot was framed or was less than satisfied with the actors, that he would not hesitate to let him know.

Gwen van Zyl, might’ve been aware that the actors were physically engaged, but did not feel it was the right time to say anything.

Mr. Whipple, said the old man from the living room via walkie-talkie, let’s get this silliness over with so that we might move on to something halfway interesting.

This was the extent of it. Bramlett did not give a damn if the young adults were actually shagging. His attitude? So what? Shagging was part of life. Physical intercourse added authenticity to a love scene, so long as they kept their privates under the covers and out of sight.

No one made a fuss, no one said a word. Peeps weren’t going to mention anything. The German producers, who remained in their RV, were anxious to get the picture in the can and move on. They had that western they were anxious to get under way as their next feature. Picture had already been greenlit by Zeitgeist. Of course, Stiffs to Bury had to do impressive box office first.

Shortly afterwards, once the director had instructed the camera to stop rolling via his walkie-talkie, and most had left the bedroom, including Molly Cutts, Turpin and Lem did get into a confrontation, which was—more or less—a sequel to the one prior. Although Lobster did his best not to eavesdrop, and remained in the hallway to reload his still cameras, he unintentionally picked up on more than he wished to.

Seemed stuntman Turpin was concerned that his buddy Lemuel risked getting the actress pregnant, or even catching a social disease by not using protection. Sounded like Lem was not interested in being reprimanded by him.

Did you wrap it? asked Turpin.

Molly’s clean. No drugs. Comes from a good family. Her parents are still together after forty years.

Come on, Lem. Don’t give me that. This is LA.

"You come on, Dirk. She’s not from around here. I wouldn’t be saying what I’m saying if she were."

She gets knocked up, that’s years of child support payments, not to mention all the rest of it. Your life is ruined.

I wouldn’t worry about it, said Lemuel. We’re done anyway. You didn’t hear my uncle earlier?

You’re cutting me off?

I’m in love with Molly and want to marry her, said Lemuel.

Pretending you’re straight does not make you straight.

I don’t pretend.

"Just like that, Lem?"

Look, I’m not like you. Drink was tainted. Made me woozy. You know all this. I want to be with Molly. Uncle Lenny is happy for us.

Am I being accused of slipping you a mickey?

"Somebody sure as hell put something in my cocktail that night that knocked me out. If my uncle gets wind of what happened and figures out who it was, doo-doo hits the fan."

She’s nothing more than another starlet who tricks on the side, said Turpin. Call girl. Bonks old creeps for money. Younger version of Lorna, who only married Bramlett to further her career. How do you think Molly got this part? Studio VPs are some of her clients.

Grow up, Dirk. I was never like you. My uncle is for me marrying Molly. She’s genuinely nice. And if it turns out she’s pregnant, all the better. Lenny will be thrilled.

This your final say on the matter?

Of course.

Turpin extended his hand.

No hard feelings, then?

No hard feelings, said Lemuel. I’d like for us to stay friends.

Chapter 9

Later that day. Lem, dressed casual in jeans and denim shirt, snakeskin cowboy boots, was filmed leaving the house and walking to his car. Two black sedans pulled up: one whipped in front of his vehicle, the other in back, boxing him in. Gino Fettuce and Dirk Turpin, attired in dark suits, hopped out of the sedan in back of Lem’s vehicle, dragged him out of his seat and began beating the crap out of him. Fight appeared realistic, because it was. Turpin hadn’t faked his blows or even attempted to pull his punches, not that it was clear to the director or anyone else while it was taking place, other than to Gino Skizz Fettuce.

When it was over, Lem could hardly rise to his feet. He remained on one knee. Gino offered a hand up. Lemuel’s lower lip was bleeding. Gino looked up. His boss, Fixer Lenny Macaroni, attired in a sharp three-piece suit, stood there, metal ball bat in hand, seething. The two bodyguards (that he was never without, also sharply dressed): burly Jerome Garbage Can Suppa and Rip Short Fuse Pennisi, stood at either side of the compact, five-foot-seven private dick.

Lobster never got why or how Suppa got the Garbage Can nickname, unless it had to do with the purple birthmark on his right temple that resembled a wastebasket or paper shredder, 3-D version; or maybe the moniker had something to do with the man’s rep as a Chicago enforcer. Lobster didn’t know and didn’t pry. Best way to be.

Part of Pennisi’s left eye had something like a milky-white film over part of it and a purple, three-inch long/quarter-inch wide vertical shank scar along that portion of the left temple.

Wasn’t me, boss, said Gino Fettuce.

I’m sorry, Lem, said Turpin. Only he was far from sorry. "I should’ve pulled back on the last one. Just trying to make it look real. Didn’t want it to appear fake; like that scene in the Godfather: Sonny is hitting the guy. Slams him with the trash can lid, which looked halfway real; but some of the punches he threw after that? Missed by a mile, and the dude he’s supposedly pummeling: the actor, jumps back like the punches were connecting. It was bull. Sorry; I’m really sorry."

Bring the punk over here, Gino, said Lenny, who walked in back of the producers’ motor home. Fettuce grabbed Turpin by the elbow, and shoved him in the direction Macaroni had left. Lobster saw Eager nod to his photographer to go back there and get pics. Lobster and Max followed.

The Fixer had his ball bat pressed horizontally against Turpin’s Adam’s apple, while Suppa affixed a Hush Puppy suppressor to his Glock. There was no need to aim it, the individual it was intended for sensed it plenty. Alas, the Fixer and his associates were unaware that Lobster and his stooge Wadley had already taken several stills of this. Stood and waited to take more. Lobster, on the other hand, was smart enough not to have made the same stupid move, only because he had worked with the Fixer in the past and knew that taking photos of Lenny Macaroni and his team when engaged in this type of behavior would not be taken lightly by them.

"Next time you lay a hand on my nephew, chicken-hawk, warned Lenny Macaroni, I gouge your eyes out. Got it?"

Turpin nodded.

"Can’t hear you, punk," said the Fixer.

I got it, Mr. Macaroni.

Been hearin’ rumors about you. I find out the truth, we break both your legs and torch your dick off. You don’t go near my nephew. You don’t touch my late brother’s kid. Doin’ my best to raise him right. Means you don’t fill his mind with any of your sick Hollywood ideas.

The Fixer lowered his bat, Suppa stowed the Glock.

"Get lost," said the PI to the stuntman. Turpin turned, walked along the right end of the RV, then made a left at the rear bumper. He was gone. Macaroni’s eyes were suddenly on Wadley, Eager, and Lobster.

"All three of you, parasites, said Macaroni. Over here."

They obeyed.

We didn’t see anything, Mr. Macaroni, said Eager.

Shut your lying rectum, scumbag, unless you want to see how far I can send that skull of yours soaring like a Willy Mays homer.

He nodded at Suppa, who grabbed Wadley’s camera, opened the back, and yanked the roll of film out. Unspooled it. Handed the camera back. Lobster did not wait for the same to happen to him. Opened the back of his Leica, extracted the roll of film, and let it unravel. Snapped the back closed.

Next time we break the cameras, said Lenny. To Gino, he said: Get Band-Aids, peroxide, and whatever my nephew needs. Fix him up.

Unit nurse could do it, said Gino.

Not the unit nurse, said the Fixer. You let it happen, Skizz; you take care of him.

Yes, boss, said Gino, and left.

Suppa and Pennisi did the same. Lenny remained.

I’m in charge of security on this picture. You cocksuckers don’t ever take stills of crap like this when it goes down. You don’t make me look bad in the papers; you don’t sell nothin’ to the rags without my consent.

I never would, Mr. Macaroni, said Red Lobster.

Not you, chump; this maggot over here: Eager, and his friend with a head on him like a bowling ball.

Eager cleared his throat.

"That the best you can do? Want to sell gossip to the Enquirer, douche?"

"I was hired by the production to promote the picture, do PR. I also do profiles, write articles for papers like LA Fringe, Mr. Macaroni. I don’t fool with the tabloids."

"LA Fringe?" said the Fixer. "Rag belongs in the crapper. Asswipe rag is worse than the Enquirer."

Eager said nothing.

"You don’t ever let me catch you taking pictures of me without my permission. Understood, maggot? You and your turd pal over there, Magoo."

Both nodded. Attila and his brother Gert appeared from around the front end of the RV.

What is going on here, gentlemen? said Attila.

Your Nazi whore mother is what’s going on here, kraut interloper, said Lenny Macaroni, and walked off.

Attila glared at Lobster and Max, then at the reporter and his stooge. Lobster strolled off without saying a word.

Wait for me, Lobster, said Maxie, and did the same.

Chapter 10

The following afternoon, at a four-story office building in Van Nuys, a fall from the rooftop was being discussed by Bramlett, stunt coordinator Dirk Turpin and the actor/stuntman Lemmy Mack, who was prepared to go for it.

Brameltt feared that Lem was quite possibly taking a chance, risked getting hurt. Lemuel was fairly new. Hardly had the experience required to fall backwards from forty-two feet above ground. Storyline called for him to get shot by thugs on the roof, and for him to drop back and land on the air mattress on the sidewalk below that had been rigged by Dirk Turpin and his team.

Lemuel insisted that he was capable. And besides, he needed the money to buy his lady a ring, as well as additional funds for the eventual wedding.

Why not let Mr. Turpin do the fall, Lem? said Bramlett. I’d feel more comfortable.

He’s right, you know, Lem, said his uncle.

I can do it, Uncle Lenny. Guaranteed, insisted Lemuel. Nothing to it.

We have a saying in this business, Lem, said Turpin. It’s the easy ones that get you.

Although, added the director, we really should see that it’s you falling off the roof, Lem.

He hasn’t got the experience to do a fall like this.

I suggested you do the stunt then, Mr. Turpin, did I not? Put a wig on; do our best to make you look like Lemuel.

By making Lem feel guilty for being incapable? He’s too proud to back down and say he can’t perform the fall. Got his heart set on establishing himself as a stuntman with a solid rep. Exactly why I put in time and effort to guide him along.

It’s his choice, sir. All you have to do is have the safety bag rigged properly. That’s your part of the job. My part is to direct this half-ass, run-of-the-mill thriller written by people who couldn’t craft a solid screenplay to save their kraut behinds.

You and your so-called writer genius friend Gwen van Zyl reworked it to your satisfaction, so what’s the problem?

"Money! That’s the only reason any of us is here! Bills to pay!" said Denby Bramlett. Let’s get this pathetic clown show on the road, shall we, gentlemen? All this chatter makes me want to run back to my RV and reach for the bottle.

Bramlett, his camera units, plus Steadicam operator, script supervisor, some others, the two actors playing thugs, entered the building and took the elevator up. Turpin, still photographers Buster Lobster and his assistant Max Suschitzky, other members of crew remained on the ground. No less than three camera units had been positioned and waited to film the action. Biff Whipple was supervising on the ground and would make sure they got proper coverage.

Turpin was shaking his head like he had second thoughts. Didn’t like the idea of having someone as inexperienced as Lem do the stunt.

That old fool lost his touch years ago, grumbled Turpin. He makes inferior crap these days. Overrated washout. Like that B-movie hack Pyun who makes the cyborg garbage.

Mr. Bramlett is no hack, Dirk, said Whipple. Give the man a break. He’s right: story is routine. Been done dozens of times over the years. Attila Bent is the hack. Can’t write. His wife is a junky. Attila and Gert are crackheads. Spend most of their time in their RV hitting the crack pipe and banging call girls. Where they are as we speak: shagging hookers. And Vada is being serviced by a gigolo. Neither here nor there. What pisses me off they act like they’re so desperate and willing to do anything to get a toehold in the studio system and break into the US market. Effing pathetic.

His pictures usually have a reasonable showing, do respectable box office in Europe and Asia.

"Just wait a sec, Dirk. Are we talking about the same Attila Bent? Can’t be."

"Who else? Bents are not the problem here! It’s that old washed-up alkie! Hasn’t made a good picture in ages! Riding on past accomplishments. He’s got a following and that’s about it. Got a rep, fans who show at noir film conventions to get his autograph and stroke his ego; buy VHS tapes of flicks he made years ago. Only reason he got this picture. Rep. With a thick layer of grime on it that no maid could scrub off with the strongest cleanser. On top of all else: he’s a gay-basher and misogynist. Attila Bent should be directing!"

He was, Turpin—and Zeitgeist forced him off and replaced him with someone who gets noir.

"Bull!"

Calm down, Dirk. Please.

Don’t tell me to calm down, Biff. It’s a long fall. One slip up, wrong move—and it could be fatal. Stunt might look easy, but you and I both know anything can happen.

Area he needs to jump off from was marked well enough, wasn’t it?

So long as he adheres. . . .

You trained the kid. Spent enough time with him. Let’s hope for the best.

Chapter 11

Biff spoke into his walkie-talkie.

We’re ready down here, Mr. Bramlett.

Give us ten minutes, Mr. Whipple, said Bramlett. Seeing to it squibs were applied properly, double checking prop guns.

Lobster took stills of the airbag, members of crew around it, as well as curious neighborhood residents who had gathered in the background and across the street to watch the proceedings.

Almost there, said Bramlett.

Anytime, Biff responded.

I need to hear from Mr. Turpin that everything is one hundred percent safe and on the mark, where it should be.

Turpin gave Biff the thumbs-up. Biff spoke into the walkie-talkie. They waited, watched and waited, their eyes up, on the male figure’s back. Lem backpedaled toward the roof’s short wall with arms raised. Having been shot numerous times, he jerked, awkwardly at that, against the wall, and began his drop. Lobster noticed Dirk Turpin wince and shake his head. He snapped a pic of it, then did his best to snap many pics of Lemmy Mack in free fall.

"Damn," said the stunt coordinator to no one. "He’s off. If his legs hit the building he’s in trouble."

Lem, chest and belly skyward, legs quasi-bent, feet a mere yard from the side of the building, dropped one story, two stories, three stories. His feet bumped against the building, causing him to descend the rest of the way at a peculiar angle. Lem hit the airbag along the right edge, bounced off it into the building, and dropped back down and slammed—head first—onto the pavement. There were gasps. Lem’s fiancee screamed and ran to where he lay on the concrete, immobile, entirely frozen. His eyes were open, still, as blood oozed out both ears.

Lobster clenched his jaw. Fought turmoil in his belly and urge to vomit. His friend Maxie was less successful and found himself leaning over and throwing up. It took some doing, but Lobster did what he had been hired to do: Snapped away. Had to. His job was to take stills.

The ambulance was on the scene soon enough. Lem was rushed to the hospital. Two weeks later he expired. Someone said the location of the safety cushion was either off or had been miscalculated and blamed the death on negligence. Stunt coordinator Dirk Turpin insisted the leap had been executed improperly by a novice. Others claimed it was bad luck. Certain individuals, the director’s detractors, were eager to point the finger at Denby Bramlett (even though blame was without merit). LA Fringe ran a piece. Byline was Chet Eager’s.

"It’s the easy ones that get you!"

Chapter 12

Picture was shut down for a week. Fixer considered suing the Bents and even Zeitgeist. Incident was looked into and it was determined that foul play was not a factor. Lemmy Macaroni’s death, however tragic, was ruled an accident. This sort of thing happened on movie sets.

It had been raining all night and Mulholland was wet this Monday morning. Occasional puddle was visible here and there. Even so, it was expected to be a relatively simple, fairly uneventful scene of two vehicles traveling on a section of Mulhollland east of Coldwater. Bramlett requested and got a camera up high on a crane, as well as two at ground level at either side of the road, situated a quarter mile east of there.

The veteran director was intent on having three cameras rolling for this, in addition to several mini cams rigged inside each of the two vehicles, a Ford Explorer that Lorna was in and the tow truck that Gino Skizz Fettuce was piloting a few yards in back of her. Goal and intent was to have Skizz barrel up to her rear bumper and periodically tap it. Back off, tap it some more. Rinse and repeat. Nothing in the least bit hazardous about any of it—on the surface. Nothing more to be conveyed by this, within the storyline, other than merely a means to sway the character—portrayed by Lorna Le Fave-Bramlett—from testifying in court at an upcoming trial. This then was the scenario (as prepped and rehearsed by stunt coordinator Dirk Turpin).

Denby Bramlett, sitting in his canvas chair on the north shoulder, Valley side of Mulholland, fired up a stogie, all the while his eyes on the video monitor rig (that provided images inside the Explorer and the tow truck, of the drivers in both. Crew, some of the other members of the cast, not in the scene, were huddled several feet in back of Bramlett, their eyes, like the director’s, on the monitor.

Producer/sometime director Attila Bent, his wife Vada, and Attila’s brother Gert, had been huffing blow inside their motor home for the last hour or so, and had decided to step out and check on the quasi-chase. Trio were flicking their noses (as usual) as they walked up to Bramlett and co.

Bramlett couldn’t stand to have the producers breathing down his back, but decided to let it go and not say anything. About all he could do was puff on his cuban and hoped that would force them to step back a foot or two at least. There were times it did the trick. Some peeps couldn’t stand the stench given off by the stogie and whined like crybabies about it, which only made the director chuckle, pleased with having this ability to make those he considered undesirable keep their distance. Other times, if he were able, he would resort to releasing a silent torpedo or two. Too bad he was not able to summon the gas required to pull off the latter. He kept trying. Strained. So far no-go. Nothing.

What it came down to: he couldn’t stand to be touched or having his personal space invaded. Came down to his effed-up upbringing. His insane mother refused to be touched, and would never hug her son or show anything close to affection. Things like that stayed with a man, no matter how old one got to be. And so, the director blew cigar smoke, while at the same time was finally able to let go with a couple of silent backfires—and the Germans, as well some of the others, stepped back a bit.

Bramlett looked at the ground to the right of his right armrest. There was a leash tied to his chair. At the other end of the leash was a harness with Marliece’s pet chicken Hannah in it. The hen pecked away at corn kernels in the tray on the ground. The other section of the tray had water. It occurred to him to inquire of his daughter’s whereabouts. Someone suggested she might be with the babysitter having breakfast at the roach coach located further north-east of their location. The director let it go at that.

Chapter 13

First AD Bifford Biff Whipple raised the walkie-talkie in his hand and was ready to speak. Looked at Bramlett for his consent. Bramlett was preoccupied relighting his stogie. In no hurry. Set photographer Buster Red Lobster and his assistant Max Suschitzky stood about fifteen feet to the right of the camera and Negra sound operator.

Bramlett flicked various switches on the monitor to make sure mini-cams inside both vehicles were functioning. They tested for sound. Biff looked at the sound man, who nodded. Biff asked if everyone else was ready. Looked at Denby. Waited for the