Max Collins - Quarry's ex

She managed to laugh at that, and I thanked her for her help and she said not at all, and I didn’t sense anything suspicious in her voice.

I’d just wanted to make sure I knew who I’d be talking to when I knocked on the door of 313. And a good thing, too, because the guy who answered was not wearing t-shirt and jeans.

Whoever-this-was in the doorway had on a pink polo shirt and off-white slacks with a puka necklace and sockless sandals (somebody was doing the Don Ho bit after all). Tall, slender, almost skinny, with a dirty blond early Beatles haircut, he wore aviator glasses whose lenses were tinted a faint rose. The light blue eyes behind rosecolored glasses were wide when the door opened; but they immediately became hooded when he saw a stranger before him.

Till then, he’d been smiling and I’d describe his expression as friendly-a pleasant-looking man in his forties, well-tanned, his boyish features slightly marred by pockmarked cheeks-but seeing me, his demeanor went freezedried.

That made sense, both his answering my knock so easily and then reacting negatively. I figured a movie company was a little world unto itself, with lots of people coming and going, so you wouldn’t think twice about opening a door half-past-midnight.

And that door had opened wide, giving me a glimpse of a guy sitting at a table, with paperwork spread out in front of him. A guy in a white t-shirt and jeans. Then the one in the pink polo narrowed the door to not much more than a crack.

Making three syllables out of it, he said, “Yes?”

“I apologize for the lateness, I just got in. Mr. Stockwell doesn’t know me, but I have an important business matter to discuss with him.”

My reluctant host’s voice was a pleasant baritone with a faint Southern tinge. “And how do you know I’m not Mr. Stockwell?”

“Because you aren’t. I assume you’re a business associate. His producer?”

The way the light-blue eyes unhooded momentarily told me I’d guessed well.

“I’m Mr. Stockwell’s producer, yes.”

“Mr. Kaufmann, it’s vital I have a few minutes with him. I know how valuable Mr. Stockwell’s time is, and I won’t abuse it.”

Despite the lateness of the hour, and people trying to sleep in rooms all around us, I was talking in a normal, even somewhat loud manner. I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious, I just wanted the guy in the t-shirt at the table to get the drift of the conversation I was having with the guard at his gate.

Who was getting openly pissed. Couldn’t blame his producer for wanting to protect the director.

“You need to stop by the production office,” Kaufmann said, starting to close the door again, “and make an appointment.”

But my tactic worked-a hoarse second tenor chimed in from within the motel room: “Jimbo, let the guy in. Let me deal with this.”

Kaufmann twitched a frown, then forced something like a smile, opened the door wide, and gestured for me to enter. His bony hand was adorned with a rough goldennugget ring.

I nodded to the producer and said, “Thanks.”

Arthur Stockwell-assuming that’s who this well-tanned guy in the vintage Harley t-shirt and jeans was-did not rise; he swung his body around and frowned up at me. Not angrily, just with quiet frustration.

I put him at about fifty, about my size and weight, with short black hair suspiciously free of gray; his eyes were dark brown and a little puffy in a conventionally handsome oval. He looked like a slightly gone-to-seed leading man.

His voice was firm if ravaged from too much talk: “If this is about that Teamster matter, I can only say we’ve complied. And you need to ask your guys if they are aware of exactly who Louis Licata is. Because among other things, he’s the executive producer of this picture.”

Poised just inside the door with Kaufmann nearby, I let the director go on with that speech, because I found it interesting, and then I raised a hand, gently, in a stop motion. “I’m not from the Teamsters, Mr. Stockwell. You are Mr. Stockwell?”

“I am.”

I took several steps forward, closing the distance between us. He remained seated. The round table, about the size of the one we used for poker back at Paradise Lake, was littered with paperwork. Much of it was crude cartoonish drawings, on sideways sheets of typing paper, spread out in front of him. Just glancing, my guess was that they were camera angles for scenes he had yet to shoot. A cigarette and a cigar were going in an ashtray and the tobacco smell was fairly thick, though there was no haze.

“Mr. Stockwell, my name is John Reynolds. I understand my request is unusual, and it’s certainly a pain in the ass being bothered this late, particularly when you’re so busy.”

“No argument, Mr. Reynolds.”

I risked a small smile. Very small. “I don’t mean to sound mysterious, but we have a business matter to attend to. This is not a shakedown or a scam. But it is important, private, and pertains to this production. But I have to request that we speak alone.”

Kaufmann stepped up beside me and, before his director could respond, said to me, “If it pertains to the production, then I need to be here.” He smiled at me, almost in my face; nothing friendly about it. “Production, producer, Mr. Reynolds? Understand the connection?”

I did not look at him. Instead I gave Stockwell my most earnest gaze. And I’ve got a pretty good one, when needed.

“Mr. Stockwell,” I said, “if you have business with Mr. Kaufmann that needs immediate attention, I can wait in my room here in the hotel for as long as necessary…”

“Mr. Reynolds,” the director began, looking pained.

“…but we do need to talk. In private. If after we’ve spoken, you want to add Mr. Kaufmann in, that’s your call. I can only stress that this is personal as well as business and possesses a definite urgency.”

Kaufmann had started shaking his head halfway through that, but to his credit he waited for me to hit a stopping place before leaning in with a hand on the table to lock eyes with his director.

“Artie,” the producer said, “this is crazy.” He jerked a thumb at me. “We have no idea who this joker is. You’ve got another hour, easy, going over those storyboards before you can crawl in bed for your pitiful allotment of rest. Give me a fucking break.”

The last seemed a little desperate. I had an idea, though, that this moviemaking business was fairly desperate all the time. They were constantly under the gun. So to speak.

Stockwell smiled up at his producer. “Jimbo, you and I are done for tonight. This storyboard stuff is my concern. You go get some rest yourself-you’ve got another big day ahead of you, putting out fires.”

“Artie, please…”

“No. You’ve run yourself ragged all day, buddy-get some sack time. Meanwhile, I’ll give Mr. Reynolds here five minutes, and if what he says is of any concern to me… to us…I’ll fill you in first chance I get, tomorrow.”

Kaufmann sighed, said, “All right, Bubba. But if this turns out to be something real, something pressing? Go ahead and call me. I’m just one floor down, remember.”

Stockwell nodded and grinned and pushed the air with his palms. “Scoot, Mother. Get some rest.”

“Okay, Artie,” Kaufmann said, and the rumpled smile he gave the director was a friend’s, not a co-worker’s. Then he re-assumed his producer’s role by claiming the cigar from the ashtray, and went quickly out. Fast as a jump cut.

The director stood and stretched-bones popped and he made noise deep in his throat. “Mr. Reynolds, this chair is killing me. You mind if I take the bed while we talk?”

“Not at all.”

“Just grab one of these chairs and haul it over.”

The room was a near clone of mine but with the layout reversed. Where my bed was on the right, his was on the left, and so on. And there was no balcony. His round worktable took the place of my room’s little corner reading area with comfy chair and lamp.