Max Collins - Quarry's ex

It was the lovely vision in the bikini that I’d seen earlier, coming up from the pool, still in that skimpy bikini, a towel over her arm, her hair damp and ponytailed back. Close up, she looked even more like my ex-wife.

Because she was my ex-wife.

“J.J.,” he said to her, “this is Jack Reynolds. He’s coming on as our unit publicity manager.”

She didn’t miss a beat. She shook my hand and said something pleasant and polite-exactly what, I couldn’t tell you as I was in momentary cranial gridlock. But my eyes and a tiny head shake sent her a signal that said, Don’t say anything.

Joni smiled just a little and nodded and her eyes held mine, saying, All right. As if to say, I guess I owe you that much.

Then I shook hands with her husband and told him what my room number was, knowing that she’d heard it, too.

Hard Wheels 2 was shooting at a location that at first gave me a start-it was outside Boot Heel, going south, which was the direction I’d taken Jerry. In several senses.

But the film company was only a few miles outside town, just enough to put desert everywhere the eye could see, except for the shabby little garage/truck stop they’d taken over for shooting purposes.

I got there about ten a.m., which was well into their work day. Under a fairly relentless sun, a group of maybe a dozen technicians (mostly guys but a few females) in baseball caps, sunglasses, casual shirts (mostly tees) and jeans were moving lights and stands and shiny reflective boards around while others were getting a big wheelmounted movie camera into place.

The vibe was blue-collar and the pace steady, neither laid-back nor frantic. It was all focusing around the gas pumps where two college student types seemed the center of attention. Stand-ins, I figured.

A few real employees were hanging around on the fringes, grease monkeys for the service station half of the place. Whether they were just gawking or were on tap as extras, I couldn’t tell. Nor did I give a shit.

All I cared about was whether I saw a familiar face, either among the crew or the onlookers.

There weren’t many of the latter, because the place was controlled, the evocatively named GAS amp; EATS closed to the public. When I arrived in my Nova, slowing down and signaling, a girl in a tank top and cut-off jeans stepped fearlessly out into the highway and waved my car into an area where a relative handful of vehicles were parked, maybe half a dozen cars, two vans, a semi-trailer truck and two motor homes, the latter three running off a chugging generator.

Near the vehicles, a few burly guys were seated here and there in deck chairs, doing nothing except snoozing or listening to boom-box music through headphones or reading men’s magazines, all but the snoozing accompanied by drinking beer from picnic coolers; I figured them for Teamsters.

About half a dozen biker types-middle-aged paunchy guys (Wild One had been a long fucking time ago)-were prowling the periphery in jeans and black leather jackets, despite the heat, trying to look ominous and important. Kind of sad, really.

I went over to the tank-top girl for a chat. Armed with a clipboard, she was a freckle-faced redhead who had one of those pulled-down sailor caps that Woody Allen wore and no make-up at all and looked about fifteen. Cute kid, though-tiny perky titties and a round little bottom well served by the cut-offs.

“Do you need to check me off your list?” I asked. “I’m Jack Reynolds. Handling PR for Mr. Stockwell.”

“Good morning, Mr. Reynolds, welcome to Hard Wheels 2 — Mr. Stockwell said to expect you.” She was all-around perky, actually. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Well, I’ve never done PR on a movie set before. Anything I should know?”

“Pretty self-explanatory. You have full access, but stay out of the crew’s way when they’re on the move. And when we’re getting ready to shoot a scene, the assistant director will lock down the set.”

“What does that mean?”

“A lot of production assistants like me will run around screaming, ‘Lock it down!’ ”

“Which means shut up and don’t move.”

“Basically.”

I jerked a thumb toward the semi and the Winnebagos. “What are those for?”

“The bigger one is a honeywagon-bathrooms, small dressing rooms, make-up, wardrobe, special effects. The other two are for the stars-Tiffany and Eric. Even on a low-budget picture like this, the stars need a place to get away and run lines and relax.”

“Anything I should know about the stars? I’ll have to interview them both.”

“Eric’s really sweet. Tiffany’s, uh…interesting. Strong personality. But she’ll love you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to help publicize her.” She leaned in. “I didn’t say that.”

“Where can I find Mr. Stockwell?”

“Right now he’s in the diner. That’s where craft service and catering are, obviously. And it serves as a green room, too.”

“Speaking of green, that’s what I am. What’s craft service?”

“Snacks. You know what catering is.”

“Sure. You’re not just ordering food at the diner?”

“No, we’re using a catering company out of Vegas. They’ll bring the grub fully prepared, but’ll use the kitchen to serve it up. ‘Green room’ is just where actors can relax and hang out between set-ups.”

“Set-ups?”

“Camera set-ups. Shots.”

“You’re very helpful. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Ginger.” She grinned; it was pretty damn cute. “Please, no Mary Ann jokes.”

“Okay, little buddy.”

She liked that-if I’d had time, it might have been interesting to see how far I could get with Gilligan’s Island references.

“So, Ginger, what’s your job, besides helping hapless publicity agents?”

“I’m a P.A. Production assistant.”

“Yeah, I gathered that’s what you’re called. But what’s your job?”

She told me. As it happened, production assistant became about the only crew term I picked up around the set that I really understood. I did vaguely get to know that grips picked up and moved shit, and gaffers had something to do with lighting, and I had zero desire to learn what a best boy did.

Production assistants seemed to be all-purpose, mostly unpaid gofers-college students or recent film school grads (like Ginger) who were starting at the bottom. I wondered how many parents would be thrilled to know that all that college tuition had given their sons and daughters the skills necessary to deliver coffee and drive into town for extra duct tape.

Anyway, I thanked Ginger-who in fact looked more like a red-haired elfin Mary Ann-and let her return to guarding the highway while I headed in to the diner.

My hunch had been that on a low-budget independent production like Hard Wheels 2, I’d find a certain amount of underpaid and unpaid help. And, as Ginger had amply demonstrated, I was not wrong.

Which was why I figured I might spot a familiar face on set: Nick Varnos.

The nice thing was, I would not be a familiar face to Nick. Jerry had known me because we’d worked together, but Varnos? He and I had never met. He was just a face in the Broker’s files, but a face I had memorized like an actor prepping for his big scene.

Still, it did not seem to be a face anybody was wearing on the Hard Wheels 2 film set. Not outside, anyway.

The interior of the diner was as expected-central counter, short-order window, a dozen tables, a dozen booths, soda pop signs, jukebox, a big noisy air conditioner in a cut-out area above the door. Because this was Nevada, there were a couple slot machines spotted around.

But the place had been invaded in a way that jarred against expectation-half of the tables, over to my right coming in the door, had been shoved together to make one long table, offering an array of individually packaged snacks like potato chips and Fritos, plus plastic-wrapped cookies and brownies, and covered veggies. Coolers of pop and bottled water were beneath. Nobody was manning this impressive station, strictly self-serve.