Max Collins - Quarry's ex

In the booths, groups of what I took to be actors (since one of them was my ex-wife, who had a role on the film), sat smoking and either going over their lines together or just studying their own scripts. To my left, the tables had been taken by production people who-this group included Stockwell and Kaufmann-seemed to be higher up the food chain.

Stockwell, again in jeans and a t-shirt (this one a vintage KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ underground comix design) was deep in conversation with a muscular-looking, bald, bushybearded guy in a gray short-sleeve sweatshirt and faded jeans.

They were going over some of those storyboards from last night, and Stockwell was talking intently, pointing here and there, and occasionally holding up his hands, framing proposed shots. The bald bearded guy was mostly nodding, clearly on the instruction-taking end of things, though he would stop the director for clarifications or to make suggestions, when he felt it necessary.

The director was so intensely involved in this, he did not notice me enter (the bell over the door had its dinger duct-taped silent, I noticed). But Kaufmann, who had commandeered a table all to himself and his own paperwork, saw me right away and got up and came over.

Today his polo shirt was light blue, his slacks one shade darker blue, his sandals again sock-free. I had a polo shirt on myself, a tan one with lighter tan chinos and running shoes (with socks, thank you). But we were dressed similarly enough that I noticed it.

“Artie has asked me to cooperate with you any way I can,” he said. The eyes behind the aviators’ pink lenses were at half-mast again. His tone wasn’t exactly unfriendly but something grudging was there.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “I probably need to talk to your two stars.”

“Yes. Interviews would be good. Are you going to be able to place those yourself? As a publicity agent, you surely have beaucoup media contacts.”

Was he suspicious, or just generally pissy?

“Actually, I stick to the writing,” I said. “I’ll prepare the materials and you’ll have to distribute them yourself, or hire a firm with those kind of connections.”

“Really? And how much are you charging for these limited services of yours?”

“I’m going to pass on answering that, Mr. Kaufmann. I’m dealing directly with Mr. Stockwell.”

The eyes behind the pink lenses flared with distrust. “How is it that ‘Mr. Stockwell’ is so comfortable with somebody he met only last night?”

“I come highly recommended. We have mutual acquaintances that go way back.” I was vamping a little; never a good idea, but I could tell the bones needed some flesh. “Anyway, my impression was he was paying for my services…out of his own pocket, not the production’s.”

Kaufmann’s eyebrows went up over the aviators. “Is that right? Frankly, Artie and I haven’t had the chance to discuss your financial terms yet. If he’s taking this on himself…well, it’s generous of him. And he must believe in you.”

“I think he does.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” He took me by the elbow-a familiarity I didn’t love. Maybe he sensed it, because his hand moved to my shoulder as he walked me to the counter, where he showed me to a stool.

“What are you drinking, Jack? We have Coke products.”

“Coke is fine.”

He came back with a can of Tab for himself and one of Coke for me. The metal was sweaty with cold.

“Cold drinks are important on a set like this,” he said, after a swig.

“Yeah?”

“When we’re shooting out there, that air conditioner goes off. Too noisy for the camera. And it will be a goddamn sweatbox in here.”

“I would never have thought of that.”

He took another swig. “What mutual acquaintances?”

“Pardon?”

“What mutual acquaintances? I know most of Artie’s friends and business associates, going back almost ten years.”

“Well, this goes back a little farther than that.”

He tempered his wide smile with a shrewd gaze. “How far? Y’see, Artie and me, we go back to high school — in Atlanta?”

That explained Kaufmann’s Southern tinge. Stockwell had shed any such accent. But I had put my foot in it, improvising.

I did my best. “You guys go to college together, too?”

“Naw. Artie went off to film school at USC. Is that where he met your ‘mutual acquaintances,’ Jack?”

“They never said. Are you pumping me, Jim? Do we have a problem?”

He touched my arm again-no, he gripped it; there was surprising power in it. “We will have a problem, Jack, if you are scamming my partner. That guy sitting over there is the most talented man I ever met-but that’s not all. He picked me up off the ground when my business went tits up, and gave me a new start.”

“Well, I’m glad to know that. Human interest stories make good PR fodder.”

Disgust colored his expression, and the Southern tinge became a full-blown drawl. “You think that’s why I mention it? To give you ‘PR fodder,’ Jack? You best know that I am watching your ass, Bubba. You do something bad to my boy over there, I will fuck you up. Understand? Fuck you up.”

The voice was cold but the eyes in back of the pink lenses glittered with emotion.

He removed his hand from my arm. He was shaking. I wanted to slap him like an unruly child, but instead I just said, “I wonder if maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

That response blindsided him and he actually laughed a little.

“I have nothing in mind but the best for your friend, Mr. Kaufmann. I am here to help. Not to take advantage. Not to run a scam or anything else. Understood?”

He studied me. I kept my face calm, even smiled a little, not in a threatening way. Then he nodded.

“I’m just here to help out,” I said.

Now he seemed a shade embarrassed. “All right, Jack. All I ask is that you do a businesslike job. You show up at midnight, a stranger, two weeks into the production, and next morning you’re unit publicity manager? And the producer knows next to nothing about you? I’d be a fool not to be concerned.”

“I got that. No problem.”

Glancing over at the director and the bearded guy, I said, “Your pal seems pretty focused.”

He sighed, letting out the last of the emotion from our little confrontation. “Yeah, well, he’s going over a fight scene with Hank-stunt coordinator? Artie essentially has to hand the set over to Hank, and no director loves that. But with stunts or special effects or both, you have to give the reins to the expert.”

“Anything I need to know about your stars?”

“No. Miss Goodwin is a lovely woman, a real free spirit. Eric is a man’s man. Pretty standard stuff for a PR guy to run with. Hope it’s not too boring for you.”

“Do I play up the Playboy thing with Miss Goodwin? Or is she trying to put that in her past?”

“She’s trying to put it in her past.” Kaufmann flashed a grin-first genuinely friendly one he’d offered me. “But you need to play it up.”

“Will there be nude scenes?”

“Frequently. She was not hired because she gets mistaken for Meryl Streep.”

“Why was she hired?”

“You said it yourself. She was the Playmate of the Year, and-”

“Jim-okay I call you Jim?”

“I’ve been calling you Jack.”

“Jim, you and I know the number of Playmates of the Year who have gone on to star in films can be counted on one hand and maybe a dick. What makes Miss Goodwin special?”

That sure didn’t get a grin out of him, friendly or otherwise. “What’s your point?”

“Rumor has it Tiffany got cast because of her relationship with a certain mob figure.”

“Did Artie tell you that? Jesus.” He jabbed a finger at me, damn near thumped me. “Let me tell you what your first job as publicist on this picture is, and I don’t care who pays you, Artie or me or Jesus Fucking Christ-you keep any mention of a certain organized crime figure out of any publicity. Any news hack brings it up, you deny it. You say it’s a scurrilous rumor and that we will fucking sue, if anybody dares print that.”