Max Collins - Quarry's ex

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was getting at. I need to know what the negatives are, Jim, before I can highlight the positive.”

He studied me with those half-lidded, behind-rosecolored- lenses blue eyes. Then he grinned. He slapped me on the shoulder. “You just stay on that track, Bubba. You just stay on that track.”

“Do my best, Jim.”

He slid off the stool, saying, “If you’ll excuse me, I have important producer shit that needs attending.”

“Fires to put out?”

“Oh yeah. You hang in there now.”

So were we pals now? No, I didn’t think so, either.

Kaufmann went back to the table that was his current office and I swung toward the counter behind which waitresses usually dwelled. Activity by white-uniformed caterers could be glimpsed through the short-order window. Then, as if summoned by my thoughts, a waitress appeared, not behind the counter, but coming over and sitting next to me.

Joni.

My ex-wife apparently played a diner waitress in the film, because she was wearing a light-green-trimmed white uniform suitable to the species.

Her dark hair was pinned up, probably as part of her characterization, but she had no make-up on, so wasn’t shooting a scene in the immediate future. She was easily thirty-six years of age and yet her face had the smooth, unwrinkled quality of a child. Or sociopath.

This was a feat because she was very well tanned, a habit not friendly to skin over the long haul. Maybe hers came out of a bottle, though the telltale orange tint wasn’t present.

She really hadn’t changed all that much-the big brown eyes dominated her attractive features. There remained a Cher resemblance, even with the hair pinned up. She’d kept her slender figure, as her bikini water ballet last night had told me.

She sipped the can of Tab she’d brought along. Everybody but me around here was watching their figure. Hers was still worth watching.

Without looking at me, she said, “Long time no see.”

I shrugged. “Last night.”

Now her head swiveled toward me and the eyes were, well, not exactly cold…guarded. Unblinking.

“Why are you here?” she asked. I didn’t remember her voice being that low or that sultry. Maybe it changed. Maybe I’d been filtering it through the wishful thinking of nostalgia.

“Your husband hired me to handle publicity.”

“Why are you here?”

“As far as you’re concerned, that’s why.”

She sipped her Tab, looked away. “Why did you come looking for me?”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re saying this is a coincidence.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in coincidences, Jack?”

“No.”

She swiveled her gaze back to me. “Then what the fuck?”

“What the fuck indeed. We need to talk.”

“Really? I thought what we needed was for you to walk away.”

I sipped my Coke. “I did not know you were here. Your husband doesn’t know about our past. Your past. He thinks I’m Jack Reynolds.”

“Who are you, now? What are you?”

“As far as you’re concerned, Jack Reynolds.”

She looked away again. “You thought I would come to your room last night.”

“Kind of.”

“That’s why you mentioned your room number in front of me.”

“You never were dumb. Why does he call you J.J.?”

“That’s my name. Or my initials. Joanne Jennifer. Joni was just a nickname. Jesus, Jack, that’s the name on our marriage license.”

“Oh. I forgot.” I really had.

Something earnest came into her voice. “Jack, are you going to cause trouble for me?”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m doing a job for your husband. We can talk later. More freely. At the hotel, maybe.”

“If you think I’m going to fuck you, you’re wrong.”

“If that’s what you think is going on, you’re wrong. And fucking full of yourself. When did you become an actress, anyway?”

“A long time ago. Didn’t you ever see me on TV?”

“What show were you on?”

“A lot of shows. Streets of San Francisco. The FBI. Cannon. Barnaby Jones. Hawaii Five-O.”

“That explains it. I don’t watch cop shows.”

“I’ve been in twelve movies.”

“For your husband?”

“Mostly.”

“That also explains it-I don’t go to drive-ins. But I’ll check out your stuff at my local video store. I’ll bet you’re great.”

“Is that right?”

“You’ve always been a hell of an actress.”

She slid off the stool. “We are going to talk, Jack. Later.”

“Fine,” I said.

She turned and started off.

I said, “Hey.”

She stopped. Looked back.

I said, “If your husband asks, we were talking, just now, about me doing an interview with you. I’m the unit publicist on this picture. Got it?”

She sighed, nodded crisply, and went back to a booth where she’d been going over her script, alone.

I had just finished my Coke when Stockwell came up. He put a hand on my shoulder but did not take a stool next to me.

“Look,” he said, “we’re getting ready to shoot this stunt. I can’t talk. But I’ve paved the way for you around here. You can circulate freely. I see you were chatting with J.J.”

“Yeah. I’m going to interview her.”

“How did you two get along?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah, she’s a great gal. You’ll love her.”

I watched a little bit of the fight scene. The star, Eric Conrad, was smaller than I’d have imagined, but very muscular, well-toned looking and very bronzed. He wore a get-up that I guessed was his character’s usual costume-a denim vest, no shirt (so the ripple of abs could get proper exposure), tight jeans and moccasins.

He was fighting two stuntmen who were playing the kind of nasty-ass bikers that the biker security boys pictured themselves as-all bulging biceps and scraggly beards and tattoos and leathers and motorcycle boots. The hardest thing for the stuntman was executing the fight with the challenge of the tight clothing. The biker stunt guys had some give in their leather pants, but the star’s tight jeans were a problem.

Thankfully, Conrad only had to do the close-in stuff, throwing punches that didn’t land but seemed to because of the camera angles. And when he had to execute a Billy Jack-style karate kick, he in fact ripped the crotch and leg out of the jeans (they had half a dozen replacement pairs ready).

Most of the star’s action was handled by a stuntman who was a little taller than him but a good match for his build. Also, the stuntman’s jeans were looser.

I was surprised by how slow it moved. It was pretty much one or two punches or kicks at a time. They had to shift the lighting and the reflectors around constantly because the sun had a nasty habit of moving on them. That bald bearded guy Hank was doing the directing, with an anxious Stockwell sitting forward in a director’s chair in back and to one side of the camera, all but biting his nails.

For maybe an hour I watched this shit, then I decided to meet the other star of the picture, for my fake interview. I ran into Ginger, who pointed me to Miss Goodwin’s Winnebago, where I knocked.

And knocked again.

And again.

A voice roared from within: “Fucking what?”

They were between shots so I could yell back, “Miss Goodwin? Jack Reynolds!”

I was on the ground, and the door to the Winnebago was a couple metal steps up, and when it flew open, it damn near slapped my upper torso. Ducking back, I took in the sight of the most popular Playmate of the 1970s in a yellow silk robe, carelessly waist-sashed so that about half of either generous breast was exposed. She hovered over me, pure fantasy fodder, only her face was a contorted mask, nostrils flaring, like a horse that just threw an annoying rider.