Max Collins - Quarry's ex

“I am… if you understand that you may hear about something nasty that happened at the hotel, and if so, you’ll need to react with the correct indifference. You know-‘isn’t that something,’ or ‘what a shame.’ As opposed to, ‘Oh my fucking God — what happened?’… Are we cool?”

He sighed. “We’re cool. I’m not going to come back to a… mess in my room am I?”

“Not my intention. But this isn’t scripted, Art. I’m improvising here. Have to run with what I get.”

“I know. I get that.”

The director went to the front desk while I waited at the elevator. We went up together-no reason not to, since I was the unit publicist. At his room, I let him go in first, to warn his wife of my presence and needs. Less than a minute later, he came out and nodded me in.

Joni was in a white dressing gown, semi-sheer, over some kind of matching nightie, her long hair brushing her shoulders, tousled; under layers of wispy fabric, nipples and pubic triangle were vaguely visible, but I didn’t stare. I’d seen them before. If this interruption threw her, she didn’t show it. Her arms were folded but her attitude wasn’t negative. More neutral, I’d say.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I really wasn’t. But I checked every electrical outlet in the place. Checked the light fixtures and the air conditioner. The most elaborate thing I did was remove the bedding on the big kingsize number-could have been a poisonous spider or scorpion in the sheets or blankets, something fatal and indigenous to the region. Joni actually gave me a hand with this process, and when I started putting the bedding back in place, she said she’d take care of it.

Special attention was given to the bathroom, since that’s where most accidents occur at home, and this hotel room was home for them right now. But I found nothing. The Percodan bottle was in there, and I noted that it was prescription. Not that you had to buy shit like that from a drug dealer in Hollywood, not with a Dr. Feelgood at every strip mall.

I apologized as I looked through the dresser drawers and their suitcases, finding nothing but clothing. No drugs or anything embarrassing, unless you count the Jackie Collins paperback.

At the door, I said, “I apologize for the intrusion.”

“No problem,” Stockwell said. He looked hangdog as hell. He was a fifty-something guy in the midst of an incredibly draining project that would have been plenty to handle without the threat of murder hanging over him.

“We appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Joni said to me with wifely warmth. Not ex-wifely. Current wifely. It was his side she was at, not mine.

“Tonight and tomorrow morning,” I said to them, “don’t answer this door for anybody but me. Not even for anybody on the production-talk through the door and make an excuse-and certainly not housekeeping or room service or anybody from the desk with a message.”

Stockwell nodded. So did Joni, who had her arm through his now. I’d forgotten how beautiful her eyes were. Big. Brown.

“I know you haven’t been taking breakfast at the restaurant here,” I said. According to Jerry’s notes, anyway. “But tomorrow morning’s no time to make an exception. Get up, shower, get dressed, get the fuck out.”

“There’s a light breakfast on set,” Stockwell said absently.

Joni asked, “What about our car?”

“That’s a good point,” I said. “It’s possible your car could be tampered with, yes. Art, you usually drive yourself and your wife to the shoot. Tomorrow, can you go with somebody else instead? Travel with other crew in one of those vans, maybe?”

“No problem,” he said.

“Do you have an extra set of car keys?”

“No.”

“Give me yours. I’ll go down now and check it out. I used to be a mechanic.”

That made Joni wince, just faintly, no doubt because of the memory it stirred.

Her late boyfriend Williams had been a mechanic, too. That was something that had irritated me at the time, in addition to the cuckold thing. And when, after the publicity, I’d been unable to find work as a mechanic, all I could think of was, Well, there’s one position at least that needs filling…

Anyway, Stockwell handed over the keys and I went down to the parking lot.

Stockwell was driving a rental Buick LeSabre. An argument could be made for me spending the night in its back seat, waiting to see if Varnos showed up to fuck with it. But according to the Broker’s file, Varnos was strictly a specialist in accidental death, at home and on the job; to my knowledge, he had never done a vehicular homicide.

So I would not camp out in that backseat. What I would do instead is check the interior and under the hood. Which I did, and found nothing. Since the parking lot was at the rear of the building-beyond some shrubbery at the open part of the hotel’s U-there was little risk of being seen by Varnos.

Then I went up to room 313, knocked and said, “It’s Reynolds,” and Stockwell peeked out. He was in brown pajamas now. There were men who still wore pajamas? Fucking kidding me?

I stepped in, closed the door and said, “Car seems fine. Doesn’t mean some tampering couldn’t happen in the wee hours. I still don’t want you driving it to the set.”

Joni was in bed, nightstand light on. Reading the Jackie Collins. She’d always had questionable taste.

I went on: “It’s also possible an accident has been planned that involves running you off the road or something. Strikes me as a thin possibility, but you never know. I doubt with you in a different vehicle-particularly a van with a bunch of other people in it-that our guy would carry such a plan out.”

Stockwell gave me a weary smirk. “I thought you said this was all improv.”

“Oh no- I’m improv. This guy is on script. We just don’t know what that script is…Get some sleep.”

“I still have a little work too. My goddamn job never lets up.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

The next morning my wake-up call came in right at six; when I said I wanted to order breakfast, the operator transferred me to room service. I showered, shaved and got dressed, then the little breakfast arrived-scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice-and by six-thirty I was standing at my cracked door, watching Mr. and Mrs. Stockwell depart for work.

The director was in jeans and a black t-shirt with the supporting player in jeans and a frilly cream-color blouse. He had a clipboard and notebook, but she carried only a little purse. If they saw me watching, they were sensible enough not to acknowledge it.

I knew that housekeeping would start its run at eight a.m., and that my room would come before the director’s, and that mine would come before Varnos’-at least based on the end of the hall they’d started at yesterday.

So I stretched out on my bed and watched game shows at very low volume, waiting for housekeeping to interrupt me, which I knew they would, since I hadn’t put a do not disturb on my door.

The heavyset Hispanic maid barged in just before nine a.m., and I went over and said, “ Perdoneme,” and she backed out saying the same thing, over and over, while I belatedly hung that do not disturb sign on the knob.

I finished my game show, since I knew it would take the maid a good fifteen minutes to clean Stockwell’s room, and she was conscientious and spent twenty on it. I was no expert on staging accidental deaths in hotel rooms, but I knew that Varnos would not want housekeeping coming in on him in room 313, and even a do not disturb sign was no guarantee, since you never knew when some brat or smart-ass would steal it or reverse it with make up room now facing out.

When the maid and her cart were safely down the hall and around the corner, I slipped across the hall and used the key Stockwell had provided, entering freshly cleaned room 313. I did not put a do not disturb sign on the door-I wanted to be disturbed…