Rudolph Wurlitzer - Slow Fade

“I’ve led you to jail,” she said, turning to him.

“As long as you don’t leave me here.” His hands unbuckled his pants.

“But I am going to leave you here,” she said, taking off her clothes.

“Shut up,” he said, reaching for her ass.

IN THE saloon, a drunken and confused Pancho Villa sat on a chair elevated by two aluminum camera cases, giving it the temporary stature of a throne. Beneath him drifted a bored and mostly stoned crowd of whores, actors, and mariachi players held together by the prevailing rumor that Wesley Hardin was in the process of flipping out and that they might be witnesses to a legendary event sure to be reported in Rolling Stone, Time , and Cahiers du Cinéma . This rumor was further reinforced by the appearance of the female star, who showed up full of righteous abuse about Wesley’s deliberately sabotaging her career. In an unnaturally loud voice contracted from the still-rising effects of the pharmaceutical coke, Wesley had called her a self-indulgent cunt and a worthless actress who further and forevermore was living proof that the Spanish philosopher Ortega y Gasset was right when he said the twentieth century would see the final dominance of mediocrity over intelligence. Stunned and speechless by this reduction, the female star had returned to her hotel, where she had booked herself on the first flight to L.A.

Returning to the end of the bar, Wesley sat alone brooding about just what it was he had intended to do with this night. The rest of the saloon waited for him with awkward apprehension, no longer trying to pretend they were at a party or some kind of spontaneous cinéma vérité exploration by an aging master of the Western genre.

“We’ll do the fucking mountain man scene,” Wesley said as if startled by sudden illumination.

The mountain men were summoned and instructed to ask Pancho Villa how they could get laid now that they were his guests in Mexico. As Hank and Scarface approached the throne where Pancho Villa had passed out, the saloon door swung open and the producer swept in, followed by a newly arrived studio executive from L.A. in jeans and white Peruvian peasant’s shirt. He was obviously thrilled to be on the front of a real crisis on a real set. Wesley ignored them, instructing the cameraman to keep on shooting.

Hank pulled on Pancho Villa’s foot: “Pancho, now that we have fought and died for you, we would like to ask you a favor.”

Pancho Villa, startled and confused, looked down at the kneeling mountain man: “Favor?. . I don’t need no favor. I have an occupation. . ask him.”

He pointed to Wesley, who explained his role to him: “You are Pancho Villa. El jefe . You must give the orders and make the decisions because within you lies the spirit of the people, for better or for worse. Not those profane assholes from Mexico City.”

“Be like Anthony Quinn,” Pancho Villa ordered. “Never say die, and ask for dollars, not pesos.”

Wesley pointed to the producer: “The money man over here will give you one thousand dollars American.”

Elated, Pancho Villa grabbed one of the whores and kissed her. “Then I take this puta and give you all the other putas. Viva México! ”

A few cheers rang out from the crowd and the band swung into an enthusiastic version of “La Cucaracha.” Wesley pointed at the cameraman to pan around the room to include the producer and the studio executive.

“Jesus Christ, Wes,” said the producer. “This has gone far enough.”

Wesley stood on a chair so that he was equal in height to the enthroned Pancho Villa. “These two men represent everything that’s fucked up with this process,” he said to a suddenly self-conscious Pancho Villa, who was looking for an easy way to get the whore down from his lap.

The drunken voice of the prop man sang out from behind the bar: “Hang the cocksuckers. . burn ’em in phony receipts. . ”

The producer made a desperate move to grab the camera, but the cameraman, an ex-professional soccer player, eluded him easily, planting a quick kick to his groin while continuing to shoot.

The studio executive took this moment to step forward. “I plead with you, Mr. Hardin, to stop all of this. It’s very upsetting to see a man of your legendary reputation lose all control in this manner.”

“I am in total control,” Wesley said calmly.

“Fire the son of a bitch,” the producer gasped, kneeling on all fours.

The studio executive continued, raising his voice to include the entire saloon, “I must add that I represent the studio on this matter and the studio’s position is that if this room isn’t emptied in five minutes we will close the entire production.”

The message communicated itself to the crowd, which grew suddenly subdued, all except the band, which misunderstood the silence and launched into “La Cucaracha” again.

“Keep on shooting, Sidney,” Wesley said to the cameraman, who was in a nothing-left-to-lose mood.

“Put down that camera,” the studio executive said.

“Why don’t you tell him he’ll never work again,” Wesley said.

“All right. Put down that camera or you’ll never work again.”

“Keep shooting,” Wesley said, as the crowd circled around them. “This is my set.”

“Not any more, Mr. Hardin,” the studio executive said, conscious that this historic moment was being filmed. “I am relieving you of that responsibility.”

Wesley had almost reached the calm that he was seeking, needing only one more shock to cut him loose altogether. He took the.38 out of his belt and raised it, aiming toward the bottle on the bar that held the live tarantula. At that moment he saw Evelyn standing just inside the door, regarding him soberly. He lowered the.38, motioning for Sidney to hold the camera on her reaction. Then he fired, shattering the glass.

As one body, the crowd rushed out the door. All except for the studio executive, who walked over to the tarantula and squashed it with the heel of a custom-made English boot. “That’s it,” he said directly into the camera, managing to look both official and compassionate. “That’s the whole ball of wax.” Then he turned and left the saloon, nodding politely to Evelyn as he went through the swinging doors.

Shaken and exhausted, Wesley sat down at a table, Evelyn coming over to him and absently rubbing the back of his neck.

“Give me a two shot uptight and we’ll call it a day,” Wesley said to Sidney and the sound man, who were the only other people left in the saloon. “Assemble the footage in L.A. and consider yourself both on the payroll. Perhaps we’ll continue this little exercise later on.”

Having run out of all other options, Sidney raised the camera and focused on Wesley as he pulled Evelyn onto his lap. She put a hand up to block the lens but Wesley gently lowered it. “How would you feel about driving to Mazatlán tonight?” he asked. “We’ll lie on the beach for a few weeks and see where we go from there.”

“I would like that,” she said, kissing him on the mouth.

CUT TO A.D. and Walker rolling down the mountains in a secondhand Dodge van, their first stop a national park campsite a mile off the main road. They were on arid tableland, around them twisted formations of rock, a maze of natural arches and bridges bathed in a hard crimson and yellow evening light. They made a rough camp with the equipment and supplies they had bought after leaving Caleb’s. A.D. wasn’t going to pull his weight, that was obvious as he sat in front of the small fire Walker had made and played a few desultory notes on a pocket harmonica. Walker didn’t mind, preferring to handle the chores himself, peeling potatoes and frying two steaks over the fire. After they had finished eating, Walker decided to tell A.D. what was on his mind.