Jeffery Deaver - Triple Threat

“That’s right. I’m a location scout for a film company based in L.A.”

“Really?” Hannah asked, her curiosity piqued for the first time and sour attitude on hold. Pellam got this a lot. He wondered if she’d ask for a walk-on part. He had an amusing image of her as a femme fatale; she had the right look and spirit to be a really good bad girl. Sexy, too, which was another requirement. In fact, he was scouting for a film noir at the moment, an indie titled Paradice .

“And you’re setting it here?” she asked.

“Well, I was going to recommend it. Came across this place east of here fifteen miles or so. What’s it called? Devil’s…?”

“Playground,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “Be a good setting for a Stephen King movie, that’s about all.”

Taylor asked, “That’s near where you picked me up, right? Spooky.”

It was. The place was nestled at the base of two mountains, a huge craggy plain of pits and arroyos. Bleak as could be. But extremely photogenic.

“But I called the county supervisor this morning. He won’t issue film permits.”

“Derek Westerholm?”

“That was him.”

“Hey, Hube, you just bought some land up near there, didn’t you?” Rita, the young waitress, piped up. “Near that lake?”

Hube, Pellam reflected. Hubert. No wonder he went by a solitary H.

The sheriff didn’t answer.

“Let him make his movie on your property,” Rita continued. “And, Mister, I’m available, you need a leading lady.”

Taylor said earnestly, “ I’ll put you in a poem.”

Again, the Elvis-has-been-spotted look. Taylor’s hitchhiking-weathered face blushed.

“Okay, that’s all I need,” Werther said. “Just get those vehicles up to the law.”

“Whatta you mean?” Hannah asked.

“No brake light, no turn signals. No backup. You can’t drive without ‘em.”

“You’re kidding. It’s still daylight.”

“Still.”

“Where?” she asked, her eyes going, for some reason, to Pellam.

The sheriff answered, “Rudy’s. ‘Bout four blocks thataway. Best mechanic in town.”

“That the only one in town?” Pellam found himself asking.

“That’s right.” The sheriff gave him the phone number from memory.

Pellam asked, “He by any chance related to you?”

“Hah, that’s funny.” The sheriff’s smile might not have been real and Pellam reminded himself to watch it. He couldn’t afford to spend the night in jail on suspicion of fraternizing with empties in the front seat of a vehicle.

# # #

Ten minutes later Pellam and Hannah walked into the repair shop with the world’s most beautiful view.

The windows looked out over mountains to the west and north and craggy flats—salt or sand—to the east. Now, early afternoon, the peaks were lit brilliantly, the stunning light firing off the late spring snowcap. Way in the distance he noted a particularly impressive, elegant mountain. Was it Pike’s Peak? Probably not.

Hannah had driven them both here in her rear-light-challenged Ford, with an okay from Sheriff Werther. The Winnebago was gingerly towed to a spot in front of the service station and lowered to its damaged front paws.

The garage was filthy and cluttered. The owner, Rudy, came out of the bays smiling. He nodded, but from habit, didn’t shake hands. His fingers were black. He wore a Carhartt brown jacket, stained beyond saving. He smiled at them in a way that was only a bit like a cat regarding a plump mouse and started talking like they were old friends. He was rambling on about life here in Gurney, his family (one boy in the army, one girl in nursing school) and assorted relatives. “Hube’s a good man. You know, he’s got a grandkid with that autism problem. It’s pretty bad, needs special help a lot. Hube works two jobs. Sheriff and security at Preston Assembly plant. His wife, my sister—”

Pellam was content to let him go because, he figured, the more like friends and family this seemed, the less the chance of getting robbed blind. But Hannah wasn’t in the mood. She interrupted curtly, “You mind getting to those estimates? The pickup first.”

“Well now, I’ll do that.” With a crinkly-eyed look that meant he’d just added a hundred or two onto the bill.

He headed outside. So did Hannah, setting the Stetson firmly on her head, against the up-and-coming wind. She pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket but then looked at assorted open containers of liquids that might or might not be flammable. She grimaced and put the Marlboros away. She made some calls.

Pellam did, too, pulling up his antenna and finding an acceptable signal. He told the director that he’d been in an accident, which the man responded to with more or less genuine concern. When he learned that the county would not under any circumstances issue permits, the director had a more intense reaction.

“Fuckers. Why?”

“Fragile eco system.”

“Fragile? You told me it was rocks and sand.”

“Joe, that’s what they said. What they mean is that they don’t want horny actors and slutty actresses carousing around in their county.”

“We’re behind schedule, John.”

“I’ll get the camper fixed and head south tomorrow.”

A sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” The voice grew grave: “You okay, for sure?”

Concern in tone, not in spirit.

“Fine, Joe.”

He disconnected and happened to be looking at a map of the area. The Devil’s Playground area seemed to be the best locale for Paradice, the fictional town where the movie was set, as well as being the film’s title.

And Pellam laughed to himself, realizing that, damn, the indie was about a stranger coming to a small desert town, like Gurney, and getting into all sorts of trouble. There wasn’t much of a story to go with it, but sometimes—especially in noir—all you needed was a misspelled word in the title, some hunky lead and a sexy babe, and betrayal. Oh, and a fair amount of gunplay.

Hannah finished her own call, walked farther away from conflagration risks, and had a portion of a cigarette. Then she returned to the waiting room, staring out the window, too. She flopped down in a cracked fiberglass chair. “I told Ed. He wasn’t happy.”

Pellam got the impression she didn’t much care.

“Your husband, the real estate man.”

She looked at him as if asking, You heard that before. Why ask?

“Where’s Butch?” Pellam asked.

“Who?”

Oh. Right. “Taylor.”

“Headed to this little park in the middle of town. He wanted to write a poem.”

“A poem? He’s serious about that?”

Hannah continued, “Said he’d felt inspired by the experience of being out here. In a small western town.” She shook her head, meaning: I don’t get it. “There’s nothing to experience. Not here. Dust maybe, rednecks, losers, coyotes. Hamlin’s got a mall.”

Pellam wondered if the shopping center comment was delivered with the irony that seemed warranted. Apparently not.

A few minutes later the huge, bearded mechanic lumbered into the office, rearranging the grease on his fingers with a filthy rag.

“Damn shame ‘bout that pickup. Needin’ bodywork when you can still smell the new leather. That’s always the way, ain’t it? Now, miss, I got two options. First’ll get you home sooner: I can remove the old bulbs—that’s tricky since they’re busted—and then screw in new bulbs and mount the lenses. That’ll be four hundred eighty dollars. Number two, which I’d recommend, would include all that, plus the body work and replacing the hitch. You don’t want to tow nothing with it in that present condition. Paint, too.”

“And how much is that?”

“Twenty-eight fifty.”