Dishonorable Intentions (22 page)

S
tone was awakened by a loud bark from Bob. He sat up and looked at the dog; the room was lit by the moon. “Bob,” he said softly, “go back to sleep. There are no bears.” Then he heard another noise, one he had not heard since he was a boy at summer camp. He had been running down a trail and ran straight over a rattlesnake before he heard the rattle.

Now he heard the rattle again, and Bob started barking.

“What's going on?” Gala said, sitting up.

“Just stay where you are, and don't put your feet on the floor.” He got out the pistol again and armed it. The rattling continued, and so did Bob.

Stone got on his hands and knees and crawled to the end of the bed. He could see it now, coiled to strike, hissing and rattling at Bob. “Bob, stay! Don't move.” He found the head of a rattlesnake too small a target, so he got down from the bed and
began inching his way toward the fireplace. The snake became aware of him and struck in his direction, but short.

Stone found time to wonder at the size of the thing; it was at least a five-footer. He made a leap for the fireplace and got hold of the poker. When the snake turned its attention to Bob again, Stone stepped forward and swung at its head. He felt a shock like connecting with a golf ball, and the snake began writhing uncontrollably. It took him half a dozen swings to connect with the head again, and then the reptile gave up and lay there, twitching. Bob approached it cautiously, then jumped back when it twitched again.

“My God in heaven,” Gala said. “What next?”

Stone got the fireplace tongs, picked up the snake, and dragged it outside, surprised at how heavy it was. He could not reach around the body of the thing with one hand. He flipped open a box where a garden hose was stored, removed the hose, and packed the snake's body in it and closed the lid, to keep the coyotes out.

Back in the room, Gala was still sitting up in bed. “May I go to the bathroom now? I really need to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure, go ahead.” It was only when she had left the room that it occurred to him that there could be more than one snake in the house. He followed her down the hall, poker at the ready, listening for another rattle. Satisfied that there were no more reptiles in the house, he went back to bed, but left the pistol and the poker on the bedside table, within ready reach.

Gala went back to sleep immediately; it took Stone an hour.

—

B
illy Barnett landed Peter's Citation Mustang at Santa Fe in the early afternoon, rented a nondescript car with a GPS, and drove away, not bothering to ask directions of anyone. He didn't want someone to remember having given somebody directions to the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch.

He found Bonanza Creek Road, and soon came to the ranch. There was a place for public parking, and he left the car there and followed the signs to the tour bus, which was loading when he got there. He was dressed in khakis, sneakers, a tan windbreaker, and a baseball cap with no name embroidered on it, and cheap sunglasses. He paid the man at the bus door and went to the rear of the bus, where there were a number of empty seats. He didn't want conversation.

The bus was electric and drove slowly down the town's main street, while the driver pointed out the saloons, the sheriff's office, the hotel, the stable, the blacksmith's shop, and a corral with half a dozen horses in it. The driver mentioned that the gunfight at the O.K. Corral had been filmed there more than once.

The bus continued off the main street and it was revealed that some of the buildings were simply facades, with nothing behind them.

Then they went back to the main street and parked in front of the saloon, which turned out to be beautifully complete and heavily furnished with a large nude over the bar, a painting of Custer's Last Stand nearby, a huge mahogany bar, manned by a
bartender in period clothes, and a poker game of movie extras in costume. A player piano ground away in a corner, playing “Oh, Them Golden Slippers,” and the tourers were treated to a draft beer on the house.

“Are they not filming today?” Billy asked the bartender.

“Nah, shooting begins tomorrow, and the first three scenes will be shot on this set,” the bartender replied.

“Where does the crew and cast live?”

“They're all staying in town at La Fonda, on the Plaza.”

Billy wandered around the saloon, peering at the decorations. He found a hat rack with a gun belt and a six-shooter hanging from it. Keeping his back to the bartender, he took the Colt .45 out of its holster and checked the cylinder: loaded, but with blanks. He replaced the gun and went and watched the poker game for a couple of minutes; the extras were playing for real, it seemed.

The bus driver announced that he was about to leave and that no one could stay on the set. As the tourers filed out, Billy saw a script on a table near the door. He was last out, and he slipped it under his jacket, then got back on the bus. They were driven back to the parking lot, and as he got off the bus, Billy noted a truck arriving with a closed rear, and emblazoned with the legend COSTER
'
S ANIMAL WRANGLERS—Furry Creatures and Reptiles.

“Those folks supply coyotes and snakes and such,” the driver said as Billy got off the bus.

Billy got into his rental car and drove back past the airport and to Tesuque, thinking all the way.

B
illy got to Gala's house at dusk and was greeted by Stone Barrington at the front door. Stone led him to a guest room, and helped him with his bags, one of them quite large. “What's in here?” Stone asked.

“Stuff,” Billy replied.

“Oh. Get settled, then find us in the kitchen, and we'll have a drink there before dinner.”

Billy put his shaving kit on the sink and stuffed his large case into a closet, then he sat down for a few minutes and flipped through the script he had stolen at the ranch. There was a shooting schedule and a call sheet for the next day, too; probably belonged to one of the poker players. He tossed the script onto the desk, then went to find the kitchen.

“Before I offer you a drink,” Stone said, “I want to show you something.” He led Billy outside through the kitchen door,
switching on an outdoor light along the way, then he flipped open the hose box. “Have a look at that.”

Billy looked at the snake. “My God,” he said. He reached into the box, took the dead snake by the neck and hauled it out, holding it up under the light. “I'm five-eleven, and this thing is six and a half feet,” he said. “His head is the size of my fist, what's left of it, and look at those rattles!”

Stone told him how he had found the snake in the house. “Is it native to these parts? What do you think?”

“Could be,” Billy said. “Do you want the skin?”

“Okay,” Stone said.

Billy draped the carcass over a table by the pool, took a folding knife from his pocket, made a few deft cuts, and in one motion, stripped the hide from the snake. The rattles came off with it. “There you go,” he said. He opened the door to the woodshed, hung the skin from a nail, stretched it tight and placed a piece of flagstone on the bottom. “Let it dry there, and you can have a pair of boots made from it.” He closed the door and latched it. “The meat is very good deep fried. Do you want to keep it?”

“I don't think so,” Stone said.

“Then let's leave it for the coyotes.” He swung the carcass wide and tossed it into some bushes a few yards away. “They'll find it before morning.”

They went back into the kitchen and sat in front of the fire with drinks, while Gala prepared dinner.

“Stone,” Billy said quietly, “that species of rattler may be native to this area, but I don't think it got into the house all by itself.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, first of all, it's a very big snake. A mouse might get in through a small opening, but I doubt if there's one big enough to admit that snake.”

“A door left open, maybe?”

“I don't think so—you've got screens on all the doors. However, there's a snake wrangler working on the movie being made at Bonanza Creek, and a scene in the script with a big rattler.”

“How do you know that?”

“I took the tourist tour of the ranch this afternoon, and I swiped a copy of the script from the saloon set. And I saw the snake wrangler's truck.”

“So it's Boris.”

“He seems to have ignored my warning. Perhaps I'd better give him another chance to listen.”

“Dinner's on,” Gala called to them, and their conversation ended.

—

T
he following morning, Billy set his large case on the bed, opened it, and removed the items he had borrowed from Centurion Studios the day before. He dressed in the jeans, shirt, leather vest, and boots and donned the weathered, sweat-stained Stetson. He reassembled the Winchester Model 1873
and loaded it with .44/40 ammunition, then slung the gun belt with its Colt .44 over his shoulder, grabbed the movie script, and walked out to his car.

He drove out to the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch and parked his car in the parking lot. The place was alive with the movie's cast and crew. He loaded the .45 and strapped on the Ojala holster and belt, almost universally used in Western films, then he put on his Stetson and left the car, blending in with the other cast and crew arrivals.

There was an elaborate breakfast table laid out by the caterers, and he helped himself to a pastry and a cup of coffee, then sat down on the front porch of the general store and watched and listened. He read the script carefully and picked the scene he needed, then he filed into the saloon with the others and took up a place at the bar, which was crowded with actors and extras. A woman with a clipboard approached him.

“You must be Baxter,” she said. “You didn't sign in.” She handed Billy the clipboard and a pen. “Right there,” she said, pointing to an empty space in her list. “You want to get paid, don't you?”

“Sure,” Billy said, and scrawled an indecipherable signature on the sheet.

The director came in and placed the actors for the scene, while the cameraman placed the lights. While they were working, Billy saw Boris Tirov enter the saloon and sit down in a folding chair with his name on it, one of a dozen that had been set out for members of the cast and production people.

Billy stood at the bar, bored, while they shot a scene from three angles and then did close-ups. The whole business took four and a half hours for, maybe, three minutes of usable footage, and Billy thought that was fast, if dull. They broke for lunch, which the caterers set up in the saloon, and he ate a sandwich at the bar. Nobody questioned his presence; this was a new shoot, and there would be people there that everybody didn't know yet.

After lunch, the cast were called outside, where the camera had been set up in the street. Tirov was now sitting on the porch of the sheriff's office, across the street, out of camera range.

“Okay,” an assistant director said through a bullhorn, “this is the wide shot. Nobody fires until Brad takes the first shot.” He moved among the dozen and a half cast members, placing each one. Billy was moved next to an empty hitching rail. “Other side of the rail,” the young man said. “When the shooting starts, you can rest your rifle on it.” Billy nodded, bent over and ducked under the rail. He was just outside the general-store set.

“Okay,” the assistant director yelled, “this is a rehearsal—nobody fires.”

They rehearsed the scene twice, and Billy moved down the rail for a better view of Tirov, across the street.

“This is a take,” the AD shouted.

The director stood behind and to one side of the camera, watching a video monitor. He looked up and nodded to the AD, and the AD yelled, “Lights!” The lights came on. “Camera!”

“Speed,” the cameraman replied.

“Action!”

Billy crouched and laid his rifle across the hitching rail. The principal actors began speaking their lines, and Billy panned right with his rifle and took a bead on Boris Tirov's left arm at the shoulder. Brad, whoever that was, drew his pistol and fired, and everybody else began firing, too. Billy squeezed off a round and saw Tirov spin in his chair and fall to the board sidewalk while a windowpane shattered behind him.

“Cut!” the AD screamed, and the firing came to a halt. “Hold your positions, take five for a lighting change!”

Billy crossed the boardwalk, entered the general store, walked through it and out the back door, past a privy, then he turned toward the parking lot and began walking, not too fast.

“Where you going?” somebody yelled from behind him.

Billy turned and saw the woman with the clipboard. “I'm not in this one,” he called back. “I want to get something from my car.” She nodded and he continued. He tossed the rifle onto the backseat, got in, started the car, and drove slowly out of the lot and onto the road.

When he got back to Tesuque, he sat outside the house for a minute, then found the call sheet with the hotel assignments and cell phones of the cast and crew. He called Boris Tirov's cell number. He had expected to get voice mail, but Tirov answered. “Yeah?”

“Listen to me,” Billy said.

“Hang on,” Tirov replied, then spoke to somebody else. “Yes, it hurts, but it's not bad. Just put some goddamned antibiotic
cream on it, bandage it, and tell them to find out who's using live ammo!” Then he turned back to the phone. “Yeah?”

“Boris,” Billy said softly, “I warned you, and you ignored my warning. Now you'll have to face the consequences.”

Billy broke the connection, then went to his room and changed clothes.