Clyde ?”
Danny slapped Pellam’s palm, five high.
The director ignored them. “Daniel, rewrite it and let’s get John a copy. I want it to look like they’re going to get blasted but then something happens and they escape and there’s a freak accident.”
Exasperated, Danny said, “What? What happens? Tell me. Give me a clue.”
The director said, “Surprise me. I want it like Man can’t touch them, but Fate can. Fate or nature, or some shit.”
Pellam asked, “You want any particular kind of road?”
“A road . . .” His eyes began to fly again. “I want it near the river and I want a big field on one side. I want the car to careen into the river.”
The river. Pellam grimaced. It was often impossible to get permits for scenes like that nowadays—no one wanted gas and oil and random car parts filling up their bodies of water. Many of the car crash setups were guerrilla shots—without a permit, in and out before the authorities found out, the evidence left at the bottom of the river or lake. Pellam guessed that if Sloan insisted on launching Ross’s Packard into the Missouri River, it would have to be a guerrilla shot.
Sloan said, “I’m going to look at rushes.” He hurried toward the door. Before he could leave, though, the sound of arguing voices rose from the hallway. A security guard was backed onto the set by two tall men in light gray suits. They walked steadily toward him, speaking low and pleasantly but insistently. One of the men looked at Pellam. He said to his partner, “That’s him.” They turned from the flustered, red-faced guard and strode onto the set.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sloan said. “What is this?”
“John Pellam?”
Before Pellam could answer, Sloan said impatiently, “This is a closed set. You’ll have to leave.”
One said in a high, contrite voice, “I’m sorry for the intrusion. This won’t take a moment.” He turned to Pellam. “You’re John Pellam?”
“That’s right.”
Sloan looked at Pellam with a mixture of perplexityand anger in his face. “John, who are these guys? What’s going on here?”
Like the cops the day before, these men ignored Sloan and said to Pellam, “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” IDs appeared.
And like the day before, when the cops had shown up, everyone on the set stopped working and turned to watch.
“I’m Special Agent Monroe and this is Special Agent Bracken. Would you mind stepping outside with us? We’d like to ask you a few questions.” The agents ignored the bloody actress. Perhaps they had seen a lot of machine-gunned bodies in their day.
“About what?”
“A crime you may have been a witness to. If you have a few minutes now?”
“I really don’t.”
“Yessir,” Bracken said. Monroe, with his razor-cut hair and tidy mustache, looked like an FBI agent. Bracken was scruffy and had a wrinkled suit. He looked like a thug. Maybe he worked undercover. “It won’t take long.”
“He’s very busy,” Sloan said. “We’re all very busy.”
Bracken spoke to Pellam, as if he had uttered this protest. “Well, sir, the thing is, if you continue not to cooperate we’ll have to take you to St. Louis and—”
Sloan strode over to them. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you can’t just walk in here. Go get a warrant or something. John, what the hell is going on here? What are they talking about?”
“Well, we can get a warrant, sir. But that’ll be to arrest Mr. Pellam here—”
“For what?”
“Contempt and obstruction of justice. Now, if that’s how you’d like us to proceed . . .”
“Jesus,” Sloan whined, closing his eyes. He sounded more upset than Pellam. “Talk to them, John.” He waved his hand fiercely as if scaring away a bee. “This is not a problem I want. You understand me?”
“Maybe if we could just step outside, Mr. Pellam,” Monroe said. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Sloan lifted impatient eyebrows at Pellam and told the
Danny slapped Pellam’s palm, five high.
The director ignored them. “Daniel, rewrite it and let’s get John a copy. I want it to look like they’re going to get blasted but then something happens and they escape and there’s a freak accident.”
Exasperated, Danny said, “What? What happens? Tell me. Give me a clue.”
The director said, “Surprise me. I want it like Man can’t touch them, but Fate can. Fate or nature, or some shit.”
Pellam asked, “You want any particular kind of road?”
“A road . . .” His eyes began to fly again. “I want it near the river and I want a big field on one side. I want the car to careen into the river.”
The river. Pellam grimaced. It was often impossible to get permits for scenes like that nowadays—no one wanted gas and oil and random car parts filling up their bodies of water. Many of the car crash setups were guerrilla shots—without a permit, in and out before the authorities found out, the evidence left at the bottom of the river or lake. Pellam guessed that if Sloan insisted on launching Ross’s Packard into the Missouri River, it would have to be a guerrilla shot.
Sloan said, “I’m going to look at rushes.” He hurried toward the door. Before he could leave, though, the sound of arguing voices rose from the hallway. A security guard was backed onto the set by two tall men in light gray suits. They walked steadily toward him, speaking low and pleasantly but insistently. One of the men looked at Pellam. He said to his partner, “That’s him.” They turned from the flustered, red-faced guard and strode onto the set.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sloan said. “What is this?”
“John Pellam?”
Before Pellam could answer, Sloan said impatiently, “This is a closed set. You’ll have to leave.”
One said in a high, contrite voice, “I’m sorry for the intrusion. This won’t take a moment.” He turned to Pellam. “You’re John Pellam?”
“That’s right.”
Sloan looked at Pellam with a mixture of perplexityand anger in his face. “John, who are these guys? What’s going on here?”
Like the cops the day before, these men ignored Sloan and said to Pellam, “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” IDs appeared.
And like the day before, when the cops had shown up, everyone on the set stopped working and turned to watch.
“I’m Special Agent Monroe and this is Special Agent Bracken. Would you mind stepping outside with us? We’d like to ask you a few questions.” The agents ignored the bloody actress. Perhaps they had seen a lot of machine-gunned bodies in their day.
“About what?”
“A crime you may have been a witness to. If you have a few minutes now?”
“I really don’t.”
“Yessir,” Bracken said. Monroe, with his razor-cut hair and tidy mustache, looked like an FBI agent. Bracken was scruffy and had a wrinkled suit. He looked like a thug. Maybe he worked undercover. “It won’t take long.”
“He’s very busy,” Sloan said. “We’re all very busy.”
Bracken spoke to Pellam, as if he had uttered this protest. “Well, sir, the thing is, if you continue not to cooperate we’ll have to take you to St. Louis and—”
Sloan strode over to them. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you can’t just walk in here. Go get a warrant or something. John, what the hell is going on here? What are they talking about?”
“Well, we can get a warrant, sir. But that’ll be to arrest Mr. Pellam here—”
“For what?”
“Contempt and obstruction of justice. Now, if that’s how you’d like us to proceed . . .”
“Jesus,” Sloan whined, closing his eyes. He sounded more upset than Pellam. “Talk to them, John.” He waved his hand fiercely as if scaring away a bee. “This is not a problem I want. You understand me?”
“Maybe if we could just step outside, Mr. Pellam,” Monroe said. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Sloan lifted impatient eyebrows at Pellam and told the
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