Peril by Thomas H. Cook Page A

a cigarette.” He winked. “I got a full pack.”
    Sara shook her head.
    â€œGood,” Gillman said. “A girl should keep fit.” He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, his belly thrust out aggressively so that Sara noticed how large and firm it was, the way it seemed to poke through the stained white shirt. “So, tell me a little about yourself, Samantha,” he said.
    Sara offered her best smile. “There’s not much to tell.”
    â€œStart anywhere,” Gillman told her brightly. “And by the way, you can call me Art. We’re real informal around here.”
    â€œI used to be a singer,” Sara said. “Art.”
    â€œA singer?” Gillman said exuberantly. “No kidding? What kind of singer?”
    â€œClubs. But that was a long time ago.”
    â€œWhat kind of clubs?”
    â€œCabaret.”
    â€œSo you’re used to performing for an audience,” Gillman said. “That’s good. ’Cause you got to deal with a lot of people in this business. People hanging around.”
    Sara nodded silently.
    â€œWhat else, Samantha? What else can you tell me about yourself?”
    Sara tried to think of something interesting, but couldn’t.
    Gillman continued to wait for her to respond in some way, show some sparkle, tell him something he didn’t drag out of her. But all she could think to say was “I lived in New York a long time ago. When I was a singer.”
    â€œYou’re from the South, right?” Gillman said. “Still got a little twang there.” He leaned forward, rested his hands on the desk, fingers entwined. “You don’t have to like it, you know.”
    Sara looked at him quizzically.
    â€œYou don’t have to like what you do, I mean,” Gillman said. “Lots of people don’t like what they do. But they got bills to pay, kids to raise. A lot of people in this business have kids, you know. Do you have any kids, Samantha?”
    â€œNo,” Sara answered.
    Gillman looked at her with what seemed a deep regard, as if he were trying to get beneath her skin. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    â€œThirty-eight,” Sara answered.
    â€œThat’s pretty old for the film business,” Gillman said. “It’s a younger group, I mean. But the way I see it, it’s the person that matters. People who see you, they wouldn’t take you for thirty-eight.” He looked her up and down. “Thirty tops. Well, maybe thirty-one, two.” He seemed to be talking to himself again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he concluded. “Thirty-two tops.” He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he said, “Have you ever been on a film set, Samantha?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThink it would bother you, all that hustle-bustle?”
    Sara shook her head.
    â€œWell, even if it did, it wouldn’t matter, right?” Gillman said happily. “I mean, you can keep focused, I’m sure.” He sprang to his feet. “Okay, so why don’t I show you around.”
    Sara followed him out of the office, then down the corridor to a set of padlocked double doors. “This is where the action is,” he told her as he fumbled for a key. “I keep everything locked up because we’ve had a couple things turn up missing over the years.”
    He unbolted the lock and swung open the door into a pitch-black room. “This is where we do the shoot.” He stepped inside and turned on the lights. “It’s not the Waldorf, but in this business you gotta keep an eye on the budget.”
    The room was a labyrinth of small cubicles, each with papered or painted walls, and set up to resemble offices, medical examination rooms, prison cells. To the right, a barn loft, complete with fake bales of hay, stood separated from a pool hall by a slender partition. There was an Arabian tent, its multicolored