seniority.”
“Danziger had been Walsh’s biggest supporter. He was the one who okayed the project and gave Walsh carte blanche. No wonder he was pissed.”
“He should have gotten involved sooner. Walsh was a genius, but he was in way over his head.”
“A sloppy set and too much time on your hands—there must have been plenty of gossip. What were you hearing about Walsh?”
“Sex or drugs?”
“Sex.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “The man was a machine, a piston-driven fuck machine. I don’t know how he got
anything
done. Actresses, secretaries, models—there was even a girl on the lighting unit who would pop into his trailer after a call.”
“Was there anyone special?”
Martin buffed one of his black cowboy boots with the palm of his hand. “There were a few regulars, but Walsh was a free-range hump-monkey. For a while, anyway.” He shrugged. “If you’re writing a general feature about sex on the set, I can give you a few names. One sitcom actress in particular makes Walsh seem like a celibate—” There was a knock on the door. “Go away!” He looked at Jimmy. “I’m not going to out anyone, if that’s—”
“What did you mean, ‘for a while’?”
Martin turned his boot in the overhead light, checking his reflection.
“You said Walsh was free-ranging it for a while. When did he stop?”
“I don’t know—three or four months into the shoot. Suddenly the talent was turned away, and the great man’s trailer declared off-limits.” Martin smiled. “The crew—certain members of them, anyway—were quite happy to comfort the rejects.”
“Was there one woman who still had access to the trailer? Someone who seemed to have an ongoing relationship with him?”
“You’re asking if Walsh found Ms. Right?” Martin chuckled, then shook his head. “I just assumed he decided to focus on the film. Still, I was quite busy with my job. I might have missed something.”
“Did Walsh have any enemies on the set?”
“Just
everyone.
”
“I mean did he exchange words with anyone? Threats or—”
“Everyone. I saw one of the
caterers
wave a knife at Walsh once, threaten to cut his balls off if he talked to her like that again, and who could blame her? The producers—you don’t even want to get into that. He drove them absolutely mad. Mick Packard kicked in the door to Walsh’s trailer one afternoon, one of his signature roundhouse kicks, but it was no act. The PA closed the set and told us to go to lunch, but we could hear them shouting from fifty feet away.”
“That’s right, Packard was the star of
Hammerlock.
”
“Mr. Action Hero himself. He was hotter than Boys Town on a Saturday night in those days, and he wanted the whole world to know it. God, was I grateful when his career went into the shitter. Talk about karma.”
“What were he and Walsh arguing about?”
“No telling. It was one of those typical Hollywood-alpha-male pissing contests from the very first day on the set.” Martin took another sip of his power drink. “In your article I hope you don’t just talk about the bad things that Walsh did—killing that poor girl. He was a very talented man. The
Hammerlock
shoot was a mess, disorganized and self-indulgent, but he shot some incredible footage. Walsh’s
out-takes
were better than most of the crap that gets released today. I just hope you tell people the truth about him.”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
Martin looked pained. “I thought about it, but I can’t afford to miss work, and besides—it’s just kind of sad, isn’t it? Drowning in a fish pond, eaten away by
koi,
for God’s sake, which are just so . . . passé.” He started giggling, “I know I shouldn’t laugh.” He laughed harder. “Forgive me, but it’s this stupid movie—you spend all day making beautiful girls look like hamburger, it changes your sense of humor.”
Jimmy smiled. He didn’t even have Martin’s excuse.
Martin drained the blender, stood up, and
“Danziger had been Walsh’s biggest supporter. He was the one who okayed the project and gave Walsh carte blanche. No wonder he was pissed.”
“He should have gotten involved sooner. Walsh was a genius, but he was in way over his head.”
“A sloppy set and too much time on your hands—there must have been plenty of gossip. What were you hearing about Walsh?”
“Sex or drugs?”
“Sex.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “The man was a machine, a piston-driven fuck machine. I don’t know how he got
anything
done. Actresses, secretaries, models—there was even a girl on the lighting unit who would pop into his trailer after a call.”
“Was there anyone special?”
Martin buffed one of his black cowboy boots with the palm of his hand. “There were a few regulars, but Walsh was a free-range hump-monkey. For a while, anyway.” He shrugged. “If you’re writing a general feature about sex on the set, I can give you a few names. One sitcom actress in particular makes Walsh seem like a celibate—” There was a knock on the door. “Go away!” He looked at Jimmy. “I’m not going to out anyone, if that’s—”
“What did you mean, ‘for a while’?”
Martin turned his boot in the overhead light, checking his reflection.
“You said Walsh was free-ranging it for a while. When did he stop?”
“I don’t know—three or four months into the shoot. Suddenly the talent was turned away, and the great man’s trailer declared off-limits.” Martin smiled. “The crew—certain members of them, anyway—were quite happy to comfort the rejects.”
“Was there one woman who still had access to the trailer? Someone who seemed to have an ongoing relationship with him?”
“You’re asking if Walsh found Ms. Right?” Martin chuckled, then shook his head. “I just assumed he decided to focus on the film. Still, I was quite busy with my job. I might have missed something.”
“Did Walsh have any enemies on the set?”
“Just
everyone.
”
“I mean did he exchange words with anyone? Threats or—”
“Everyone. I saw one of the
caterers
wave a knife at Walsh once, threaten to cut his balls off if he talked to her like that again, and who could blame her? The producers—you don’t even want to get into that. He drove them absolutely mad. Mick Packard kicked in the door to Walsh’s trailer one afternoon, one of his signature roundhouse kicks, but it was no act. The PA closed the set and told us to go to lunch, but we could hear them shouting from fifty feet away.”
“That’s right, Packard was the star of
Hammerlock.
”
“Mr. Action Hero himself. He was hotter than Boys Town on a Saturday night in those days, and he wanted the whole world to know it. God, was I grateful when his career went into the shitter. Talk about karma.”
“What were he and Walsh arguing about?”
“No telling. It was one of those typical Hollywood-alpha-male pissing contests from the very first day on the set.” Martin took another sip of his power drink. “In your article I hope you don’t just talk about the bad things that Walsh did—killing that poor girl. He was a very talented man. The
Hammerlock
shoot was a mess, disorganized and self-indulgent, but he shot some incredible footage. Walsh’s
out-takes
were better than most of the crap that gets released today. I just hope you tell people the truth about him.”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
Martin looked pained. “I thought about it, but I can’t afford to miss work, and besides—it’s just kind of sad, isn’t it? Drowning in a fish pond, eaten away by
koi,
for God’s sake, which are just so . . . passé.” He started giggling, “I know I shouldn’t laugh.” He laughed harder. “Forgive me, but it’s this stupid movie—you spend all day making beautiful girls look like hamburger, it changes your sense of humor.”
Jimmy smiled. He didn’t even have Martin’s excuse.
Martin drained the blender, stood up, and
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