Ace Atkins is an award-winning, New York Times bestselling author who started his writing career as a crime beat reporter in Florida. Don’t Let the Devil Ride is his thirtieth novel. His previous novels include eleven books in the Quinn Colson series and multiple true-crime novels based on infamous crooks and killers. In 2010, he was chosen by Robert B. Parker’s family to continue the iconic Spenser series, adding ten novels to the franchise. He lives in Oxford, Mississippi, with his family.
Like the old song says, there’s nothing like the life of a Hollywood stuntman.
Saturday afternoon, three people were shot and another killed outside a downtown Austin bar. According to police, the altercation started inside the Royale Lounge, 701 Red River Street, at what was supposed to be a fan-appreciation fundraiser for a regular in the local movie scene, retired stuntman Jason Colson.
Colson, 71, is in stable condition at UT Health Austin. Police haven’t identified the other two victims or the man who died at the scene.
“I was in line for an autograph when we heard the gunshots outside,” said Scott Montgomery, 51, of Austin. “At first, everyone thought it was part of some kind of Old West show, like maybe Mr. Colson was going to fall backward off the roof or something. But when we walked outside to watch, the police rushed up and pushed us back. That’s when we heard someone was dead.”
According to IMDb.com, Jason Colson worked from the early seventies up through the early 2000s on films like Smokey and the Bandit, Hooper, and the Cannonball Run films. He was the go-to double and stuntman for the late Burt Reynolds. In recent years, Colson had been a featured guest at several film festivals and events for the Alamo Drafthouse.
“I don’t know who would make trouble for Jason,” said Lars Nilsen, programmer for the Austin Film Society. “He’s one of the nicest guys in the business. Always willing to give his time and immense knowledge of the stunt scene in Southern California to fans. Anyone who has ever heard his story about jumping that cherry-red Trans Am over a ravine in Alabama for Hooper knows that he was the real deal.”
A woman who answered the phone at Colson’s home said she didn’t want to comment on the shooting. Austin police say no charges have been filed in an active investigation. Any witnesses are asked to call the department at 512-472-TIPS.
*
“How do I look?” Jason Colson asked.
It was a little after ten Saturday morning and his daughter Caddy was in his apartment kitchen, sitting at his old wagon-wheel table. She had a purse thrown over her shoulder and keys in her hand. Ready to roll even though the show didn’t start till high noon.
“Would you be mad if I said the shirt was a bit much?” Caddy asked.
“This shirt?” Jason said. “Hell. Burt gave it to me himself. Had six of ’em made for Smokey deuce. Fans will get it. It’s real silk and the red roses were embroidered by hand. Mexican woman over on Olvera Street made a dozen of ’em special for the crew.”
“I’m sure the ladies loved it back during the bicentennial,” Caddy said. “But how about that nice one Donnie and I gave you for Christmas? Maybe tone it down a little, Dad.”
“That’s not what folks want,” Jason said. “They’re not payin’ twenty-five bucks a head to see an old man in a button-down collar and tie. This isn’t some fancy church service.”
“That’s me, putting on pearls and lipstick before worship.”
Caddy worked her tail off for some Christian nonprofit feeding homeless folks and immigrants in need. She had on an old threadbare Johnny Cash T-shirt, bell-bottoms, and hippie sandals.
She rolled her eyes as Jason walked over to the counter, where he reached for his wallet and then headed back to his bedroom. He stood in front of his floor-length mirror and checked out the spit-shined Luccheses, the tight black jeans, and black silk cowboy shirt. He ran a comb over his gray hair and gray mustache and decided his daughter was a fine woman and an amazing person but plain wrong on the shirt. 1976. Hell, everyone knew that Smokey II hit theaters in the summer of 1980.
“Ready, Daddy?” Caddy said, calling out from the kitchen.
“I was born ready,” Jason said in his best Roy Rogers.
*
Jason remembered the Red River District before the place had a name. He used to hang out at the One Knite Club back when it was filled with bikers, hippies, and old blues musicians. The bar had once turned away the boys from Pink Floyd because they couldn’t name a Lightnin’ Hopkins song. That wasn’t long before they were shooting Outlaw Blues with Peter Fonda and Susan Saint James. He’d doubled Fonda in that picture, riding a police motorcycle along the concrete path of Waller Creek and up and down North Lamar and Lavaca. Fonda was playing a convict who’d had a hit song stolen from him by a sleazy country-and-western singer. Pretty damn good script written by his pal Bill Norton, who went on to write Convoy. Jason did stunts on both.
The shoot wasn’t easy. Most days Fonda and a lot of the crew had showed up stoned out of their minds. Hard to believe he was gone. Burt too. Needham. His old pal Charlie Bail, who taught him just about everything he knew about gags. Almost everyone he knew from the old Hollywood days was either dead or tucked and fucked beyond recognition.
He missed old Hollywood so bad it hurt. But it was gone. He’d moved to Austin five years ago because he could make a buck or two as a consultant for young filmmakers. He worked on a vampire flick, some coming-of-age horseshit made with cell phones, and what was supposed to be a western shot on a jerry-rigged set out in Bastrop. The script was so bad it made him physically ill to say the lines. (OLD MAN: I’m getting too old for vengeance, son. Blood just begets more blood till there ain’t no more.)
Today was supposed to be a celebration. But now he wondered if it might be a crucifixion.
Damn if he wasn’t still into Bobby Delgado for ten thousand big ones. At the moment, he only had four hundred bucks left to his name.
Bobby D won’t show, right? Even Bobby D wouldn’t want to piss on my parade.
*
The Jason Colson Celebration hadn’t even started, the band hadn’t played a lick, and already he had folks talking his ear off.
Some big fella in a black duster and black cowboy hat cornered him by the bar, asking him all sorts of questions about his trucker movies. When they’d shook hands, the duster parted like a curtain and he saw the fella was carrying a goddamn cannon under his right arm. Looked like a walnut-handle .44.
“Mr. Colson, I can’t tell you how much your work means to me,” the big man said. “I drove all the way over from Amarillo in my rig just to meet you. My daddy and me used to watch you on television when I was a kid. Is it true that The Fall Guy was really based on you?”
“Well,” Jason said, “some folks have made that connection, although the courts saw it different. But like the bard said, partly truth and partly fiction. Just a walkin’ contradiction.”
“Who was that?”
“Fella I used to know back in the ole days,” Jason said. He gave a quick wink and shook the man’s hand again, trying to get back to the card table they’d set up by the bar.
“What’s he like?”
“Who’s that?”
“Burt.”
“Third-finest man to walk this earth,” Jason said. “After Jesus Christ and Elvis Presley.”
“Did he do a lot of his own stunts?”
“When he could,” Jason said. “When he was younger. But Burt had a bad back from football at Florida State and when he did his own stuff on Gunsmoke. We knew each other a long while. From White Lightning all the way to Cop and a Half. We shot that one in Tampa.”
“He seemed like a regular guy.”
“Yes sir.”
“No airs about him.”
“None at all.”
“I knew it,” the man said, hitching up his belt buckle. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“Broke that ole mold.”
Caddy walked up on them, grabbing Jason’s elbow, being a real pro at separating her dad from the crazy fans, and said it was time. Fans had started to line up outside and they’d soon be letting them in. Two-dollar beers and dollar tequila shots, as the event was sponsored by the Jose Cuervo distributor.
She ushered Jason over to the table where he eased into a hard chair, feeling that familiar lightning zap up his legs and into his lower back. Both knees. One shoulder too. Caddy had set out a bunch of Sharpies and Jason Colson swag: eight-by-ten action shots, T-shirts, ball caps, and belt buckles.
The band on stage started picking out the first chords of “East Bound and Down,” Jason recalling how ole Jerry had come up with that one on the spot for Hal, saying if he didn’t like it, give him a few hours and he’d write something else.
“Only one question,” Caddy said, giving him the side eye. “What’s all this bullshit about medical expenses?”
“You know,” Jason said, “I’ve had a few over the years.”
“Mm-hmm,” Caddy said.
“I love you, baby,” Jason said, “but can you please ease off on the sermon? Just for today?”
*
Red River.
Jason didn’t know if it was his nerves acting up, but he couldn’t stop thinking about that film he’d seen as a boy at the picture show in Tibbehah County, Mississippi. John Wayne bigger than shit in black-and-white with a six-shooter on his hip, leading that first cattle drive along the Chisholm Trail. Monty Clift playing his adopted son willing to follow him into the depths of hell and madness until things went off the rails, the Duke killing off two of his cowboys for not keeping their word. Wayne and Clift damn well beat the hell out of each other until a good woman intervened and told them they really loved each other. Loved each other? If only it was all that simple.
Jason knew his own son thought about him the same way. Five years ago, Jason had decided to up and leave in the middle of the night in an old Firebird he’d gotten after Hooper wrapped. It had stayed in storage for thirty years until he had the time to take it apart and put it all back together after. Ended up selling it for forty grand to a collector in Dallas. He never did get around to explaining to his son why he’d left again. Some things were just too rough and painful to discuss.
Jason knew that him shagging ass sure opened up some old wounds, scars made when he left his first wife back when the kids were little. But given the circumstances, he didn’t have any other choice.
When Caddy and Quinn had been kids, there were epic trips out west. Visits to the movie sets. Disneyland, popcorn, and ice cream sundaes till they about burst. Caddy could always see the good. He sure wished his son one day might do the same.
*
Jason counted almost a hundred heads, hitting over 2K, as the rain pinged on the tin roof above the wide-open cinder block bar. They’d cheered for him as he made his way to the stage after a fine introduction by his buddy Lars, who ran the film fest. Lars was able to name a bunch of his films that most folks had forgotten, like Billy Jack Goes to Washington and Moonrunners.
Moonrunners hadn’t paid well but was a hell of a fun shoot with Mitchum’s son James and a real pistol of a gal named Chris Forbes. No woman, except maybe Lynda Carter, looked better in a pair of tight jeans.
“Never in a million years did I think falling off a damn horse or crashing a car would mean so much to folks,” Jason said. “Those pictures we made were supposed to run for a few weeks at your neighborhood drive-in and maybe show up once or twice on late-night TV. But seeing so many young people here tonight shows me that we made something real and honest. And not to get up too high on my horse, but I think that’s something lacking in pictures today with all that CGI. I don’t care how good the picture is, people can tell what’s real and what’s fake. And I promise you, everything that happened in those old movies happened in real life. I got a file cabinet of X-rays to prove it.”
There was laughter and applause. Just as he was about to shake Lars’s hand and return to the card table to sign some autographs, he saw Bobby Delgado walk into the bar. He had that short, mean fella, Angel Rojas, riding shotgun with him.
The men wore all black. They looked like maybe they should’ve worn hoods and maybe carried scythes too.
Delgado had on a black suit over a black shirt and bolo tie. He was thin and hard looking, with black eyes and slick black hair. Angel Rojas was shorter and squatter, walking low to the ground like a bulldog, with a pockmarked face and trimmed mustache.
When Jason locked eyes with Delgado, he was pretty sure he wasn’t gonna be leaving the show with a dime.
So he stepped back up to the mic, cool and collected, and took in all the folks with their eyes on him. The beautiful women, so young they could be his granddaughters, and the aging hipster kids with their retro T-shirts and receding hairlines. He could smell the bar funk of weed and piss; there was a poster on the wall for a monthly burlesque show and another for some punk band playing later that night.
“When you get as old as me, you see things different,” Jason said, offering a sad, introspective smile. “Y’all stop being fans and become family. I love you all.”
People clapped, hooted, and hollered.
As he shook Lars’s hand, Jason leaned in and asked, “Just where’s the shitter in this place?”
*
The line wound its way past the bathrooms, the elevated stage, and the extended bar with the longhorn skull above the bottles shining in bright neon. One fan brought Jason a plate of brisket and beans from Ruby’s, another wanted him to sign an original half-sheet to Moonrunners, and then a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and tattoos asked if he wouldn’t mind signing one of her titties.
“Sure you don’t want me to sign ’em both?” Jason asked. “Don’t want the other to get jealous.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked. Or told the same joke.
The woman leaned down and he signed her right cleavage with a Sharpie.
“Headed straight to the tattoo parlor to make it permanent,” the woman said. “How about we do a shot later on?”
“I haven’t had a drink in ten years,” Jason said, “but I sure do appreciate it.”
“My husband sure thought you hung the moon,” she said. “He always said White Line Fever made him want to be a trucker. Hell, he’d be standing right here with me if he hadn’t up and died.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Jason said.
He reached out and patted the back of her hand. She smiled at him while Jason glanced down the line to see Bobby Delgado and Angel Rojas getting closer. Bobby D never had been a guy to wait his turn, but he figured Bobby must’ve appreciated the drama of him and Rojas getting closer and closer, hoping that old Jason Colson would finally up and wet his pants.
Not a chance. That wasn’t the Colson way.
“Happens,” the woman said. “I told him to lay off the red meat.”
Jason swallowed and looked back up at her. She pushed her right titty back down into her tight tank top. “What can you do but keep on truckin’?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, “pedal to the metal.”
*
“Darlin’,” Jason said to Caddy.
His daughter looked over from where she was making change for a man buying two copies of Jason’s autobiography, From Tibbehah to Tinseltown.
“You mind holding down the fort while I hit the head?”
“Can’t you wait, Daddy? That line’s stretching out the back door.”
“Wish I could, but my prostate is now officially listed as an antique.”
Jason stood up. Rojas turned to Bobby D and pointed right at him. Jason ducked his head and passed behind Caddy, smiling at all the people in line.
“If I don’t come back,” Jason said, leaning down and whispering in her ear, “I’ll call you later. Don’t worry. Don’t worry about nothing, baby.”
“Daddy?”
But Jason was already headed to the bathroom door.
*
The bathroom had a row of six urinals on the wall, two stalls, and no window or other way out.
Jason walked over to the lone sink and ran the faucet. He splashed some cool water in his face and looked into the rusted reflection. He could hold firm, maybe talk his way out of his arrangement with Bobby D. Or have Caddy pull the car around and drive like hell.
Bobby D didn’t know about his new apartment. Didn’t know a damn thing about his family. He’d get him back. It might take some time. But he needed to rest up and come up with a plan. He’d already sold his old truck, ran down his last few friends in California for some money, and even sold a silver belt buckle given to him by the late, great Chuck Roberson.
Jason was studying the paneled ceiling for an exit when the bathroom door opened and the big man he’d first met at the lounge walked in.
“Mr. Colson, there’s two fellas here aim to do you some harm.”
“No offense, son,” Jason said, “but no shit.”
“I think I can help you out.”
“You got ten grand in your hip pocket?”
“No sir.”
“How about you give me a boost then?” Jason said, pointing at the ceiling over the urinals. “I’m planning on finding an alternative exit.”
The man nodded and then removed his duster and cowboy hat. He sized Jason up, then nodded. “Here, take ’em.”
“Son.”
“Come on. Those fellas want to rough you up good.”
Jason started to unsnap the buttons on his black silk shirt with red roses. He took it off and handed it to the man.
“Always been my lucky shirt,” Jason said.
“Looks identical to the one Burt had on in Smokey II.”
Jason winked at him and slid into the duster and put the hat down on his head. It was a little snug but would work just fine.
“Tell my daughter she can find me saddled up to the Driskill Bar.”
“You wrote in your autobiography that you quit drinking.”
“I did?” Jason said, cracking open the bathroom door and peering back into the Royale Lounge. “Maybe. But today sure seems like the day to start back up.”
*
There wasn’t much planning to it. Jason figured he’d walk past the country band and make his way outside into the rain before anyone noticed a thing. The Driskill wasn’t too far away and he’d be high and dry within fifteen minutes, sipping on some Patrón. He felt terrible about leaving his own party early but figured folks would think he wasn’t feeling well and had to rest a bit. After all, this was all about helping a man down with medical expenses.
Jason pulled the brim of the cowboy hat over his eyes just as the band started into “Slow Rollin’ Low,” the theme to Moonrunners, a film which later became a little something called The Dukes of Hazzard on CBS. He and Waylon had worked on both productions. He sure wished ole Waylon was still around so Jason could tell him about Bobby D and Angel Rojas on his ass. He could hear Waylon laughing about the current predicament. Maybe he’d even write a ballad about it. “The Last Days of Jason Colson.”
He didn’t get five feet from the men’s room when Angel Rojas caught his eye and jabbed Bobby D hard in the ribs. But then Bobby D grabbed Rojas’s arm and pointed to the man in the black silk shirt with roses on the shoulders. They turned in the opposite direction.
Jason passed the card table, Caddy not noticing as she was making excuses for him, offering half price on all official stunt gear. Half damn price?
He spotted two metal doors at the back of the bar. One had a padlock and a chain and the other looked like it might go into the adjoining bar. He didn’t think twice, just pushed into it and found himself in complete and absolute darkness, tripping over something and landing hard onto a staircase. Feeling for the wall, Jason made his way up and then around the blackened staircase, spotting light up top at what looked like an exit. He could hear the wind and the rain now, the tin roof panels slapping up and down.
He tried the exit but it held tight. He leaned into the lock with his good shoulder but it wouldn’t budge. Hearing voices and music below, Jason stepped back and kicked hard, the door slamming open. He walked out onto the roof, stepping lightly on the slick metal, looking down onto Red River and all the cars passing in the rain-slick street. The whole bar vibrated from the old Waylon tune playing below.
He saw where there was a small gap between the Royale Lounge and the bar next door, maybe five to six feet. He felt if he had a little wind at his back, he might just be able to make it across and slide down the other bar roof to the ground. It was tricky but he figured it was better than a shot in the back by Bobby D or Rojas.
Jason shimmied down to where the roof flattened out over a loading dock. He backed up, took a breath, and was about to make a run for it.
“Daddy,” Caddy called out from below, “just what the hell are you doing? We don’t have time for you to play around.” Hands on her hips, she stared up from the alley separating the two bars. The rain coming down now, tapping hard at the cowboy hat and across his back.
Jason put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He gestured toward the end of the alley where he spotted Bobby D running like hell and yelling in Spanish. He had a gun in his hand. Caddy simply shook her head and walked away.
Bobby D immediately replaced her, peering up at Jason on the roof, and drew his gun. Holy damn shit.
More people followed. Jason could see the Royale Lounge emptying, people standing shoulder to shoulder on Red River and in the alley, pointing up to crazy Jason Colson on the tin roof. The crowd transfixed as they watched some man in a black suit, a villain straight out of central casting, aiming a big silver pistol up at Jason, yelling, “You have two choices, Jason Colson: easy or hard way down!”
The crowd started to laugh. Some clapped and whistled.
Jason raised his hands as if surrendering.
Bobby D wasn’t smiling. He looked to where several folks had gathered around him. One was the big man from the bathroom wearing Jason’s lucky shirt, the snap buttons about to explode from his chest. Jason could see he had his big gun stuck in the back of his blue jeans. The fella’s hand reached back to grab that beautiful walnut handle.
“Oh shit,” Jason said. “Oh shit.”
The roof exit slammed open again and Angel Rojas came barreling out with a two-by-four in his hand. He was screaming something nasty and blasphemous when the first bullet ripped into his shoulder, and then another caught him in the throat. He fell backward onto the sloping tin roof and slid his way down fast into the alley and a pile of garbage cans.
Bobby D turned to Jason Colson’s number one fan and raised his gun. The whole damn thing running slower than Peckinpah on Valium. Bobby D fired and caught the man in the arm and the big fella fired and caught Bobby D in the leg. The man fired again, the BLAM of the pistol sounding like thunder above, getting Bobby D in the chest, dropping him to his knees.
The crowd clapped.
Jason took off the cowboy hat and waved, while no one seemed to pay Angel Rojas or Bobby D a bit of attention. Son of a damn bitch. That big ole boy was bleeding right through his lucky shirt. This sure wasn’t Jason’s day.
That’s when he felt the bullet slice through his shoulder and heard the crack. Two more shots and hot pain seared his right thigh. Goddamn Angel Rojas was on his feet in the dumpster, unloading his goddamn pistol. Jason didn’t waste a second, taking a practiced fall onto his back as if the bullets had done their job.
Down below, Rojas’s hammer finally fell on the sixth shot and he wavered on his feet until he tumbled back onto the black plastic bags.
Caddy was the first to reach Jason on the roof. She was twice as strong as she looked, reaching under his arms and dragging his ass off the rainy roof and into the stairwell, the landing now full of bright light. She held Jason’s head in her lap and stroked his gray hair.
“What did you do this time?” She was crying hard. “God, your dumbass fans think it’s just another show.”
“But you know different,” Jason said. Damn if he didn’t feel like he was trying to stand up with bowling balls in his luggage. “You always knew.”
“Will you ever stop?” Caddy asked. “When will you ever stop?”
Jason could hear the sirens and the drumming of the rain across the roof of the Royale Lounge. As he thought on what had just transpired, he wiped the wetness from his face and mustache. “I’m getting too old for vengeance,” he said, eyes fluttering closed. “Blood just begets more blood till there ain’t no more.”
“I love you,” Caddy said, “but damn if you haven’t always been full of shit.”
*I wrote “Stunts” as a way of checking in with two series regulars from my Quinn Colson books. In the series, I’d sent Quinn’s semi-famous Hollywood stuntman father, Jason, and Quinn’s sister, Caddy, riding out of Mississippi and into the sunset in Austin, Texas. Jason Colson (known mainly as Burt Reynolds’s longtime stunt double) is an unreformed and unapologetic risk-taker and troublemaker. What could go wrong? I wondered what would happen when Jason’s past glories and current troubles collide at a movie fan meet and greet at an Austin bar. I found a lot of inspiration from both Howard Hawks and Hal Needham for this one.