Slythe was waiting in his rental car outside the Centurion gates when the shift ended. After a few minutes Russell came out talking and laughing with a couple of production-crew types. They hopped into their cars and took off.
Slythe followed them a few miles down the road to a workingman’s bar, complete with shuffleboard and a pool table. All were greeted by the bartender and ordered draft beer.
Slythe bellied up to the bar and ordered one, too. He was in luck. Russell’s buddies started shooting pool.
Slythe slapped a goofy grin on his face and pointed. “Hey, aren’t you the guy?”
Russell grinned. Clearly this had happened to him before.
“The gun guy with the special effects. From the movies? That was you.”
“You were on the tour.”
“Damn right. Is that part of the job? You gotta do the tour when you’re not on the set?”
Russell grinned. “You a cop? No, it’s not part of the job. They slip me a little on the side to entertain the tourists. It’s hokey, but they gotta give them something to make up for not seeing the actors.”
“No offense, but it doesn’t.”
“No kidding. Well, tomorrow I don’t have to do it.”
“You’re working the construction site?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have to go up on the high beam?”
“I hope not. I’m hoping I can check their guns on the ground, before they go up and shoot the scene.”
“What time do you think they’ll shoot it?”
“It should be the first shot. If they can’t get that, there’s no point shooting the other stuff.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“The director will figure out something else that does work, and shoot that. And the stuff on the ground will be shot to match. If you shoot the stuff on the ground first and the stunt doesn’t work, you’re screwed. Nothing will match.”
“What do you mean the stuff on the ground? I thought the scene was five stories up.”
“They’ll shoot some of the scene on a lower beam a couple of feet off the ground, so they can get some shots with the actors’ faces. They won’t put them at risk doing the actual stunts. The stuntmen practice on it, too, to get the footwork right. Running on a narrow beam isn’t easy.”
“Will they be using the same gun you were using today?”
Russell snorted. “Hardly. The bad guy will be using a .38 snub-nosed revolver, but Brad will be using a Sig Sauer P320 nine millimeter. He thinks it looks stylish. Can you imagine that? Stylish. All that means is some other actor used it in some other movie and he wants to be like him.”
“Are you saying the guy’s an asshole?”
“Absolutely not, and you didn’t hear it here.” Russell set his empty glass on the bar. “Guess I better go. Six AM call with the prop man, and he’ll bust my chops if I’m late.”
“He a hard-ass?”
“Sometimes, when he’s stressed. Tomorrow’s a big job—we gotta load our supplies and get to location by seven AM to be ready for shooting.”
“No sweat, then. Take it easy. Have one on me.” Slythe tossed money on the bar, said, “Give this man another beer,” and went out.
Slythe got in his car and checked his cell phone to see if Fred Russell’s address was listed. It was. Good.
He wouldn’t have to follow him home.