Mason Kimble and Gerard Cardigan watched the coverage on TV. Several spectators had caught Mark Weldon’s fall on video, and all the news outlets were running them.
“Well,” Gerard said, “it appears someone hates Ben Bacchetti as much as you do.”
“Did the movie stop filming?”
“Not according to the Hollywood Reporter. Peter Barrington went ahead and filmed the rest of the scene with a stunt double.”
“Resourceful boy. You think we should keep him on?”
Gerard laughed. “Yeah, right. As if he’d work for us.”
“As if we’d want him,” Mason said. “So who did this?”
“I have no idea.”
“Clearly someone obsessed with the picture. First they burn the producer’s house down, then they sabotage filming.”
“Barnett wasn’t working on this film,” Gerard pointed out.
“So not the film. The studio. Someone was trying to fuck up the studio.”
“Yes,” Gerard said. “I don’t know why, but I wish him Godspeed. By the time of the stockholders’ meeting, they’ll be eager to sell.”
Mason looked at him sharply. “Are you sure you’re not orchestrating this?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“How could I possibly know? You’re so good at what you do, how could anyone possibly know?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you. It’s brilliant. It’s elaborate. It gives us several degrees of separation, so much so that I don’t even know if we did it.”
“I take your point.”
“If it’s not you, who the hell is it?”
“Damned if I know.”